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Chapter Text

MARCH 2014 – UEFA Women’s U‑17 European Championship, Semi-Final

Aitana Bonmatí was not dramatic. Not in the way they said she was. She was compassionate, funny, nonchalant, and attentive. That was all!

Precision was not drama. Control was not cruelty. Wanting your damn papaya juice when you were two hours away from a European semi-final was not overreacting.

And yet, there she was — teeth grinding in the back of the team bus, knuckles clenched on her track pant thighs, every nerve in her body tensed like a wire.

Her parents would tell you this was the norm.

That their Aitana is dramatic, but mostly justified in a good chunk of what she does.

So why now? Dramatic and sulky, all because some tall English striker had waltzed into the hotel breakfast line and taken the last papaya juice? Yes! Smiled while she did it, too. Didn’t even look around. Didn’t even check.

Further solidifying to an extremely proud Catalana, that: the English are truly still as unbearable and evil as 50 years ago.

Aitanas new list for top HATED individuals that belonged to a nation OR a club, were now:

1. THE SPANISH.
2. MADRIDISTAS.
3. THE ENGLISH.
4. THE E N G L I S H.

“She probably didn’t know,” Laia had tried earlier.
“Maybe she wasn’t thinking.”

Aitana swallowed the childish chirps in her head that told her to mock her best friend.

“That’s the problem,” Aitana replied, her voice sharp and clipped.
“She never is.”

Laia quirked a brow at that, had Aitana meant the Brit they (she) just clashed with or the entirety of England?

She wasn’t going to ask right now.

The locker room was tiny and hot, and someone’s cleats smelled like they’d been through a war. She already managed a couple of suspects.

Aitana laced up her boots with a scowl so intense that Laia and Patri actually stopped humming — a miracle in itself.

“Honestly, you need to let it go.”

“She didn’t need the papaya juice. She was already drinking orange. She double-fisted. She knew what she was doing.”

The other Laia snorted. “Oh my god. You’ve gone completely unhinged.”

“So, you’ve already told everyone who roams our planet about this.” Aitana scowled at Laia #1 and put her head into her hands.

Outside, they could hear the Lionesses warming up — chanting, singing, stomping their boots in rhythm.

“OLÉ, OLÉ, OLÉ!”

Aitana winced. Who sings before a semi-final? They couldn’t even sing in their own fucking language, the absolute frauds.

Aitana’s newfound hypocrisy was beginning to shine through. She didn’t even consider Spanish to be her own language. Aitana bit her lip.

She stepped out into the tunnel just in time to catch her.

The Juice Thief.

Number 9. Blonde ponytail bouncing. Laughing with her teammates. Captain’s band slung around her forearm like it meant nothing. Her name stitched across the back: Russo.

Of course. Her muscles tensed and it wasn’t because her teammates were slapping each other’s shoulders.

“Lessi, don’t forget it.”

Russo turned her head over her shoulder. “Tooney?”

“Band.”

Alessia looked down at the armband like it had appeared there magically.
“I shouldn’t even be wearing this.”

Ella rolled her eyes.

“Skipper for a reason.”

Tooney helped her tighten it around her bicep and patted her hip.

Alessia tugged at the collar of her kit and grimaced. “I can feel that juice coming up. Should’ve left it for that poor Spanish gal.”

Strange, it felt like the side of her head a beginning to burn.

“Oh, now you care?” Ella grinned. “She looked ready to stab you with a butter knife.”

Nothing strange about that, her competitors were probably just giving her a good scan!

“I didn’t even see her.” Alessia muttered. “I was just grabbing whatever was left.”

Ella tilted her head. “Well, she saw you.”

“What?”

Alessia turned. Too fast. Too obviously.

And there she was.

Their enemies captain.

Same girl from the breakfast line. Same seething stare. She didn’t speak. She didn’t smile. She just raised her chin like she already knew she was winning.

Alessia felt something in her stomach drop — and it wasn’t the juice.

“She plays for Chelsea,” someone whispered behind the Catalan girl.

“Don’t care,” Bonmatí bit out, walking past without turning her head.

Alessia felt cold.

“I think she wants to kill me,” she said. Her legs began to weaken, she was quite literally holding Englands banner and she was wilting? She hoped this wasn’t being televised.

Ella snorted.

“Shut up, Tooney.”

Honest to god. Alessia hadn’t even remembered shaking the breakfast girls hand, she blacked out when the ref asked which side she preferred. Spains Captain didn’t.

The whistle blew. The game began.

And Aitana was everywhere.

She played like she was made of knives, cutting lines through England’s midfield, dancing around tackles, flipping tempo like it was a switch under her boot.

Alessia couldn’t keep up. She was pressing too early, turning too late, misreading every line. And that stare — that infuriating, laser-focus stare — was always waiting for her when she looked up. She was being cooked alive.

Spain scored in the 35th.

Aitana didn’t celebrate. She just turned and jogged back like it was inevitable. “For fuck sakes.” Alessia scowled, Bonmatí played like she had known it was going to happen the moment Russo took that juice.

At halftime, Alessia sat on the bench with her head in her hands.

“You okay?” Ella asked.

“I’ve never wanted to cause bodily harm to another player so bad in the whole entirety of my life….”

The entirety of her life isn’t even twenty years yet.

Ella passed her a water bottle and didn’t argue.

Second half.

Alessia finally found space. She broke the line in the 60th, carried it past one, two, three defenders. But just as she shaped up to strike—

Bonmatí was there.

Sliding in, clean as anything, knocking the ball out like it had been planned five seconds ago. Her voice caught in her throat or was it bile?

And for the first time, their eyes met on the ground.

Their legs tangled, breath heavy, elbows pressed in the artificial grass that surrounded the pitch.

Aitana didn’t blink. She just looked down at Alessia like she was nothing.

Alessia tried to say something.

But the referee’s whistle came too fast.

They lost. 1–0.

Spain advanced.

Aitana shook her hand after the final whistle. Although, she didn’t even spare her a glance, like she was background noise.

Alessia stood on the pitch, watching Spain celebrate in a blurry haze of smoke and confetti and unfamiliar songs.

It’s a semi-final. It’s a semi-final for an u-17s match, why’d it feel as if it was the failure of her lifetime then? The failure of her career that hadn’t even gotten the chance to beat a heart with zero oxygen yet.

She was still wearing the captain’s band. Still trying to remember how the whole match felt like it hadn’t even really been about football.

“She’s good,” Ella said beside her. “Didn’t even look at you once after full time.”

Alessia swallowed.

“Yeah,” she said, voice soft. “I noticed.”

Ella put a hand on her best mates shoulder and pulled her into her chest.

“You’re sixteen. You’ll learn and I’ll be behind ya always, Less.”

She bawled her eyes out.

Chapter Text

MARCH 2014 — THE NIGHT AFTER THE SEMI-FINAL

The hotel lobby was a crime scene.

Not literally..but for Alessia Russo, standing barefoot in socks too damp to be comfy and a hoodie zipped halfway up that was given to her for Christmas, the plush silence of it all felt…almost violent.

She hadn’t slept.

Her best mates were sound asleep it appeared her mentoring staff that she considered good help was too, well at times.

Worst of all her roommate Ella was just snug as a bug, the Ella that knew where to calm her ruffled feather and most importantly..how.

She’d tossed the captain’s band on the floor of her hotel room.

Usually you gave it back, but the coaching staff pulled some strings and she got to keep it as a “souvenir”.

They shouldn’t have. She didn’t want it. Wasn’t going to be made captain of their squad in their future, probably. Not second or third. Perhaps fourth?

Bonmatí would just properly love that.

Ella attempted to kick it under the bed with no lift, which naturally hurt like a bitch, she did it because Lessi stared at it for twenty minutes like it might tell her where the game went wrong. Where she went wrong.

But it wasn’t just the game.

It was her.

That tiny, lethal number 6 with the heavy gaze and the footwork of someone twice her age. The one who stared at her like she was a joke. The one who did shake her hand, but did it like it burned.

The one who had remembered.

Because she had seen her. At breakfast.

The morning of the semi-final. Papaya juice in hand. A smirk Alessia hadn’t realized was real until she saw it mirrored on the pitch hours later — colder, harder, sharper.

Honest to god, Lessi didn’t know if she could call it smirk.

But that’s what she took it as. She resembled a sharp cat with soft features that softened the blow of her intense exterior, and maybe Alessia wondered if she could soothe the dark circles under her hazel eyes, if she could get to her interior-

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

How could someone infiltrate her thoughts so easily? To the point where she remembered where the moles on her face were? Really? Her interior?

What did she want? Her babies? Good god, it’s just a girl. She’s just a girl.

Alessia blushed at her thoughts, who was controlling the things she said in her head right now? It wasn’t her. Defamation!

Russo crossed the lobby toward the vending machine, an England jumper’s sleeves pulled over her long arms and hands.

Her coins clinked uselessly in the machine slot.

Of course it’s broken.

“God strike me down now.” Alessia whisper shouted.

Behind her, something shifted. A shuffle. Bare feet.

Oh, perfect.

She didn’t turn around. God, she didn’t want to. But she didn’t have to.

She felt her.

There was no one else who carried silence like that.

No one else who began to make Alessia’s back straighten like she was being watched by someone who kept score.

Correction, someone who most definitely, is keeping score.

And sure enough — a soft exhale, the brush of air from a passing figure smaller than her own, and then the click of the elevator button.

Alessia turned.

Aitana was standing there, arms folded, braid she once had now cascaded hair loose over one shoulder.

Still in full training kit. Like she hadn’t changed after they left the stadium. Like she hadn’t slept either.

Her eyes met Alessia’s. Not for long. Just a second. Just enough.

Was that uncertainty?

Alessia opened her mouth.

And said nothing.

The elevator doors opened.

Aitana stepped in.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

The doors didn’t wait for her.

“Did you manage to chat?”

Ella asked the next morning with a spoon in her mouth and cereal that tasted like nothing.

“No.”

Alessia was getting her things ready for the airport before breakfast, where the hell had her shampoo gone?

Hempo. She thought to herself, they usually passed Tooney’s products around in the showers, and Lessi being the unluckiest of the u-17s England squad at the moment meant hers was instead.

“Did you try?” Ella probed still.

“No.”

Ella chewed like it was a statement.

Russo stared at the papaya juice bottle sitting three inches away on someone else’s tray. She didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

She left breakfast early and presumably, went back into the corridor of where their room waited.

Across the dining room, Patri leaned over toward Laia to reach Aitana.

“She looked at you like she wanted to say something.”

Aitana didn’t answer. She hadn’t said a word all morning. She just smiled and went back to her oats and yoghurt that hadn’t satisfied her appetite.

It probably wasn’t for food.

She was thinking of a certain number nine and the way she had talked to herself, almost scolded (?), when the machine hadn’t wanted to eat her coins.

How ridiculous do you have to be to battle with a machine, she inwardly snarked. Although her stomach felt warm when it happened. She also could remember how tense the English striker got.

Maybe it should feel good. To know she effected her this way already, that if the striker planned to play as long as a Aitana did they’d be meeting this way often.

And if they met this way, Aitana would always be a step ahead of the clumsy girl.

But it hadn’t. Russo looked tired, like a shell of the golden girl who shined in the tunnel before the semis.

What a stupid full smile she had. What if she just smiled at her in the lobby? No.

Anyways.

Her manager gave her the player of the match award last night. Her mates crowded her and Laia gave her a kiss on the cheek for it.

She left it on the bench. But one of her teammates made sure she’d had it before they’d left the locker rooms. Probably Laia #2 who was probably too young for this age group.

Then Laia #1 brought her back to her.

“Aita.”

“I don’t want to talk about her Codi.”

Later that day, both gave brief post-match interviews.

Russo smiled politely. Spoke about the team’s spirit. Didn’t mention Spain. Didn’t mention Bonmatí. Couldn’t bring herself to taste that name.

Aitana shrugged through hers. Said England were “physical.” Said the game was “not personal.” Didn’t name Russo.

The journalist interviewing her made note of this.

And the media didn’t miss it.

A photo went viral the next week: the moment they collided on the pitch, boots tangled, eyes locked. One belonging to the upcoming Catalana. The other English. Neither backing down.

Someone captioned it:
“Rivals are born.”

Neither of them reposted it.

But both of them saw it.

And both of them saved it.

Quietly. Secretly.

Unspoken.

Chapter Text

2015–2016: Youth Squads, Headlines, and the Art of Pretending Not to Care

Aitana Bonmatí told herself it was over.

England were out. Spain hadn’t just won that semi, they’d reached the final. Lost it, sure. But they left with their heads high, cleats caked in proof of how far they’d come.

What a poetic launchpad for a young woman footballer.

She was already pushing for more minutes with Spain’s U-19s. Balancing intense trainings at Barça. Starting to hear senior Barça coaches whisper her name.

She didn’t have time to think about the English striker who’d taken her juice and refused to match her on the pitch.

And yet, she found the time.

Elbow on the coffee table, cheek to fist, scrolling through overblown English tabloids under the guise of post-training recovery. Always with her phone under the table. Always pretending to look up drills on YouTube when teammates passed behind the couch.

The articles found her.

“Russo Leads England U-17 to Comeback Win.”
“Rising Lioness: Chelsea Starlet Eyes Senior Call-Up.”
“Player to Watch: Alessia Russo.”

She wasn’t doing that.

That name.

Always.

It was always Russo.

Aitana would scroll fast. Pretend not to stop. Tell her Barça mates it was “just the English inflating their own.”

They believed her.

But she always stopped. She always read every word. And she always hated how the name felt like it had lodged somewhere between her ribs.

Russo. Was that even English?

It grated. It echoed.

And then came that match.

Spain vs. Germany. U-19 Euros, late 2016. Aitana had just scored a clean, technical screamer from outside the box. One touch. Strike. Net.

FIFA posted the clip. Her mentions buzzed and her burner account received the same feed.
She didn’t look at most of them.

Until she did.

Buried in the replies:

“Chelseas own would’ve stopped her.”

She read it three times. Didn’t sleep that night.

The next day was hell. She couldn’t find her favorite Catalan book. Her travel card didn’t work. Her boots felt too tight. And worst of all, she had no good excuse to get out of post-training hangouts.

She was halfway through the halls of Barça’s facility when someone bumped her shoulder — hard.

“Oiiiii.”

“Patri,” she smiled with practiced calm, bracing herself.

“You coming with us to the beach after training?” A beat.

“I actually—”

“Your mum already said you’re free.”

Internally, she cursed her mother. “I didn’t sleep well,” she tried.

Patri gave her that look. The one she usually reserved for Codi when she got too clingy.

They swiped fruits from the canteen. Patri’s voice dropped. “Alexia.”

“Where?” Aitana straightened like a soldier, hands flying to her perfect braid.

“We knew it,” Codi said, sliding in with a nudge to Patri’s ribs.

“What?”

“Oh my god, you’re blushing.”

“Don’t start,” Aitana muttered, flinging a carrot at them. Alexia was objectively beautiful. That gummy smile, that lazy elegance, her hands, her voice, the way she pulled her into senior trainings—

“We all have a crush on her, calma,” Codi added with something unreadable in her voice.

“I admire her,” Aitana said stiffly, biting into her snack.

“If you bail, we’re telling her you want more than just her boots,” Patri whisper-shouted.

Aitana walked faster.

Meanwhile, Alessia Russo was also doing her fair share of pretending.

Pretending she hadn’t typed Aitana Bonmatí into YouTube at least twice a week.

Pretending she hadn’t rewatched that 2014 match in full. It was incredibly difficult to find that footage in the first place.

Pretending she hadn’t memorized that anticipatory look Aitana gave before every interception, a look that was now showing up in Barça B highlight reels.

She barely knew her. It had just been one match. One moment.

And yet, every time a pass went astray in training, she’d hear the phantom criticism: She wouldn’t have let that slide.

Every time she scored, she’d wonder: What would Aitana have in the box to stop me?

There was no logic.

Just… healthy rivalry. Right?

That’s what she told herself.

Ella wasn’t buying it.

“You’re stalking the Barça kids again,” she muttered during a film session.

“I’m analyzing midfield shape,” Alessia replied.

“Right. Just happens the one with the headband and the eyebrows gets slowed to 0.25 speed every single time.”

Alessia turned red, smacking her friend’s shoulder.

“I’ve literally never—”

“You still haven’t forgotten her, huh?”

“I don’t even know her.”

“That’s the problem, Less.”

2016 ended. Neither of them spoke the other’s name aloud.

But they both watched.

They both noticed when the other scored.

They both flinched when the name came up in training briefings.

They both circled tournaments on the calendar.

But no face-offs came.

Somehow, that made it worse.

“So you’re really going?”

Alessia zipped up her suitcase. “I think it’ll be good for me.”

Ella crossed her arms. “There’s not a single lass in the country that can fill the dramatic hole you’re leaving HERE.” She grabbed Alessia’s hand and placed it on her chest. “You’re irreplaceable, Russo.”

Alessia laughed and hugged her tight. “I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone, Toone.”

“Oh I’ll notice. You won’t. You’ll be too busy with tanned girls who drink cheap beer on balconies and call football ‘soccer’ like psychopaths.”

Alessia didn’t like beer. She wasn’t even sure she liked boys. “Lotte and I will be fine. You’ll see me at camps, yeah?”

Ella sighed dramatically, then faked a fainting spell.

“Oh Lessi, they’ll try to claim you as their own! What will I do when the Yanks steal my striker?”

Alessia bent to kiss her temple. “Get Beckham’s autograph for me before I’m back.”

“Idiot.”

“Wait, who’s your dorm mate again?”

“Lotte.”

“Oh so—”

“Don’t.”

Aitana pushed harder. She got the U-20 call-up. She wanted more.

She demanded the ball in training. Stayed late. First in, last out.

Some teammates grumbled. Most just stared in admiration.

She was on the bench one day, peeling off her worn boots, when someone approached.

“All good?” Catalan. Soft.

Aitana jumped. “It’s only me,” said Alexia, offering a casual smile. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Aitana’s heart was already sprinting. “No, not scared. Just — yeah. Fine.”

“Mind if I sit?”

Aitana panicked. “Yes— I mean, no. Please.”

Be normal. Be normal. It’s just Alexia Putellas. Your actual idol.

She realized she hadn’t even pulled on her jumper yet, half-shirtless from her shower. Alexia glanced, then looked away politely.

Aitana fumbled it over her head.

“You’re the only one left besides staff,” Alexia noted.

“So are you,” Aitana mumbled.

Alexia smiled. “I’m here because of you.”

“What?”

“You remind me of myself.” Alexia shrugged. “I’m impressed.”

Aitana stared at her lap. Was this real life?

Had she tripped during rondos? Had she screamed at anyone? What had Alexia seen?

“It’s an honour,” she said, words tumbling out too fast. “Really. I—”

Alexia giggled. Her hand landed gently on Aitana’s thigh.

Everything stopped.

Jesus. Or anyone. Someone intervene.

“I just wanted to tell you to slow down.”

Aitana froze.

Alexia noticed. Her tone softened. “You’re talented. Deadly, even. You’ve got intelligence, guts, and fire.”

“Thank you—”

“But remember: you don’t have to prove anything. I’ve seen your name. On TV. On paper. Around Barça.”

She leaned in.

“Don’t let anyone reduce that. Don’t burn yourself out proving your worth. Go out with your friends. Don’t flinch when I’m there.”

Aitana opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

Alexia patted her thigh twice. “We’ll be teammates soon enough. You should know me properly.”

Aitana, football-obsessed and emotionally stunted, nodded. “Yes.”

Alexia smiled and rose to her feet. “I’ll see you?”

A beat.

“You’ll see me, Alexia.”

Chapter Text

2018 – France. Ghosts, Finals, and the Hotel with Too Many Mirrors.

Aitana Bonmatí had a routine. She didn’t call it that.

She called it a plan.

Laia called it what it was: obsession.

Wake up. Train. Team breakfast. Watch footage. Do more drills. Bite back a yell when teammates didn’t pass sharply. Go home. Study stats. Rewatch last night’s La Liga. Glance at friends who’d gone to represent other teams overseas.

If she felt especially masochistic? The Women’s Super League. For research purposes.

Except lately, her search history had started to betray her.

Russo goal compilation UNC 2017.

Russo assist NCAA semifinal.

Russo post-match interview North Carolina.

Russo injury update.

Russo smiling.

Russo and Toone.

(delete. delete. delete.)

It wasn’t like she cared.
It wasn’t like she watched the clips more than once.
It wasn’t like she sat back after the second goal in a UNC jersey and whispered “she’s better now.”

And it definitely wasn’t like she’d clicked on that one Lionesses fan post — Alessia tagged in the tunnel, squinting up at the scoreboard, mouth parted like she’d just cussed someone out — and saved it.

Accidentally.

Her jaw was sharper now. Her cheeks still full — just more defined. Eyes too deep and blue. How jarring. She looked happier.

Anyway.

She unsaved it.
Well… a full minute later.

“Excited?” Patri nudged Aitana’s shoulder. Aitana flinched and quickly locked her phone, trying to seem as natural as humanly possible.

They were on their way to France.
The U-20 Women’s World Cup.

“Of course.”

Aitana meant that. Spain were contenders now. Real ones. Teams like North Korea, France, Japan, the Netherlands, they’d always been front-runners. But Spain was ready to stand beside them.

“La ciudad del amor,” Laia whispered from behind the airplane seats, smirking just enough to be annoying.

“We’re going to France to win, Codina.”
Then Alexia’s words came rushing back — “I mean, love is good, whatever happens… happens. Living the vida loca or whatever.” She shrugged, grinning unnaturally.

Patri shook her shoulder. “Who are you and what have you done with my uptight Catalana?”

Aitana clicked her tongue. Behind her, the girls giggled.

She wasn’t uptight. Whatever.

Before leaving for France, Alessia Russo was playing it cool.

So cool that Ella was getting suspicious.

“You’ve been watching a lot of Barça games,” Ella noted, sprawled upside down on Lessi’s dorm bed, half-eaten granola bar crumbling onto her hoodie.

Ella had promised to visit once United’s off-season hit, but she was still in the States. Still in Lessi’s ear. Still annoying.

“Because I like good football?” Russo replied flatly, eyes fixed on her phone like a sniper about to take a shot.

“Mmm. And the bonus footage of a certain #14 storming past entire defensive lines is…?”

Entire defensive lines? Bit of a stretch.
Is it, the other voice in her head whispered.

“Coincidence.”

“Right. And you accidentally liked her post from 23 weeks ago?”

That made Alessia freeze.
She needed something to throw. Anything.

“No I didn’t.”

“You did. It was the one where she’s holding that trophy. Jacket collar popped. Hair all messy. That one.”

That girl was always holding a trophy. Or kissing it. Or casually flashing a medal like it was spare change.

We get it.

Alessia turned slowly. “I unliked it.”

“Only after I sent you the screenshot.”

Ella had sent it at 3 a.m. North Carolina time. Russo nearly passed out from shame.

“…Shut up.”

Ella grinned. “I’m just saying. For someone who doesn’t care, you’ve got her name in your mouth a lot.”

“I don’t have her name in my mouth.” She couldn’t even pronounce her last name properly, so that’s ruled out.

“Okay, maybe you want something else of hers in your mouth,” Ella sing-songed.

“I don’t!” Russo’s tone cracked like glass.

“Relax Lessi, I’m pulling your leg.”
Ella went quiet, though, when she saw the way Alessia’s face changed. Jaw tight. Eyes far.

“I don’t, Ella.”
…Did she?

She needed to talk to England’s team psychiatrist. Immediately.

“You scouted her dribbling angles more than your last three defenders,” Ella added, trying for lightness.

A pillow flew past her head.

Laia Codina had noticed it too.

“You saw the follow, right?” she asked Aitana, scrolling her phone with surgical precision.

“She followed you.”

“No, she didn’t.”

“She did. This morning. Then you followed back.”

She had.

Alessia had completed her night routine like always: chat with Lotte, check in with her American teammates, then — of course — open Instagram in her bunk bed.

“Lights out, Less,” Lotte called.

“Yeah, night Lots.”

“Don’t get sucked into that app again. NCAA final’s coming and you need rest.”

How the hell had Lotte known she was on Instagram? Had she meant Instagram?
God. Maybe she was see-through.

Aitana’s name was already pre-filled in the search bar.

Had she changed her profile pic?
Wow. Her arms looked…

I mean. In a football sense.
A healthy, functional… football sense.

There she was — damp hair, podium smile, a little flushed from the heat of Spanish press.

She looked unlike herself.
Free. A little shy? Was she shy? That had to be some sort of facade.

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh my god.”

“I was zooming in on her knee brace. For analysis.”

Laia choked on her coffee. “Analysis?”

“She tore her hamstring six weeks ago. It’s relevant.” Aitana knowing the exact time and injury her 'enemy' had picked up said it all.

“Sure. Relevant.”

Aitana slammed her laptop shut.

“I just want to be prepared if we play them again. She’s… reckless.”

Reckless. Clumsy. Like a dog on ice skates.

“She’s literally posting smoothie pics and using the dog filter,” Laia snorted.

Aitana blushed. Those damn filters. That smug, pretty-toothed… slob.

“She’s unpredictable,” Aitana muttered, stacking cones with unnecessary aggression.

“You are so full of shit.”

France. 2018 U-20s Women’s World Cup.

Alessia landed with England and immediately felt sick from the crowd at the hotel entrance.

“All 24 teams are staying here? That’s unsafe,” one of her teammates murmured.

Sandy MacIver sighed loudly. “No, Hempo. Half of us.”

Still. Half was too many.

The hotel was perched next to Stade de la Rabine — sleek, quiet, way too sterile.
Glass elevators. Identical rooms. Japan, England, Spain, France. All under one roof.

Too many long hallways.
Too many mirrored lifts.
Too many chances for collisions.

“Woah, do they really live this way?” Carmen asked, staring at the designer lotion palette in the lobby.

“The lotion says it all,” Pina added, flipping one over like she was reading wine notes.

While the others fawned over French toiletries, Aitana scanned the door. France. Japan.
And the team she was waiting on.

“Looking for someone?” asked Lucía, eyeing her.

“Uhh…” Shit. “I really want to meet Georgia Stanway from England.”

“Oh, she’s class. England should be here soon. I saw the coach’s hotel list.”

What hotel list?!
There was a list?

The lobby went quiet.

“The Lionesses,” someone whispered.

Aitana turned sharply.

“How are we supposed to fit all our stuff through this?” Anna Patten endearingly laughed near the revolving doors.

Of course. The English expecting red carpets in a country they were just visiting.

“You’re rooming with me!” A keycard landed in her hand.

Thank god. It wasn’t Laia or Patri.

“I know you usually get Ona. Sucks she’s not with us this time,” said Laia Alexandri. A perfect roommate. Quiet. Chill. Didn’t pry.

“Mind if I settle in?” Aitana asked. Normally she’d have to check with staff — Spain could be a little fascist with protocol — but Laia waved her off.

“Go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Her keycard wasn’t working.

Aitana tried again.

Nothing. Flashing red.

“Aren’t you glad we’re roomies instead of Chatty Patty?” said a voice — English, familiar, dangerously close.

Aitana tensed.

“El, you are the Chatty Patty.”

Oh for fuck’s sake.

She kept trying the card. In. Out. Flashing red. Again. Beep one more fucking time, Aitana internally dared. The door..?

Russo saw the girl struggling in Spain’s training kit. Where was her roommate?

“Lessi,” Ella whispered, “isn’t that Bonmatí?”

Of course it was.

Hair falling out of her ponytail. Eyebrows furrowed. Mouth set. Looking very, very annoyed.

And, somehow, still unfairly good-looking.

“Need help?” Ella asked sweetly.

“I think it’s not activated. I’m alright,” Aitana replied, voice weirdly soft.

Too soft. Alessia felt something pull tight in her stomach.

She'd never address her in such a way. Actress.

“Lessi, get comfy. I’ll be right in.”

Alessia glared but kept her mouth shut, offering a tight-lipped smile in return.

Front desk. Bonmatí. Toone.

The receptionist had vanished, leaving them awkward and alone.

Lead by example, Aitana thought.

“You really didn’t have to come with me. Thanks,” Aitana said. “I’m Aitana, by the way.”

Ella grinned. “Spare me. I know who you are.”

She wasn't leading here now was she?

Aitana froze. Was that mocking? Sincere? Was this a trap?

“Well… thanks anyway, Ella.”

Now Ella was taken aback.

“What the hell did you say to her?” Alessia grumbled later, standing in front of the bathroom mirror.

“She thinks you’re fit.”

“She said that?!”

“No,” Ella grinned, “but I know you think she is.”

Alessia scowled.

“What else did she say?”

“She already knew my name. Said it like she’d known it for ages.”

“She probably follows you.”

“Lessi. She didn’t even ask. She just knew. Which means…”

Alessia groaned. “Everyone knows you. It means nothing.”

Ella leaned in, smirking.
“She thinks you’re my girlfriend.”

"WHAT?!”

SPAIN vs NIGERIA – Group Stage Match 2
Stade Guy-Piriou, Concarneau

It was hot. The kind of heat that stuck to your calves and filled your lungs too slowly. The kind of heat that made even Patri’s jokes about Laia’s new boots fall flat.

“Do not talk to me,” Aitana said through gritted teeth as they walked out of the tunnel. The Nigerian squad had arrived in full force — tall, quick, and ready to run the whole 90 minutes without stopping for breath.

“They’re going to press,” Patri warned.

“No shit,” Aitana muttered.

She liked games like this. Ones where no one gave you space. Where you had to think two steps ahead just to hold possession for five seconds. It made the noise in her brain shut up.

But somewhere around the 37th minute — after a stray pass from Pina and a one-on-one she botched in front of goal — the noise was creeping back in.

She could feel Lucía watching her from the wing. She could hear Laia shouting something she didn’t need. She could see, in the corner of her eye, a UEFA camera turning her way as she shook her head and slapped her thigh.

Aitana didn’t play for cameras. But sometimes it was hard not to notice.

She looked up.
The England squad had shown up early for warmups. Ella Toone was drinking from someone else’s bottle. Alessia Russo was tying her laces too tight.

Of course. Of course they had.

Aitana took the throw-in and tried not to look again.
Except when she did, Alessia was already watching.

And then came the goal. A bit of chaos in the box. A rebound Aitana never expected. She pounced — toe-poke, right foot, top net.

She didn’t even celebrate. Just turned and ran back toward the center circle, calm, stone-faced, as if she hadn’t just broken open the game.

It wasn’t for the cameras.
It wasn’t even for her team.

It was just… something she wanted seen.

Later, in the dining hall, Laia raised an eyebrow as Aitana sat down across from her with a paper bowl of pasta.

“She saw, you know.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“La Russo. Watching you score. Pretending not to look. That one.”

“I literally do not care.” Aitana stabbed a tomato like it owed her money.

Laia looked smug. “Sure.”

Patri leaned in, chewing on a breadstick. “Don’t worry. We all see how you sprint faster when England’s warming up.”

“I hate all of you.”

ENGLAND vs JAPAN – Group Stage Match 2
Stade de la Rabine, Vannes

It was brutal.

Alessia had expected technical football. Patient build-up. Maybe a couple calculated crosses. She hadn’t expected Japan to pass through them like they were cones in a training drill.

By the 20th minute, she was out of breath. By the 30th, she wanted to knock someone over just to feel grounded.

“They’re everywhere,” Anna muttered, hunched over in a crouch after the second goal went in. “Like ghosts.”

Alessia didn’t answer. She was trying to understand how one team could be so calm while dismantling everything they’d prepped for.

“Lessi,” Ella called from midfield. “We move. Come on.”

That helped. A little. Until it didn’t.

By the final whistle, they’d lost 2–0. And Russo felt it more than anyone.

She hated losing. But more than that, she hated getting read.

“Hey,” Toone said gently as they filed off the pitch. “It’s alright.”

Alessia didn’t answer. Just pulled her shirt collar up and kept walking.

She felt the heat of the cameras on her. The buzz of social posts already flying. The familiar lump in her throat. She shoved it down.

Someone clapped her shoulder as she passed the tunnel.

It was Spain.
It was her.

Aitana didn’t say anything. Just clapped once. Firm. Quick. Right between the shoulder blades.

Then she kept walking. Hair a little messy. Collar up.
Eyes unreadable.

Alessia didn’t look back.

Later that night, they crossed paths again — hotel elevator.

Of course.

Aitana was leaning against the mirrored wall, in a hoodie two sizes too big, sipping from a water bottle like she hadn’t run 12 kilometers that day.

Alessia stepped in. Didn’t speak.

Two floors of silence until their rooms.

Then, Aitana muttered, “Japan got us too. Last time we played.” Aitana said this nonchalantly.

Alessia blinked. “Yeah?”

Aitana shrugged. “They’re ghosts.”

Alessia laughed once, low, and surprised.

The elevator dinged.

“Good luck with your next match,” Aitana said voice as strong and she remembered from 2014, stepping out.

“Yeah,” Russo called. “You too.”

She didn’t say you don’t need it, even though she wanted to.

She didn’t say I saw your goal, even though she remembered every second of it.

And she definitely didn’t say I’m still trying to figure out what that look meant, even though she was.

Chapter Text

In the Spain camp, there was a quiet, looping playlist that seemed to haunt every meal. Patri was the only one who knew how to change it, and even she had stopped trying. The same few songs played over and over — synth-heavy, indistinct, oddly sad. Aitana didn’t mind. They gave her something to retreat into when Laia was being too loud or when the coaches started monologuing through the team talks.

“¿Estás bien?” Patri asked quietly one evening, nudging her elbow against Aitana’s as they sat outside the dining hall on a low concrete step, watching the lights flicker through the glass.

Aitana didn’t answer right away. She had her fingers curled around a disposable cup of chamomile tea, the steam climbing toward her face.

“Estoy cansada,” she said eventually, which wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the full truth either.

Patri looked at her, head tilted slightly. “Cansada o… distraída?”

“Both,” Aitana muttered, then added, “I hate this hotel.”

Patri laughed. “You’ve hated every hotel we’ve ever stayed in.”

“This one’s the worst.”

“Because of the mirrors?”

Aitana narrowed her eyes. “Who told you?”

“Alexandri,” Patri smirked. “She said you covered the bathroom mirror with a towel like it insulted you.”

“It did.”

“Okay, fair.”

Aitana didn’t smile, but her lips twitched. Patri noticed and nudged her again. “If we beat Nigeria, you’ll stop thinking about mirrors.”

“If we lose?”

“Then we’ll burn the hotel down.”

They both went quiet, but not uncomfortably. Patri had a way of sitting next to you that felt like a shield.

Across the hotel courtyard, the England squad had begun filtering in from their film review session.

Aitana spotted Russo easily—half-tied bun, long sleeves rolled past her wrists, dragging a half-empty protein shake like she hadn’t slept.

Toone walked beside her, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets, saying something that made Russo laugh, her head tipped back, shoulders relaxing.

Aitana felt her face flush and looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

“¿Quieres hablar de eso?” Patri asked without looking.

“No.”

“Vale,” she said. “Pero un día sí.”

England squad common room was comfortable and calm, later that night.

Toone was scrolling through Instagram on the communal couch, her legs slung over Georgia Stanway’s lap like she owned the place. Russo was slumped on the carpet nearby, absently tossing a tennis ball against the wall and catching it one-handed.

“Do we think Spain are gonna make it past Nigeria?” Stanway asked casually, brushing Toone’s shin off her thigh.

“They might,” Russo muttered.

Georgia gave Alessia a stare with a critical smile, as if she were saying ‘you know they will less.’

“You think she will?” Toone asked, looking up briefly. “Aitana.”

Russo tossed the ball again. Caught it. Didn’t look at either of them. “She always does.”

“You haven’t spoken to her again?” Stanway asked.

“Why would I?”

Toone frowned. “You keep looking like you want to.”

Alessia soured, something she began to do because of a certain someone. She sat up, leaning forward, letting the tennis ball roll away.

“She looked at you today,” Toone added, more gently this time.

“So?”

“So maybe she wanted you to look back.”

Russo exhaled. “I’ve really had it El.”

Maybe she’s tired of being the one who always does that.

Stanway leaned back. “You’ve got Japan next. Focus on that.”

“I am focused.”

“Right. That’s why you just watched Spain’s entire warm-up on mute in the hotel lounge,” Toone teased.

Russo glared at her. “Shut your mouth.”

Toone grinned. “Make me.”

Stanway groaned and stood up.
“I’m going to bed before one of youse starts crying.”

“She’s just mad because she hasn’t scored since the group stage,” Toone called after her.

“I heard that, Tooney!”

“Good!”

Russo didn’t laugh this time. She picked up the tennis ball again, now scuffed and fraying slightly.

Her mind wandered back to the mirrors, to the way Aitana had sat with her leg tucked under the other during warm-ups, to the way she hadn’t smiled once but had still looked like she could gut anyone who stood in her way.

Maybe she’d let her do it.

Alessia groaned, what the hell is wrong with her?

The next morning Laia Codina was humming when she joined Aitana and Patri at breakfast, tapping her spoon against her juice glass like an annoying metronome.

“I had the weirdest dream,” she said, already halfway through her eggs.

“Don’t care,” Aitana said without looking up.

“Laia,” Patri warned gently.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Laia said, waving it off. “I’m used to her hating me in the mornings.”

“I don’t hate you,” Aitana said.
“I’m just rationing my patience. You’re expensive.”

Patri choked on her toast.

“I missed this,” Laia grinned.

Aitana’s jaw twitched. “You shouldn’t.”

During the late afternoon Aitana decided she needed space from her squad, she loved them to death but it’s been hard to navigate with a low social battery.

Aitana didn’t expect anyone to be there.

She took the stairs because she liked the quiet, not the company. But when the door swung open at the landing between floors, she nearly turned back.

Russo.

Standing still like she’d already been waiting.
Or pacing.

Or trying not to be caught doing either. Her hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. Plain black shirt. No team crest. No attempt at pretending this was a coincidence.

Aitana stopped one step above her.

Russo didn’t smile. Just met her eyes.

Then Aitana almost looked away, why did her eyes look deeper. What was she trying to do here?

They stood in silence for a few moments. The air between them felt strange, thick, like it had weight. Like it remembered them.

“You don’t talk much,” Alessia said after a second.

Aitana didn’t answer. Then, softly: “Neither do you.”

Russo’s brow quirked slightly. “Guess we’re even.”

“Not really.”

Another beat. The kind of pause that tasted like something unspoken. Russo shifted, but didn’t step closer.

“You always look like you’re thinking,” she said.

“I am.”

“About me?” It came out so fast, it was something she should’ve thought silently, then again, Alessia thought aloud.

Aitana licked her lips and looked anywhere else but her. “Sometimes.”

That landed harder than she meant. Russo looked away first, jaw tense, but not in anger. Something else. Confusion. Frustration. Maybe both.

“Don’t mock me, it isn’t polite.” Alessia muttered.

Aitana most definitely wasn’t teasing but sure, she’d play her part,“Then stop asking questions.”

Alessia breathed through her nose. “That’s not the issue.”

Aitana’s grip tightened slightly on the railing. “Then what is?”

Russo stepped forward, not close, but not casual. Enough that Aitana noticed her breath hitch before she could stop it.

“I don’t know what this is,”
Alessia said fast. She sounded frustrated?

Why did a part of Aitana enjoy that?

Aitana looked at her then—fully. Calm, unreadable, a little too still.

“I don’t need to know what it is,” she states wryly. “I just need it to stop.”

Alessia’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes dropped.
“Then you shouldn’t keep doing this.”

She thinks she’s so fucking innocent, this time Alessia thought silently.

“You’re the one standing in my stairwell.”

Alessia huffed a soft laugh. “Right.”

Aitana moved past her slowly, pausing at the door just long enough to say without turning:

“It’s not you. It’s just…you.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. And Russo didn’t offer one. She stood there long after the door had shut behind her, alone in the echo.

It was the night before their match against Nigeria and all Aitana could see when she closed her eyes, attempting to get some tangible sleep was Englands Strikers eyes.

Her eyes, her legs, her straight teeth, the stupid messy bun she sported around the hotel.

The way she smelled.

Oh my god.

She needed to get the hell out of France.

Pre-Match:
Spain vs Nigeria / England vs Japan

The morning buzzed with static,
nerves, caffeine, trainers squeaking against hotel tiles.

Coaching staff murmured in clipped Spanish and fast Mancunian, players rotating through team talks and tactical briefings like it would all stick by osmosis.

Aitana sat alone at breakfast. Patri was with the physios. Laia was, mercifully, somewhere else.

She stirred her tea absently.

Across the dining hall, the England squad filtered in. Alessia Russo entered behind Stanway, her hair tied up tighter than usual.

No one else seemed to notice the flick of her gaze, once, sharp, too quick and toward Aitana’s table.

But Aitana noticed.

She always noticed.

Spain Locker Room – Matchday

“Eyes on the pitch,” Patri said, tying her laces with sharp focus. “Not on the crowd. Not on the noise. We play our football.”

Aitana nodded. She didn’t need the speech, but she liked Patri’s voice. Steady. Familiar. Distracting enough.

Laia caught her eye from across the room. A strange look passed between them—not hostility, but distance.

They hadn’t talked much since the last training session. Aitana liked it that way.

Coach’s voice cut through.
“Nigeria are fast. Ruthless on the counter. Keep shape. Use the ball, not the body.”

Aitana slipped her boots on, fingers moving in practiced rhythm. She barely registered the rest.

She was thinking about the stairwell. About how Russo’s voice had dropped at the end. About how her own voice had shaken.

She hated that.

Englands Locker Room was in the same conditions.

“Japan are quick,” Stanway muttered, adjusting her shin guards. “But we’re better in the air.”

“They move like they’ve rehearsed every second,” Toone added.
“Like theatre.”

If the young lionesses were all honest with themselves, they’d tell each other that Japan was one of the deadliest in the football world.

They gave what most teams lacked and crumbled under: unrelenting pressure.

Russo didn’t speak. She just tied her boots tighter, eyes on the floor.

Stanway nudged her. “You good?”

“Fine.”

“Because you’ve been weird all morning.”

Toone snorted. “She was weird yesterday too.”

She was going to tell Ella to shut up but she felt as though she’s been saying it immediately these days, so she just playfully rolled her eyes at her, finally looking up.

Stanway raised an eyebrow. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Russo shook her head and shrugged.

Something like that.

The hotel was quieter than usual. Fatigue blanketed the halls.

Spain’s win had been hard-earned. Aitana had assisted the opening goal, but she didn’t celebrate. Not really.
Her head was still full of shadows.

She passed the England squad returning from their match.

Russo hadn’t scored but Stanway had, she was the one who assisted that goal. Again. Of course, she had.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

But as Aitana climbed the stairs, she heard a soft thud behind her, someone else following. Same rhythm. Same silence.

She didn’t turn.

She just said, without looking,
“We’re still not on the same side.”

Russo’s voice came, steady and low.
“I know.”

It electrified her.

Another beat.

“But I still want to know what you’d say if we were.” Alessia had been really good at making people perform.

Aitana wouldn’t.

The smaller girl could only pause.

She didn’t answer. Probably some game she was attempting to snake her in.

And the silence between them stretched, more familiar than either wanted to admit.

After recovery dinner, the Spain staff had called it a “brief internal debrief.”

But nothing the Spanish federation did ever felt brief. Or internal. Not really. At least not with their women’s team.

The players filed in slowly—tired, alert, aching. Patri looked annoyed. Laia looked resigned. Aitana just looked wary.

She sat toward the back, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Her hair was still wet from the ice bath. She hadn’t spoken much since the match.

The assistant coach, not even their head coach—stood in front of them with a tablet and a clipped expression.

“Vamos a repasar las imágenes,” he said. We’re reviewing the footage. “Decisiones individuales. Fallos evitables.”

Aitana already knew what this was. They all did. They’d watched players be isolated, named, blamed before. It was meant to look like development. It felt like exposure.

They played the first clip. Aitana’s missed interception, minute 13. Then another. A heavy pass in transition. Then one where she’d failed to press quickly enough.

Aitana suddenly felt her long eyebrows furrow, and her blood rush through her body.

Each clip slower than the last. Freeze-framed. Rewound. Her name was said seven times.

Seven.

And then: “Bonmatí, no puedes permitirte estos errores. Si no controlas el ritmo, nadie lo hará.”

If you don’t control the rhythm, no one will.

It wasn’t a correction. It was a public scolding.

Her ears were ringing. She felt heat crawling up her neck, her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her molars would crack.

Patri shifted beside her, eyes down. No one spoke. No one ever did.

It wasn’t new. But tonight, something inside her cracked. Something snapped.

When they dismissed the players one by one—like school children—she didn’t wait. She stood up and walked straight into the corridor without a word.

Russo wasn’t listening for anything. She wasn’t following anyone.

She’d gone to refill her water bottle.

That was it.

But then she heard voices, not the usual ones. Not the easy ones.

Spanish. Clipped. Cold.

Then another voice: strained, breaking underneath the words. Aitana.

Russo slowed down instinctively. She wasn’t proud of it. But she didn’t walk away, either.

She stood just before the corner, just close enough.

“You were told to hold position. Not improvise. Not invent.”

“I saw space. I used it.”

“You’re not here to express yourself. You’re here to fit the structure, our structure.”

A longer silence.

Then Aitana’s voice again, small but sharp-edged.

“So what am I then? A body in a shirt? A puppet?”

Russo froze.

The coach’s voice dropped lower. She couldn’t hear every word now. But the tone was enough. Patronizing. Measured. Dangerous.

She heard Aitana again, barely above a whisper now, “You keep saying I’m not ready. But I’ve done everything you asked.” She’d never heard her this way, she couldn’t even recognize her voice.

The Aitana she knew was stern, composed, and unrelenting.

Another beat.

“What else do you want from me?”

That one sounded like a plea.

Russo hadn’t expected that. Not from her.

Footsteps—quick, hard. Russo stepped back just in time as Aitana stormed around the corner, calves strained and lips quivering.

She didn’t see Alessia.

But Alessia saw everything.

The flush in her olive coloured cheeks. The glassy eyes she blinked too fast. The way her sharp jaw was set like she was holding something in. Rage, tears, maybe both.

She looked young.

Not small. Not weak. But young.

And suddenly, the version of Aitana that Russo had built in her mind—untouchable, unreadable, bulletproof—cracked.

Aitana sought sanctuary so she headed to the fancy hotels stairwell like before, shoulders stiff.

Russo was already there, leaned against the wall like she hadn’t decided whether to stay or leave. She looked up as Aitana stopped on the top step, breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat.

Her arms were folded, but not coldly. Like she didn’t know what else to do with them.

“Hi,” Alessia said, barely more than a breath.

Aitana didn’t respond. Just pulled her arms tighter around herself like they were the only thing keeping her from unraveling. Her hair was damp still. Her jaw tense. Her eyes, three different shades of brown, maybe green, flicked away too quickly.

Russo glanced at the floor. She’d heard more than she was supposed to. Not just words. The break in Aitana’s voice. The quiet plea she hadn’t meant to say out loud.

But she didn’t bring it up.

“Don’t look at me like you understand,” Aitana said suddenly.

Her voice was clipped. Controlled. It only made Russo look harder.

“I don’t,” Alessia said. Then after a second, quieter, “Not really.”

Silence curled between them.

Aitana didn’t move. Her lip twitched, like she wanted to speak but wouldn’t risk it.

Then, sharply, “You think this is easy? Trying to be enough for people who only want you when you’re useful?”

Alessia flinched at that. Not from the words, from how true they sounded.

“No,” she stated. “I know how that feels.”

Aitana stared at her for a moment, searching her face for the lie. She didn’t find one. Just freckles, steady deep blue eyes, the kind of calm that unsettled her.

“I don’t need fixing,” she said finally, voice low.

“I didn’t say you did.”

Another pause. Their bodies still. But their thoughts moved like fists.

Aitana looked down at her trainers. Then up again. Her voice softened just slightly, not enough to make it safe. Just enough to make it real.

“Then what do you want from me?”

Alessia shrugged. “Nothing. I just—” She exhaled through her nose. “You looked like you wanted to disappear. I didn’t want you to.”

The England native hadn’t meant to say that part aloud. She didn’t even realise she had.

That sat between them for a moment.

Aitana turned like she might leave. But then Russo said, almost without meaning to again.
“They don’t deserve you.”

Aitana froze.

She didn’t turn back. But her shoulders dropped, only a little.

“You don’t know me,” she said, almost like a warning.

But that wasn’t really true now was it?

She knew Aitana was the last one to leave trainings, that she had a strong sense of self, was outspoken even at a young age about global issues like immigration, that she was Catalan, she knew Aitana but they both hadn’t known it.

“I know what you looked like in that room,” Russo finally decided. “And it wasn’t weak.”

Unfortunately, Alessia could never claim she’d seen Aitana weak. Even now.

Aitana turned slowly, her expression guarded but burning. “And what did I look like?”

Russo’s gaze flicked over her it wasn’t hungry, not invasive. Careful. Honest. Caught off guard by how fierce and beautiful she looked, even now, even like this. Her moles were even prettier up close.

“Like someone who shouldn’t have to explain herself,” she said.

Aitana exhaled. She looked away. Looked back. Like something in her was shifting, and she hated it.

“You don’t get to say the right thing in a stairwell and make this mean something.”

“I’m not trying to,” Alessia said.

“I don’t even know what this is.” She conceded. So

Aitana stepped down one stair. Now they were level. Almost close enough. And she still wasn’t taller than the blonde striker.

Her voice was a whisper. “Then stop looking at me like you do.”

“I can’t.”

The words weren’t proud. Just true.

Aitana blinked. Her breath caught.

And then—too fast, too sharp—she turned.

“I can’t,” she said again, like it stung.

The door opened, then slammed behind her.

Alessia stayed still. Eyes on the step where she’d just stood. Where they’d almost met in the middle.

She didn’t know what she’d wanted. But she knew now she wasn’t going to stop wanting it.

Not yet.

The hotel’s common area was full now squads blending at the edges, music low and indecisive. One speaker was playing Rosalía, the other something drum-heavy and British.

The pool table had a waiting list. Someone had opened a window that let in the warm scent of chlorinated pool water and night air.

Aitana didn’t want to come.

She hadn’t even changed at first—had been halfway into pajamas when Patri reappeared at her door with that familiar, pointed look.

“You need to do something other than stare at your ceiling.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were blinking aggressively, then.”

Patri had dragged her out gently, like she always did.

Now, standing just inside the lounge, Aitana tugged at the hem of her white crop top—clean cotton, unbranded, worn like she didn’t think twice about it and crossed one arm loosely over her stomach. Her hair was in a loose bun, her brown dyed strands more visible. She wore pale, high-waisted denim shorts that ended high on her muscular thighs. They weren’t short by footballer standards. But on her, they felt like a provocation.

Alessia noticed immediately.

From her perch beside the pool table, cue in hand, half-listening to Toone’s loud complaints about the foosball setup, her eyes locked on Aitana the second she stepped in.

She looked…different like this.

Loose. Soft. Legs like carved marble under those shorts. Shoulders slightly hunched, but only because she was clearly trying not to be noticed.

She failed.

Even Laia noticed.

Who was that? Alessia remembered now.

Ah, Codina, the defender moved through the crowd like she was on rails, weaving past beanbags and discarded sliders until she landed next to Aitana with an easy sort of touch, arm slinging around her casually, fingers brushing against her lower back like muscle memory.

Alessia immediately straightened up. Didn’t mean to. But she did.

She watched as Laia said something close to her ear and Aitana tilted her head, hiding a smile behind one hand.

It couldn’t be that funny. Couldn’t be that charming.

Then Laia laughed at whatever she’d said and leaned closer, one hand now gripping Aitana’s hip..playfully? Steadying herself?

Did it matter?

Russo’s grip on her pool cue shifted. Her jaw ached, just slightly.

“You good?” Leah asked from the other side of the table.

“Fine,” Alessia muttered.

“Because you’ve just scratched your last shot without even looking.”

“I’m fine.”

Leah raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Across the room, Aitana had pulled away from Laia slightly, but not fully. The way they stood too close, too familiar, it made Alessia feel like she was watching something she wasn’t meant to see. Like she’d stumbled into someone else’s private inside joke.

And god, maybe that’s all it was. She hoped and didn’t even know.

A joke. A touch. A little more than nothing.

But the Tar Heels’ stargirls eyes didn’t leave them.

Not even when Ella whacked her arm and called her name three times. Not even when Georgia elbowed her and asked if she wanted another go.

Their usual social Alessia didn’t answer.

She was too busy watching Aitana lean her weight back against the wall, hands in the pockets of her shorts, biting her lip slightly as Laia said something else that made her laugh.

That laugh. Soft. Real. The kind Russo hadn’t heard in weeks.

And then, maybe by accident, maybe not. Laia’s hand rested on Aitana’s bare waist for just a second too long.

Again?

Alessia’s heart thudded, low and stupid.

She looked away.

Down at the chalk in her hand. The cue in her other. The sweat forming just under the collar of her cropped flannel shirt.

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered under her breath.

“What?” Toone asked, turning toward her.

Alessia just shook her head.

Nothing.

Just everything.

Aitana felt it before she saw it.

That pull—invisible but unmistakable. Like a thread tied around her spine.

She didn’t have to look to know Russo’s eyes were on her. Had been on her. Not just a glance. Not just curiosity.

Watching.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to ignore the way Laia was still talking, still leaning in like she had any idea what kind of storm was moving just across the room.

Aitana turned her head.

Caught her.

Russo froze.

She looked more like a deer now. Those big doe eyes and button nose.

Aitana decided unknowingly, quickly, Alessia Russo was her prey.

She’d been caught mid-look, her eyes fixed, jaw tense, one hand halfway to the chalk again like she’d just needed something to do with her fingers. Her collar looked too clean. Her sleeves pushed up just far enough to show forearm muscle decorated with attractive veins and a worn hair tie she never remembered taking off.

Their eyes locked. No one else noticed.

Alessia didn’t blink.

And Aitana?

Aitana tilted her head. Just slightly. The smallest flick of acknowledgement. Almost a smirk, but not quite. Something closer to curiosity.

She stepped away from Laia, and that alone made Alessia’s stomach twist. It was a signal, intentional or not.

But then she did something worse.

Aitana reached up, slowly, and undid her bun. Her thick dark hair slipped past her shoulders like spilled ink, loose and slightly wavy from the shower, brushing her pretty collarbones, clinging to the side of her neck in a way that Alessia felt in her teeth.

Then, still watching her, Aitana bent down to pick up a bottle of water she’d left by the wall. When she stood again, she didn’t sip it.

She twisted the cap off slowly, like she had all the time in the world, and tipped it toward her lips without breaking eye contact.

It wasn’t a show. Not really.

But it wasn’t not a show.

Russo’s mouth was dry. Her cue rested awkwardly against her bare leg now, forgotten.

Toone said something beside her—Alessia didn’t catch it.

Didn’t care.

Across the room, Aitana finally dropped her eyes. Just for a second. Then brought them back up with practiced disinterest, like she hadn’t just flipped Russo inside out without moving an inch.

She turned back toward Laia, brushing her hair over one shoulder.

But she didn’t move closer again.

Didn’t laugh the same way.

Didn’t let Laia touch her this time.

And Russo…?

Russo gripped the edge of the pool table so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Russo didn’t realize she was moving until she was halfway to the hallway.

She didn’t say anything to Toone, didn’t explain herself to Leah or anyone else near the table. Just dropped the cue, clatter too loud for anyone to notice, and walked out of the rec room like the air had gotten too thick to breathe.

Aitana saw her leave.

She didn’t follow. Not immediately.

But her lips curved, not in a smile. Something sharper. Predatory.
She watched her prey disappear down the hallway like she’d expected this.

Like she’d planned for it.

Alessia pushed through the first set of double doors near the elevators and gripped the balcony’s railing. The metal was cold and unyielding, which was good, because she felt like she might ignite otherwise.

What the hell was that?

What had she just done?

She wasn’t jealous. She wasn’t that girl.

But Laia’s hand on Aitana’s back had sent something sour rolling through her. And then Aitana, catching her watching, putting on that damn water bottle performance like it wasn’t intentional, like she hadn’t unspooled her hair knowing exactly what it would do.

Like she hadn’t undressed Alessia with her eyes without touching her. Why was this happening to her?

Alessia exhaled. Too sharp.

Ran a hand through her golden hair, tugged once, like she could dislodge the tension that way.

Stupid. She was being stupid.

She leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.

And then she heard the screen door creak open behind her.

Slow. Deliberate.

She didn’t turn.

Didn’t have to.

She already knew.

“Fuck me.” It was whispered.

Footsteps. Light. Careful.

“You left early,” Aitana started.

Her voice was even. Soft. But there was a glint behind it, something close to steel wrapped in silk.

Alessia didn’t move. “Yeah, well. Watching you flirt with your teammate was really fun for me.”

Again, why the hell are you telling her that Less?

A beat. Then Aitana said, lightly, “Jealousy’s not a good look.”

A lie. Aitana thought Alessia looked good in red.

Alessia did turn then sharp, irritated, flushed in the face. “Why would I be jealous? What’s there to be jealous of?”

She was really making herself look guilty here.

Aitana stepped down onto the landing. She was still in that white crop top, shorts, bare legs carrying her with an ease that made Alessia want to slam her head against the wall.

Aitana didn’t answer her. Just grinned in a way she only saw in training photos at Barça.

“Then why did you look like you wanted to kill her?”

Alessia barked a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe because she touched you like she owned you.”

Aitana’s eyebrows lifted. “She doesn’t.” Aitana didn’t need to tell Alessia that, or anything of that matter. So why on gods green earth was she?

“No?” Alessia snapped, eyes narrowing. “Sure looked like it.”

Oh. Because of that.

Aitana took one more step forward. They were close now, not the stairwell from earlier close, but enough that Alessia could see the freckles near her collarbone. Could smell the faint vanilla in her shampoo.

“And if she did?” Aitana asked, voice like a match held just above flame. “What would that matter to you?”

Alessia’s hands were fists at her sides now. She didn’t know why she was reacting like this. She didn’t want to. But her voice came low, tight, dangerous: “Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Bullshit.”

Aitana tilted her head. “You watched me the whole night, Russo. You started this.”

Her stupid attractive accent that made certain words sound sexier than they should. Sexy? She’s lost her head.

Alessia’s mouth opened, then closed.

Because she had. She knew it.

She looked down, prefect teeth grinding slightly. “You drive me insane.”

Aitana smiled now—not smug. Something sadder. More private.

“Good,” she whispered.

And turned to leave.

But just before she pushed open the screen door, she glanced back.

Soft, unreadable. “She’s not my type.”

Alessia stared at her.

“What is?” she asked, before she could stop herself.

Aitana’s eyes flitted over her body (?) and didn’t answer.

Just let the door stay cracked behind her.

And left Alessia standing there alone again—breathing hard, fists unclenched, body warm.

God help her.

Chapter Text

It was never that simple. That was the problem.

Aitana had spent the whole day convincing herself that what happened between them in that stairwell, however brief, however charged—hadn’t meant anything.

Charged with what? She couldn’t say.

She told herself it was a misread moment. A lull in the air. Just nerves. A trick of the hallway lighting.

And yet, she couldn’t stop playing it back.

The pause before Alessia stepped back. The flicker of something in her eyes, was that uncertainty? Hesitation? No. Disbelief. Like she’d almost trusted it.

Like she’d almost trusted her.

Aitana blinked hard at the ceiling of her dorm bed. She could hear the noise from the hallway again—laughter, distant thudding footsteps, music from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. But her chest still felt quiet. Too quiet. Like a storm had rolled through and left the damage neatly tucked inside her ribs.

Laia Alexandri was brushing her teeth on the other side of the bathroom door. Aitana could hear the hum of the electric toothbrush and the casual way she sometimes talked to herself in the mirror.

Normal. All of this should have been normal.

Then her phone buzzed.

Olé Haters, Patri:
Rec Room. 10pm. We’re playing something again. Come or your boots are mine.

Laia Alexandri poked her head out, foam on her lips. “They’re doing another team mixer. You in?”

Aitana shrugged. “If it’s just karaoke again, I’ll kill myself.”

Pina and Patti’s singing was endearing but Jesus Christ her ears paid.

Laia grinned. “Not karaoke. Something worse, apparently.”

Of course it was worse.

The air in the hotel rec room was chaotic in the way only youth tournaments could be; full of half-eaten snacks, someone’s speaker playing Rihanna, and bodies draped over bean bags and fold-out chairs. The teams had split off into little clusters, but the buzz of curiosity was mutual.

Someone—probably Chloe Kelly or Patri had suggested a game. And not just any game.

“Seven Minutes in Heaven?” Ella repeated, cringing but not leaving. “What are we, thirteen?”

“Exactly,” said Chloe. “That’s what makes it funner.”

Funner isn’t even a real word. Was it?

A hat appeared, as if conjured. Slips of paper were dropped in. Some players were flushed with nerves. Some were already pretending not to care.

Alessia glanced across the room. Aitana was leaning against the wall, arms folded, pretending to be on her phone. Not texting. Just scrolling. The glow of the screen was too still for anything else.

Ella nudged her. “You better not pull that French keeper again. She nearly killed you.”

“I didn’t pull her,” Alessia hissed. “It was a setup.”

Alessia shivered at the memory.

“Exactly,” Ella said, reaching into her pocket. “So I’ve arranged something different.”

Alessias eyes widened, no way, she said in her head.

She held up a folded name slip. “You’re welcome.” She almost reached for Ella’s throat.

Alessia didn’t even think she could bring herself to ask but alas, she already had. “Whose name is this?”

Ella smirked. “Your mums.”

“You nasty turncoat.”

Aitana was already holding her own piece of paper when Patri casually leaned in and whispered, “You owe me.”

Aitana could feel her stomach turn slightly.

“What?”

“Just go when they call your name,” Patri winked. “It’s for the tension. Everyone’s betting on you two anyway.”

“What?” Aitana growled and stared down at the paper in her palm.
The name printed in Ella’s loopy, dramatic handwriting made her heart flip.

Alessia.

Aitana genuinely needed someone to choke her out.

When the name pairing was read aloud, there was a beat of silence. Then someone—maybe someone from Japan’s squad—let out a long, dramatic gasp.

Oh no, the Catalan midfielder and the English striker simultaneously thought.

Alessia rolled her eyes. Aitana looked up from her phone.

For a second, it felt like something tectonic cracked under the room.

When the door clicked shut, Aitana didn’t move.

She stood with her arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere near the back wall, like it held the blueprint for how to survive this.

Maybe she should hang herself on the closet bar.

Alessia wasn’t doing much better. Her broad shoulders were tense, spine flat against the opposite side like she was ready to spring open the door any second.

But she didn’t.

Neither did Aitana.

Aitana scoffed quietly to herself. It wasn’t like she was going to cannibalize her.

The air smelled like old equipment bags, muscle cream, and someone’s half-zipped duffel that had probably been fermenting in here since the group stage. There was a faint glow from a dying phone flashlight that flickered against the wall. Their shadows overlapped. Separated. Overlapped again.

“So,” Aitana said, eventually. More to herself than Alessia. “Seven minutes.”

Alessia huffed out a laugh, low and nervous. “More like three by now.” Thank God.

“Still time to say something stupid, then.”

A small pause. Then Alessia responded, “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Aitana said too quickly. “That you’ve been watching me.”

Sometimes she really hated her accent, the way it sounded easy and husky, enthralling.

Then Alessia’s head snapped up.

Oh my God. No way Aitana had noticed her practically checking her out the other night.

She’d probably kill her now and hide her body behind the coats.

“In the group stages,” Aitana continued, slower now. “You were watching.”

Alessia blinked again, fumbling for calm. “I was watching the match….we scout opponents. It’s not illegal.” She didn’t even sound like she believed herself.

“You weren’t playing us.”

“So?” Alessia winced inwardly. Hopefully she wouldn’t bring up that time (more like times) she’d clicked on her story way too early either. Stalker.

Another silence.

“I wasn’t imagining it,” Aitana said. Her voice dropped, softer, quieter. “You do that. You look at me like I’m a puzzle you’re mad you can’t solve.” She said it again like in that stairwell.

Alessia’s jaw clenched.

She didn’t know what made her speak next—maybe the dark, maybe the nearness, maybe the impossible quiet—but her voice came out steadier than she felt.

“Well. You act like you’ve already solved me.”

That made Aitana look up.

And it wasn’t defiant, or smug, or cold. It was something else. Curious. And maybe a little tired.

She stepped forward. Just slightly. Just enough to change the air between them.

There was no more room for Alessia to stray away. The closet was too small. The air too warm.

“What do you think you’d find, if you did?” Aitana whispered.

Alessia looked at her.

She was much taller, but felt smaller now. Trapped in something she didn’t have the language for. She took in the wisps of hair curling behind Aitana’s ear, the silver hoop on her left lobe, the faint scrape near her distracting collarbone from yesterday’s match. The visible flecks of gold in her eyes. The furrow between her brows. The crinkles near her eyes.

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t lean in.

Didn’t move.

But her breath hitched when Aitana’s fingers skimmed the wall, just beside her hip.

Not touching her.

Just close.

Too close.

Their faces were inches apart. Breath shared. Pupils blown wide.

Aitana felt like her brain and body had stopped syncing. Her hand, unthinking, traced the line of Alessia’s shoulder.

That oversized knit sweater couldn’t be helping either of them.

Alessia shivered.

She could smell mint gum and sunscreen.

“I’m not trying to solve you,” Alessia said suddenly, voice lower now. “I’m just—”

She stopped. She didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

Aitana’s gaze dropped to her mouth.

“You are sure?” she asked. She wasn’t looking for an answer right now, something else.

“Aitana—” Alessia said, half-warning, half-plea. She didn’t know for what. She must think she’s pathetic.

“Let me,” Aitana whispered, it wasn’t an order. There was room for an objection.

And then she leaned in—not for a kiss, not fully, but near Alessia’s neck. Close enough to brush skin with her breath and sharp pointed nose. Alessia froze, hands pressed flat to the wall behind her. Her body didn’t know how to react. She couldn’t breathe right.

“Is this what you think about?” Aitana murmured. Her lips barely grazed Alessia’s jaw.

Yes. Obviously. Stupid fucking brain.

Alessia’s pride suddenly flared. She needed to take something back. Some kind of control.

Fine.

She could play. Because this was just another game. Another pitch to perform on.

Her hand found the back of Aitana’s neck, clumsy but firm. Aitana gasped.

“What—?”

Alessia leaned close, almost cheek to cheek, her lips just brushing the shell of her ear. “That all you’ve got?”

Aitana’s eyes darkened. She didn’t move away. And she wasn’t smiling, not exactly, but there was something wicked in the way she stayed still, pressed her thigh just barely between Alessia’s legs, like a dare.

Aitana wasn’t thinking, she couldn’t, not properly. This was something she needed to do.

Alessia groaned, too quiet, too real.

“You should say something,” she breathed, hands now ghosting over Aitana’s shoulders. “Before I do.”

She didn’t know what Alessia was pushing for. She didn’t know what this was.

Aitana didn’t flinch. She didn’t back down. She just let her thigh press forward again.

Alessia’s body betrayed her, again. Her hips bucked slightly, and Aitana caught it.

She smiled endearingly (?), breathless. “You want to talk? Now?”

“Aitana,” Alessia muttered.

Her hands had curled into the fabric of Aitana’s shirt. She could smell her, the vanilla was easy on her nose. She could feel her pulse.

Aitana could feel herself unraveling at the sound of her name from Alessia’s mouth. Not yelled across a pitch. Not muttered behind a smirk. Just whispered. Unsure. Wanting?

“Alessia.”

Her name fell from Aitana’s lips like a secret. God, it sounded good.

And then—

“Wait.” Alessia pulled back slightly, just enough to think.

Aitana’s hands hovered at her waist. Unsure. She didn’t like unsure.

“Hm?” Aitana sounded soft, still breathless, even though her thigh was still flexed against her.

Alessia didn’t have the words. She just reached up and brushed that same lock of hair behind Aitana’s ear.

They stared at each other. Aitana could feel her lips curling at the corner of her mouth.

And for a second, it felt like they might say something honest. Something that would mean something.

But then the door swung open.

A flood of hallway light hit them both.

Ella Toone’s grin was wide and utterly oblivious. “Time’s up, Romeo and Juliet.”

Aitanas eyes reverted back to cold and borderline unsettling. She stepped back so fast she nearly tripped. Alessia straightened like she’d been caught stealing.

Neither of them said anything.

Aitana slipped out of the closet without looking back.

Alessia followed a few seconds later, jaw tight, hands stuffed deep into her pockets. Her disheveled shorts stuck to her skin uncomfortably.

Neither of them looked at Ella.

But Ella watched them go, eyebrows raised.

“…Right,” she muttered to herself. “Definitely not just seven minutes.”

Later that night, Alessia stepped outside again.

She wasn’t trying to find anyone. Not really. Her legs just needed the air. Her head needed space. Her chest still felt full—not in a good way—from whatever that had been in the closet.

She heard a voice first.

Low. Familiar. Laughing softly.

Then another. Also familiar. Closer.

She walked around the far end of the pool, expecting to see someone smoking, maybe sneaking a beer.

What she saw instead stopped her cold.

Laia Codina.

Aitana Bonmatí.

Kissing.

And not the kind of kiss that starts with hesitation and ends in uncertainty. Not a dare or a game or something reactive. It was slow. Focused. Aitana’s hand was curled into Laia’s hoodie. Laia’s thumb stroked her cheek, like they knew exactly what they were doing and how long they’d been doing it.

Alessia stood still.

Just long enough to know it wasn’t a mistake. Not a flash or a fluke.

It was real.

Her stomach twisted. She was only moving her pawns in that closet, calculating how to win again.

She didn’t make a sound. Her eyes burned.

Didn’t even turn back toward the rec room.

She just walked to the stairwell and sat on the first step. Her hand was on her chest.

She’s still breathing. It’s fine

“Laia—”

Laia’s hand was still resting on her hip when Aitana stepped back.

She wasn’t rough about it, but she was clear. Intentional. Like the air between them had solidified, and stepping away was the only thing she could do to keep breathing.

“I didn’t mean—” Laia began, her voice unusually soft.

“You kissed me,” Aitana said flatly.

Laia blinked, then shrugged. “We were alone. You weren’t exactly running away.”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

“You didn’t stop me either,” Laia murmured, she looked ashamed.

And that was true.

But it didn’t make it exactly right.

Aitana ran a hand over her mouth, suddenly aware of the way her skin still felt warm there. It wasn’t even the kiss. It was the fact that someone had done it. That it had happened. That it had felt like something.

And she hated how quickly her brain responded.

Not by replaying the kiss.

But by flashing back to a dark closet. A breathless silence. A near-touch that didn’t come. A hand near her hip that never actually reached her. A heartbeat that had thudded stupidly against her ribs for seven full minutes.

She hadn’t kissed Alessia Russo.

Not once.

Not even when they’d been inches apart, breath mixing, faces turned just enough for it to happen.

And now she’d kissed Laia.

Or, well been kissed by Laia.

It didn’t make sense.

“Why did you do it?” she asked, quieter now.

Laia shrugged again, but it didn’t feel careless this time. “You looked like you needed to be reminded.” That just sounded like an excuse, Aitana felt weird.

“Reminded of what?”

“That you’re not made of stone.”

Aitana looked away.

The chlorine smell of the pool was stronger now. She felt like it might crawl under her skin and settle there, like regret.

“Have to go,” she said, turning before Laia could reply.

She walked fast, her trainers squeaking against the tile, and didn’t let herself look back.

They were still in the same hotel.

Still crossing paths in the lobby, in the elevator, during media appearances.

But Alessia wouldn’t look at her.

Not in that way. Not even in a way that resembled the past, not charged or confused or annoyed.

Now, she looked like Aitana was a stranger in a jersey she used to recognize.

And Aitana hated that. Why did that hurt?

More than she’d hated losing to Japan. More than she hated the headlines dubbing her Spain’s “Next Maestro.”

She didn’t understand what changed.

They’d shared something. A moment. A weightless kind of closeness. And it hadn’t ended in disaster, not really.

So why was Alessia walking around like she was guilty of something?

Worse—like Aitana was.

And because she didn’t have an answer, Aitana started building her resentment brick by brick.

She didn’t understand Russo.

The way she whispered to her like she didn’t want to make a wrong move, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the way she pretended! Pretended like she actually felt Aitana.

And maybe she never would. And she absolutely despised her for it.

So she made her choice.

But not this. Not ice-cold avoidance, like none of it happened. Like seven minutes meant zero.

She felt the ache before she let herself admit it.

And she carried it into her interview that afternoon.

The Marca journalist was bright-eyed and smiley, asking softballs—about the tournament, her role models, how it felt to be considered Spain’s next great hope.

And then came the question.

“Do you think you’re better than England?” Aitana wouldn’t tip toe, not today.

It wasn’t phrased exactly that way, but that’s what they meant.

She didn’t hesitate.

“I think sometimes the English game gets more attention than it deserves. Physical, yes. Technical? Not always. They talk a lot.”

She knew it would sting.

She said it anyway.

It took five hours for the clip to go viral.

It took five minutes for it to reach Alessia.

And one second for her to scream.

“She’s subtweeting me in the Spanish press now!” she yelled, phone in hand.

Ella jogged in, wide-eyed.
“Wait, wait—”

“She said we talk too much.”

“Well mate…” Ella caught herself.

“I talk too much!”

Ella raised a pillow defensively.
“Okay, but that can’t be the part that has your panties in a twist?” Well, someone did have her panties in a twist not too long ago.

Alessia chucked it anyway. It hit the wall.

“She’s obsessed with me.”

Ella collapsed on the bed. “You say that like you’re not deep into her entire U20 stat archive.”

Alessia’s face was trembling, but she forced herself still. Ella pursed her lips and gave her some space.

She thought about Aitana—how she’d pressed against her like it meant something. How her thighs had flexed under her crotch, deliberate and slow. Like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she wanted to see if Alessia would break.

And she had. Quietly. Silently. Changed her panties alone in that hotel bathroom like a girl who didn’t know better. Who didn’t have any pride.

Disgusting. Shameless. Aitana had made her feel like that.

She’d planned it. That touch, that look, that silence. And now she was off in the same building, kissing someone else probably laughing at her in between kisses. Like Alessia had been some cheap little thrill.

She could’ve laughed. It was pathetic. The way she’d fallen for it—for her? No.

Alessia clenched her fist. That was never happening again.

If Aitana wanted to turn her into a punchline, she’d regret it.

Alessia would make sure of it.

She’d humiliate her on the pitch, cut through her team without blinking. She’d strip her of control, of power, of whatever high ground she thought she owned.

She’d beat her, outshine her, bury her so deep under her boot she wouldn’t be able to breathe without remembering this moment.

She would never give her the chance to touch her again. Not physically. Not emotionally. Not ever.

If Aitana Bonmatí thought Alessia Russo was disposable, she’d learn what it felt like to be irrelevant.

Now, she had her mission.

Every photo. Every headline. Every shared mutual on Instagram. Every subtle jab in the press. Every tiny look when a journalist mentioned the other’s name.

Suddenly, they weren’t just ghosting each other.

They were haunting each other.

And worse: the world was starting to notice.

Spain lost the final. 3–1. Japan were clinical and composed.

Japan were a machine as always, elegant and precise, the kind of team that didn’t need revenge or narrative. Just technique.

Aitana didn’t speak for three hours after the whistle. She sat on the bench, still in full kit, staring at the pitch like it had betrayed her.

England won third place, but barely. Alessia had taken a knock in the semi-final and spent most of the match with an ice pack against her ribs, watching Georgia Stanway carry the final charge.

Her name was left off the post-match highlight reels.

Aitana watched her limp through the lobby that night. Trainers flanking her. Head bowed.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t feel better.

But she didn’t feel like gloating either.

Something stopped her.

Georgia Stanway had been made the player of the tournament.

England placed third and it wasn’t even by the help of Alessia.

That night, the hotel dining room was a split-screen.

Japan were calm, collected, and had gentle smiles on their faces. They weren’t difficult to be around.

Spain were quiet, their eyes red, and poking food with spoons.

Englands young lionesses were trying not to look either.

Aitana watched Russo cross the lobby once. Still limping slightly. Head down. Trainers still at her side.

“I don’t need that, I’m fine.” Alessia turned down another round of ice packs, her voice hoarse.

Aitana would have expected to be delighted by the spectacle but something else stopped her from that.

She didn’t say anything.

Neither did Alessia.

Two nights later.

Both of them, in different countries, in different rooms, they opened Instagram at 3am.

Still followed.

Still there.

Still not over.

Laia didn’t mention the kiss again.

Not the next day. Not after training. Not even when they were alone in the elevator, both headed back to their room, the silence between them filled only by the slow, mechanical chime of floor numbers ticking upward.

Aitana wanted to ask what it meant.

But she didn’t. And maybe that was the answer.

Whatever had happened—it had passed. Or been buried. Or quietly folded into something they didn’t have the language for anymore.

Still, things shifted.

Laia laughed less around her. Took longer to reply. Sometimes looked over her shoulder mid-sentence, like she was worried someone else might walk in and change the air between them.

Aitana noticed. Of course she did. That was still her best friend.

But she said nothing.

Just like she hadn’t said anything to Alessia.

She’d never been good at naming what hurt. Not when it was her fault.

The thing about almosts is that they stay with you longer than the real things do.

Aitana Bonmatí had made peace with a lot of things by 2019.

That the senior call-up was still just out of reach. That people would always call her “the next Iniesta” before they ever said her name. She respected the comparison, revered it, even—but it felt like a placeholder. Like they didn’t know what to call her yet, so they borrowed someone else’s brilliance.

It meant there was still something missing.

It meant she hadn’t said enough. Or won enough. Or made herself visible enough.

It meant she had more work to do.

She’d even made peace with the fact that her thighs never quite fit the national shorts unless she tailored them herself. That she didn’t know how to rest without guilt fermenting in her stomach. That she sometimes stood in the shower after training and counted her mistakes out loud.

But she hadn’t made peace with Alessia Russo.

Because Russo was everywhere, without ever actually being there.

In preview coverage. On tournament posters. In FIFA reels, paired side-by-side with her like it was fate or branding. Aitana scrolled past one in the breakfast hall and muttered under her breath,
“She’s not even in our group.”

Laia didn’t look up from her cereal. “And yet you keep clicking.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Aitana stabbed her toast.

“It’s for preparation.”

“You think we’ll face them in the final?”

Aitana didn’t answer.

Which meant: yes.

Meanwhile, Russo was still at UNC, but not for much longer.

She was thriving—kind of. Leading the team, training hard, scoring when it counted. But she could feel the pressure mounting. The unknowns. The weight of things out of her control.

COVID was looming on the edge of everything.

Games suspended. Flights uncertain. Timelines collapsing.

By early 2020, the decision was made for her: return home. Sign with Manchester United. Join the club she grew up watching, the badge she used to trace with her finger during school.

It was the right decision.

But it didn’t quiet anything inside her.

There were days Russo still pulled up Spain’s U-20 footage just to see how Aitana had evolved.

Not for tactics.

Not really.

Just to watch how she moved.

How she paused before delivering a pass. How she scanned the field three steps ahead. How she always knew where the gaps would be before anyone else did.

Older. Sharper. Like someone who’d figured herself out.

Alessia hadn’t.

Not fully.

Not yet.

Sometimes she’d pause a frame and ask herself: Does she ever think about me when she plays like that? No Alessia. Stop.

Sometimes, that was the hardest part —not knowing.

Both teams advanced past the group stage.

Aitana scored a goal against Nigeria that had her phone buzzing for hours—a rocket into the top corner that earned her a voice note from a Barça assistant manager: “Your time is coming, Bonmatí.”

Russo scored a last-gasp equalizer in the quarterfinal. Ripped off down the pitch with her arms flung wide and her boots flying behind her like they didn’t want to catch up. Her teammates crowding her.

She was told Spain lost their semifinal on penalties.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t say: That means she’s out.
Didn’t say: I won’t see her again.
Didn’t say: So it’s over, again.

Because it wasn’t.

Not really.

A week later, Alessia was home. Still jet-lagged. Still sore.

She opened the FIFA wrap-up video without thinking.

And there—fast, almost too fast—it cut to Aitana.

Sitting in the dugout. Hands over her face. Smaller than she was.

Eyes red.

The clip didn’t last long.

But it lasted long enough.

Alessia stopped breathing for a second. She should be elated. She wasn’t.

She rewound.

Watched it again.

Sank a little deeper into the couch cushions and didn’t move.

Across the world, Aitana had done the same.

Back in Barcelona, surrounded by her old posters and her new pressure, she opened her laptop to review team footage.

Instead, a BBC headline caught her attention.
“Russo: England’s Late Equalizer, a Moment of World Cup Magic.”

She clicked it.

There was a GIF. Russo spinning off a defender. Driving forward. Striking clean. And smiling, that stupid big smile. Smiling like something had lifted off her chest. Like scoring wasn’t just relief—it was resurrection.

Aitana watched it once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, she closed the tab.

Didn’t speak for the rest of the night.

By the end of that summer, they were both somewhere new.

Russo was back in Manchester—the face of United’s new era. Interviews. Photoshoots. Fixtures at Leigh Sports Village.

Aitana made her full debut for the senior Barça side. Controlled the midfield. Kept her head down. Played harder than ever.

They still followed each other.

But they didn’t like anything.

Didn’t reach out.

But during press media day, Alessia was asked:

“Anyone you’re looking forward to facing internationally?”

She paused.

Smiled, barely.

“Spain’s got a lot of talent. You’ve got players like Bonmatí—really sharp, really technical.”

It didn’t go viral.

Didn’t make the headlines.

But it found Aitana.

Through a retweet. Through a burner account. Through a whisper of the algorithm she pretended not to care about.

She watched it. “Still can’t even say my name properly, loser.”

Didn’t like it.
Didn’t save it.
Didn’t respond.

But she watched it.

Twice.

Maybe more.

She still remembered her passwords.

Chapter Text

2020–2021

The world stopped. Football didn’t.

Or at least, not for long. Not for girls like Aitana Bonmatí and Alessia Russo—the kind who built routines out of chaos and told themselves stillness was for people who didn’t want it enough.

But even they couldn’t outrun the quiet. Not when the matches paused. Not when the stadiums emptied. Not when the planes stopped crossing. Not when the world told them to stay still.

It was all odd, and women’s football had felt the brute of the pandemic, friends of theirs could no longer play due to their clubs no longer wanting to support them but supporting their men and the younger boys in empty stadiums.

And maybe that’s why, for the first time in years, they had to sit with it. With themselves. And with each other—from a distance neither of them could explain.

In Barcelona, Aitana was training on a rooftop.

It wasn’t ideal—too narrow, too echoey, the tiles too hot by noon, but it was private. She moved in silence, over and over: dribble patterns, touch drills, sprints between planters full of dead basil.

Laia Codina sat beside the pitch like she belonged to it. Like her knee wasn’t braced and stitched and ruined for the season. Like the sun hadn’t melted her smoothie into sugar-pink sludge in its cupholder. Aitana could feel her watching.

“You’ve got to turn your hips more when you strike it,” Laia called out, voice sharp under the boredom.

Aitana stopped juggling the ball and turned toward her, sweat clinging to her temples. “You’re one to talk.”

Laia raised an eyebrow, grinned. “You forget who taught you how to strike it in the first place?” Well, that was just a plain lie. Aitana taught Laia first!

She didn’t answer. She let the ball roll, walked over, and dropped down on the grass beside her like she always did. It was easy with Laia. Familiar. They shared playlists, late-night food deliveries, old Barça academy jokes no one else remembered.

Sometimes, they shared a bed when Ona wasn’t her roommate. Not often enough to label anything. Just enough to blur.

She took a sip of the smoothie and made a face. “This tastes like a bath bomb.”

Laia laughed. “That’s because it’s health food. You’re not cultured.”

Aitana rolled her eyes but smiled, nudging Laia’s leg with hers. She leaned back on her elbows, let the sky swallow her up. She told herself this was good. She told herself it made sense. Laia was still Laia—her confidant, her constant. And the kisses, the touching? It helped.

It helped her forget, if only briefly, the shadow of someone else she still hadn’t named out loud.

Someone English.

Aitana’s mind wandered. And then—

It landed on that night. Marta Torrejón’s birthday. The rooftop bar with the violet lights and bass that thrummed in her chest like a second heartbeat. The whole senior squad had shown up—Patri already tipsy, Mapi and Ingrid doing shots with Sandra, Alexia floating between clusters like gravity bent toward her.

Aitana had felt small that night. Not in a bad way. Just…younger.

A guest in a room that didn’t fully belong to her yet. She remembered tucking into a corner with her drink—watered down, sour—watching as Laia sauntered across the terrace in a cropped jacket and a grin, still limping, but bright.

“You gonna sulk all night?” Laia had said, appearing suddenly beside her.

Aitana shrugged. “I’m not sulking.”

“You’re brooding. Difference.”

They stood like that for a moment. Shoulder to shoulder. Close, but not touching.

Laia looked at her. Not glanced. Looked. Aitana didn’t see the *questionably* obvious expression on her face. If that even made sense.

“You know you’re allowed to be happy, right?” she said, softer now.

Aitana giggled, not taking her seriously. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…this.” Laia gestured vaguely around them. “You’ve made it. You’re playing like a starter. I mean you are a starter, you belong here.”

Aitana wanted to tell her it was mutual, but Laia wasn’t a starter, Laia still belonged her. She did. Aitana hated how much she needed to hear it. How good it felt in Laia’s mouth. Aitana belonged.

And when Laia reached for her hand and when their fingers locked, the terrace spun just slightly from the drink and the heat and the look they shared—Aitana didn’t resist. Why would she?

Later that night, after most of the team had spilled out into taxis or collapsed onto Marta’s couch in a pile of limbs and laughter, Laia had pulled her into a spare bedroom and kissed her like it wasn’t the first time. Aitana froze then.

It was slow, but not tentative. Familiar. Like claiming something that had already been hers.

Aitana let it happen. More than that, she leaned into it. Like the time in France, the one where she felt like someone was lurking beyond the corner near the doorway.

Because that kiss felt like the right thing. Like the next thing. Because Laia was safe. She was Barça. She was hers.

Something undeniably right. It was right. It had to be.

But even as their mouths met and clothes disappeared in the low, golden dark, a part of Aitana stayed separate. Watching.

Wondering why it felt like trying on someone else’s skin.

Laia was too focused on her canvas beneath her, how warm her best friend was, she touched her everywhere.
Asked if: “This is okay?”

Aitana nodded that night, grabbed at Codis hair and pulled her up against her mouth so she didn’t say anything wrong. Didn’t say anything to push her distraction away.

Even took Laia under her until she repeated the midfielders name like a prayer, so she could only hear that and not a certain English strikers name.

It worked. It felt right.

Back on the turf on the rooftop, Aitana ran a hand through her hair, eyes squinting into the sun. Laia was still watching her. Still hers.

And yet—
Regardless of everything, Aitana loved Barcelona. Always had. And so did Laia.

Didn’t she?

Meanwhile, in England, Alessia Russo was standing in her childhood backyard in Maidstone, juggling a medicine ball with her knees.

“Babe, your leg’s gonna fall off,” Ella Toone called from the patio, sipping Ribena and watching her best friend slowly unravel into determination and stubborn grief.

“I’ve got to keep the muscle on,” Russo grunted, dropping the ball and catching it mid-roll. “No physio for at least another month. I can’t afford to lose pace.”

For gods sakes, matches were being cancelled left and right, the world was on pause and Alessia still acted as if she were on the screen in a pub.

“You tore your hamstring, Less. You’re allowed to rest.”

“Not really.”

Ella stood up, walked over, and sat beside her. “You thinking about Spain again?”

Alessia scoffed standing in place, “All any of you can do is bring them up, I don’t care for them or—“

“You saw her lift that trophy, didn’t you?”

Russo still didn’t answer, but that was enough.

“Copaaaaa de la Reina,” Ella sang mockingly, trying to lighten the moment. “She looked good though. That braid was braided tight.”

“I don’t care, I could win that in ten fold.” Alessia was referencing to the articles that criticized Liga F and Barcelona for now being the leaders of their table and dominating in every aspect.

Truth be told, Alessia didn’t care for the league, she cared for a certain Liga F player.

Tooney brought her back,“You do care.”

“I don’t even know her.” Don’t even want to know her, Alessia finalized in her head.

“That’s a lie, and you know it.” Ella leaned forward, propping her chin on her knees. “You haven’t liked a single Instagram post in months except one of hers, and you undid it two minutes later.”

“I accidentally clicked—”

“You searched her name, Less. You typed it. Tapped her profile. Then scrolled to March. That’s not an accident.”

Russo groaned and laid back on the grass. “It’s just unfinished business, why are you even stalking my activity on there!?”

Ella hummed. “It’s my duty as your future maid of honour, no silly questions, please.”

The English striker sighed and before she could shut Ella up she took off again. “Anyways, if it’s only business, why does it sound like heartbreak?”

Alessia just kicked her in the shin and pretended as if she wasn’t questioned.

Aitana didn’t talk about Russo. Not in interviews, not in passing. Not even when the English press mentioned her name next to Alessia’s in articles about the U-20s—former rivals, Golden Ball runner-up, Barcelona’s jewel.

One day, Laia broke some of that silence.

In Ciutat Esportiva, during their usual late rehab hours.

The gym was nearly empty, just the low mechanical whirr of the bike and the soft pulse of music bleeding from the wall speakers.

Laia sat on a bench near the mirrored wall, her knee still stiff in its brace, her water bottle sweating onto her thigh.

Aitana was pedaling on the stationary bike, earbuds in, hair tied high but not as high as on a match day, brow furrowed like the cadence of her legs was a problem she couldn’t solve.

Laia didn’t say anything at first.

She just watched.

She always watched.

Not because she was nosy, or clingy, or insecure—not outwardly—but because she knew Aitana. Knew her rhythms, her silences, her little vanishing acts.

And lately, there’d been more of them.

But she started to wonder—quietly, uncomfortably—what it was, exactly, that made Aitana fold like that. Even if she could guess.

Aitana didn’t talk about Russo. Never had. Not after France. Not after the U-20s. Not even when her name popped up in media pieces or in post-match graphics on the TV in the lounge.

But Laia noticed anyway.

Every time an English match was playing in the background—even muted, even halfway over—Aitana lingered.

Never close. Never long enough to look invested.

But she’d hover near the edge of the room, arms crossed, pretending to stretch. Laia would catch her eye drifting toward the screen like a reflex. Not when Russo had the ball. Not when she scored. Just right before. Like she could sense her before the camera did.

Then her jaw would tighten. And she’d leave.

Today, Laia couldn’t keep it in.

“She’s not a villain, you know.”

Aitana paused, pulled out one earbud.

“God, we don’t have to talk about her. But fine, she’s not perfect either,” she replied and that’s when Laia knew she was in for it.

It was like word vomit, “People act like she is. Like she’s all smiles and honesty and humility. Like she doesn’t know what she’s doing when she shows up and takes the whole spotlight without saying a word.”

Laia shifted uncomfortably.

You say that like you’re not exactly the same.

She almost said it.

But instead, she softened the blow.

“You’re jealous,” she said, smiling like it was a joke. “You hate that she still gets to be the mystery.”

That landed.

Aitana didn’t argue. Just looked away, jaw locked, hands clenched around the handlebars.

It shouldn’t be this tense, she wondered how much longer she could pretend like she hadn’t noticed.

Laia leaned back, resting her head on the mirror. She watched the reflection of Aitana’s profile flicker and dim as the sun dipped outside.

She thought about the night they first kissed again. About the spare bedroom, about the way Aitana had said yes without a single word.

And then she thought about how she never said her name.

Not once.

Another day, inside the smaller rehab room, Alexia was there.

Alexia was already mid-set by the time Aitana came in, water bottle tucked under her arm, cheeks flushed from cardio. The older player didn’t look up right away. Just focused on her side-steps with a band taut around her thighs, posture perfect, jaw slack with focus.

Aitana kept her distance. She always did with Alexia—not from discomfort, but from reverence. Except when Alexia had scored, there were exceptions made.

There was something untouchable about Alexia when she trained. Something serene and ruthless all at once.

Aitana wouldn’t also admit she looked gorgeous doing it.

Aitana started with mobility drills, careful to time her breathing. She moved quieter when Alexia was in the room—not out of fear, but precision.

“Relax your shoulders,” Alexia said calmly, not looking up.

Aitana adjusted instantly.

Alexia glanced over then, just a flicker of a look. “Better.”

Aitana smiled, but didn’t let it show fully. Just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“You’ve been tense,” Alexia said, not unkindly.

Aitana hesitated. “Just tired.”

Alexia nodded like she didn’t believe her but respected the deflection. She stepped forward, adjusting a set of dumbbells.

“You’re still learning to carry things that aren’t yours,” she said, almost idly. “You can let some of it go.”

Aitana didn’t respond right away. Her eyes drifted to the small flatscreen in the corner of the room. It was paused, still showing a frame from the Women’s Super League. Manchester United. The number 23 visible in the background.

Alexia followed her gaze but said nothing.

Instead, she picked up her towel, wiped her neck, and offered Aitana the other half.

“You’ll be alright,” she said softly.

Aitana nodded, took it, hands brushing just barely. She knew.

And for a second, she wanted to say something. Anything. Ask Alexia if it ever went away—that knowing someone still had pieces of you without even trying.

But she didn’t.

Because Alexia was watching her too closely now.

And Aitana had never been very good at lying to her.

In the silence of lockdown, both girls wrote more.

Aitana had deleted Twitter and tried to stay off of her many..burner accounts.

She kept notebooks—stacks of them, half in Catalan, never in Spanish, all in handwriting so neat it looked printed. Sometimes she wrote tactical breakdowns. Sometimes she just scribbled phrases:

She plays free. It seems fraudulent.
But I don’t know how to be that. She smiled after I fouled her. Why the hell would someone smile? Is it worse to be forgotten or remembered like that? It was pretty, too, whatever.

One night, she wrote her name.
Just once.

Alessia.

Then scribbled it out until the paper tore.

Russo didn’t write things down. Unless she was made to. She really just spoke them. To herself. Out loud. In the quiet corners of the day. On the bench after home workouts. In the bath. During rehab stretches.

“God, I want to address her.” Alessia felt embarrassed saying that aloud, about someone who stripped her clean of her pride, once.

“I don’t even know what I’d say.”

“I don’t hate her. No wait, I fucking hate her. I don’t. I do. I don’t. I just…don’t want her to win. But also…I kind of do.”

What Spanish brain worm infiltrated her brain to get her to say that last part?

After the derby against City, one they’d won with the help of their prized Alessia, Ella walked in on her muttering and threw a towel at her head.

“Love, you need a girlfriend or a therapist. Pick one.”

Russo covered her face and decided to trust her best friend. “You ever get obsessed with someone you’ve never really met?”

Ella quirked a brow. “Do I look like someone who’s emotionally available enough for that question?”

They both laughed. For once.

By the end of 2021, they were both back in full matches.

Russo had her senior debut with England and scored. Aitana won the UEFA Women’s Champions League with Barça and cried during the anthem. Alessia saw, of course. It was the Champions League, that’s why she knew. Duh.

They didn’t speak.

They still followed each other.

They didn’t like or comment or reach out.

But they watched.
From a distance.
In silence.

And the space between them?
It was starting to feel like pressure.

Like air before a storm.

February 2022—Arnold Clark Cup, England

Alessia and Aitana never touch there. But it feels like a collision anyway.

The Spain squad arrives at Molineux Stadium under a curtain of mist, the kind of English weather Aitana Bonmatí pretends not to notice but always makes her braid frizz slightly by the second half. It drove her insane.

Fuck England. Overrated strikers and the weather was shit.

She’s not playing today, a muscle precaution, nothing serious but she’s in the dugout. Close enough to breathe in the pace of the match, to study England’s pressing shape, to act unbothered.

She felt like she had been forgotten by God. Stupid muscles.

She’s also close enough to see her warming up across the pitch. Not purposefully, of course.

Alessia Russo. England’s #23. A little older, a little broader across the shoulders, hair pinned back tight, jawline sharper and face slimmer than it was in youth. Still smiling and giggling at her teammates. Still carrying herself like she doesn’t know the effect she has on people.

Still there.

Ona notices immediately. Because she began to when Aitana had went out of her way to help her in primary school, and it followed into adulthood.

It now had her and the other Catalan almost fused together.

“You okay?” she murmurs, leaning over from two seats away.

“Just wish I was playing,” Aitana replies without looking up.

Ona nodded and almost took that as a definitive answer until she saw a certain striker laser focused on her friend, oh, that’s what Pina had meant. Ona thought to herself and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Alessia tore her eyes away and Aitana patted her Ona’s hand unknowing of English eyes.

On the opposite side of the stadium, Alessia’s tugging her warm-up jacket over her shoulders and laughing at something Leah Williamson said under her breath. Something about one of the Spanish defenders looking like they’ve already written her off.

“Reckon they’ve got you pegged as the weak link,” Leah jokes, bumping shoulders.

“Good,” Russo grins. “More space for me.” Alessia got good at this, remembering she loved the game for what it was and made her matches what they were. She was in control, no one else, no one.

But when she jogs toward the midfield, she glances once—just once—toward the dugout.

And sees her.

Aitana. In her full tracksuit. Arms folded. Watching the pitch but not watching her. That kind of not-looking that feels louder than a stare.

Aitanas nose seemed sharper, most of her baby fat gone, more mature and even more beautiful.

As beautiful as anyone else here, Alessia remedied.

Alessia’s breath shortens, and she slows down for a half-beat.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters to herself.

The game ends nil-nil. A scrappy, tactical stalemate.

Spain files out toward their locker room. England does the same.

But timing is never accidental. The tunnel is narrow.

And suddenly, it happens:

They pass.

No words. No touch.

But eye contact.

Sharp. Clean. Unflinching.
Like magnets brushing without locking.
Like recognition wrapped in barbed wire.

Ella Toone catches it. So does Laia.

They say nothing at first. But later?

Later, it comes out.

In the team hotel, Ella flops on the bed next to Russo and immediately starts in.

“You looked like you were about to combust in that tunnel.”

Alessia stares at the ceiling. “Did not.”

“Babe. You nearly tripped over the water cooler.”

“She was just—” Alessia pauses, then exhales sharply. “—She’s intense.”

Ella hums. “You like that though.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. And you’ve always dated soft boys who say please and thank you. Maybe this is your karma.”

She didn’t need to be reminded of that, but those boys were amazing distractions, didn’t even ask her questions.

“I don’t like her.”

“I didn’t say you did.” A beat. “But your ears turned red when she looked at you.”

“Don’t lie!” Russo throws a pillow. Ella catches it. Grins.

Laia is pacing outside Spain’s physio room again, like she’s been doing it for years instead of minutes.

“She didn’t even blink,” she mutters. “Just looked at you like…like she already knew what you were gonna say.”

Inside, Aitana rolls out her calf on a massage ball, jaw clenched. “I didn’t say anything.”

“That’s not the point.”

Aitana doesn’t look up. “Then what is?”

Laia stops mid-step. Her hands drop to her sides like she’s given up keeping them busy. “The point is that she doesn’t get to do this to you. Not again.”

Aitana breathes through her nose. Calm. Cold. “You think I’m weak for it?”

Laia blinks, caught off guard. “No. I think you’re scared.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then two.

Aitana finally lifts her head. “Of what?”

Laia crosses her arms, her voice quieter now, but more direct. “Of what it might mean. Because you and I both know this stopped being about football a long time ago.”

It hangs in the air like smoke.

Aitana says nothing for a second too long.

Then, sharp: “There’s nothing there. Not even a rivalry anymore.”

Laia looks away, jaw tight. “She’s dated men, yes. But you think that’s the whole story?”

“I don’t care who she dates, Codi. That’s not the problem.” Aitana’s voice has changed darker now, her posture tighter, eyes hard. “It’s the way she is. The way she stands there like she belongs. Like she doesn’t have to say anything, doesn’t have to fight for space. She just—” A pause. “—exists.”

It comes out bitter, clipped.

Laia doesn’t interrupt. She couldn’t if she tried.

Because the truth is, she’s been there. She is there, most days. That same ache that Aitana refuses to name— she’s worn it, swallowed it, spent months trying to touch it without setting the whole thing on fire.

She remembers what it felt like to hold Aitana’s attention. To be the person she let in, even briefly. But it hadn’t lasted. They’d collapsed under the weight of it —too intense, too confusing, too soon.

And now Alessia Russo is circling the same storm, and Laia is the one left outside.

Well, Alessia is that storm, Laia isn’t even sure she was ever close to that.

“You deserve someone who sees you,” she says eventually. “Not just someone who stares at you like a challenge to beat.”

Aitana scoffs. Rolls her eyes. Everyone seemed so desperate to name it for her, to drag her into some grand story she didn’t ask to star in.

Fine. If Laia wanted a line to hold onto, she’d give her one.

“She saw me today,” Aitana says, voice flat, picking at the seam of her sock like she could unpick the whole day with it.

There. Was that satisfying?

Laia doesn’t respond. Just turns her head away, jaw tense, eyes too bright.

Because even if she was trying to sound like she didn’t care—Aitana had never said that about her. Not once.

Later that night, in separate cities, both girls lie awake.

In Barcelona, Aitana stares at the ceiling of her bedroom, one hand behind her head, the other curled over her stomach like she’s holding something in place. Living alone tends to do that to you.

She replays the tunnel glance over and over. Wonders if she imagined the softness in Russo’s eyes, if it was some trick of the light, or worse, her own projection.

She shifts. Turns the pillow. Doesn’t sleep well.

In Manchester, Alessia scrolls aimlessly through her camera roll, thumb dragging until the screen stops on a blurry photo Ella had taken that day.
Her walking off the pitch, head down, half-smiling — and in the background, barely in frame, Aitana with her hands in her pockets. Eyes sharp, mouth unreadable.

She’s always just there, isn’t she?

Alessia stares at the image for a moment too long. Then locks her phone and flips onto her side.

Neither of them sleep easily.

Post-season. Pre-Euros. That brief window where players scatter like seeds to the islands, to cities, to nowhere in particular.

Some of the Barça girls rent a seaside apartment in Cadaqués. Aitana, reluctantly, gets dragged along.

“I’m not doing anything,” she mutters when Alexia calls her out. “It’s just air. I’m breathing air by the beach.”

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “You can breathe air in your flat. You came for a reason.”

Aitana laughs at that. Then adjusts her sunglasses and stares toward the sea.

Meanwhile, a few hours up the coast, Russo has landed in the same town invited by Ella, who knows someone who knows someone who said it’s quiet and pretty and perfect before the international camps start.

She’d like to know who that someone was.

“She’s not gonna be there,” Ella says casually, as Russo’s suitcase thumps over cobblestones. “Barça girls don’t hang out here.”

Russo doesn’t ask who she is. Doesn’t correct her.

“Sure.” She also doesn’t believe her.

That evening, the heat has softened. Everyone ends up at the same beachside bar, the kind with low music, too many tealights, and menus printed on recycled napkins. No press. No pressure. Just coincidence, apparently.

Aitana sees them first. Her stomach tense now.

From across the patio, half-obscured by a group of tourists and a flickering candle, she heard Ella Toone’s voice before she registers her face.
Then Earps. Then fucking Russo. And a few others. Lionesses. Lionesses her trusty, LYING, teammates had assured her would probably be somewhere in Ibiza.

Alexia’s halfway through a story, laughing at something Mariona said, when Aitana shifts in her seat.

“You okay?” Ona asks under her breath.

Aitana nods. But her jaw is set.

On the other side of the patio, Alessia turns to grab a drink from the bar and freezes mid-reach.

She sees them all. But it’s Aitana her eyes land on and stick.

There’s no greeting. No confrontation. Just two women who hadn’t meant to see each other again so soon, now suspended across a crowded summer night.

Both groups pretend not to notice. Pretend they don’t see the tension threading between the fairy lights.

But something shifts. Quietly. Like heat rising off sand.

And maybe—just maybe—that’s what both of them are afraid of.

They end up at the same bar, somehow.

Aitana doesn’t ask how. Doesn’t want to know which friend of which friend made it happen.

All she knows is that the groups have merged, practically spilled into each other like overlapping circles, and now she’s halfway through a gin tonic, half-listening to Mariona and Ingrid giggling about some inside joke while across from her, Russo is pretending to be deeply invested in AMC’s story about a botched hotel check-in.

“We should go say hi!” Ana had said earlier, bubbly and bold.

Aitana had barely opened her mouth before Mariona and Ona were already walking off.

Now, there’s no unmixing them. Barça and the United or at least pieces of them, now clustered around pushed-together tables on a balmy coastal evening.

Alexia, draped over the back of her chair like she owns the place, murmurs something to Jenni, who smirks and nudges Ingrid beside her. The Norwegian quirks an eyebrow, following Jenni’s gaze toward the middle of the table.

Aitana doesn’t have to look to know who they’re all glancing at.

Alessia Russo, skin sun-warm, hair pulled into a loose, lazy bun, eyes scanning the group like she’s politely taking inventory. She’s not wearing red tonight—no kit, no crest—but Aitana still sees it when she looks at her.
That Englishness. That easiness.

“She’s quite pretty in person, no?” Ingrid says softly to Alexia, who shrugs like she hasn’t already noticed. Mapi on the other side of her rolls her eyes.

“Objectively I mean.” Ingrid quickly whispers, kissing the cheek of her girlfriend.

“She was on the pitch,” Alexia replies, cryptic as always.

Aitana hears it but doesn’t respond. She’s on her second drink. Her knee is bouncing slightly under the table.

Across from her, Mary Earps leans into Alessia’s side. “You good?” she asks under her breath.

“Good,” Alessia says, but doesn’t meet her eye.

“You’re quiet.”

“I’m just listening.”

Mary follows her gaze and catches the flicker toward Aitana, the way Alessia’s watching without looking.

“Oh,” Mary says quietly. “That’s what this is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alessia mutters, cheeks flushing.

But she’s still glancing over at the way Aitana stirs her drink without drinking it. At the slope of her shoulder where sunlight left the faintest mark. At the precise stillness in her jaw. Her shoulders seemed more fit here.

It isn’t hate. That’s the problem. It would be easier if it was.

Then someone, it might be Patri, or Leila, or Ella—declares the bar is dying and they’re definitely going dancing.

“Night’s just starting,” Jenni grins, already standing.

There’s groaning and laughter and the collective sound of chairs scraping back as everyone gets up.

Aitana thinks maybe she can escape it, probably beg off with a fake stomach ache or an early meeting with some brand. But then Alexia’s beside her, linking arms like she used to in youth camps she went to, like she knows.

“No excuses. You’re coming.”

And Alessia, a few meters away, is being dragged by Ella and Mary, all of them already swaying slightly to the music pulsing from a nearby club down the street.

The club is loud. Golden. Sticky with heat.

They settle into it gradually—first drinks, then laughter, then dancing.

Aitana finds herself near Ingrid and Mapi, bobbing along to something fast and percussive, trying to stay loose. Eventually being overwhelmed with her role as the third wheel. They really needed to stop making out with her so close by them.
Don’t be jealous Aitana, a voice teased in her head.

Whatever.

She’s aware of Alessia’s presence without even trying—the occasional glimpse of her across the room, spinning with Ella, golden hair sticking to her temples. Every time their circles drift closer, Aitana shifts, subtly, like she’s adjusting a magnet’s polarity.

But proximity is inevitable.

Eventually, they end up shoulder to shoulder at the bar ordering drinks, or pretending to.

Aitana’s first. Alessia steps up beside her like she doesn’t notice.

The bartender’s nowhere to be found.

They wait.

Alessia decides this is her in.

“You’ve got glitter on your neck,” Alessia says.

Aitana doesn’t look over for help, for someone. “Patri.” Patri is with Pina across the bar.

“Looks good.”

A pause. Aitana was confused, what looks good?

“You always say things like that?” Aitana asks. “Or just when you’re two drinks in?”

Alessia snorts. “You think this is drunk?”

Aitana finally turns. Their faces are close, not intimate, not flirtatious. Just…aware.

“I think,” she says carefully, “you like people thinking you’re softer than you are.”

Probably an open insult.

Alessia’s mouth twitches, she remembers she had an objective.
“And I think you like pretending you don’t care about anything.”

Aitana raised a brow.

Their drinks arrive. Neither of them moves to take theirs.

Around them, their friends are dancing, laughing, disappearing into the crowd.

“You want to go back out there?” Alessia asks.

Aitana gives her a look from head to toe. “I’m not dancing with you.”

A silence, just long enough to feel it.

“Well,” Alessia says. “I’m just trying to be neutral.”

Keep control Lessi.

Aitana smirks, dry and razor-thin. “Good luck with that.”

They take their drinks. Walk off in opposite directions.

The music gets heavier as the night goes on. Sweat and bass. Glitter and breath. Everyone is moving, even the ones who swore they wouldn’t.

Aitana stays at the bar.

She’s on her third drink, nursing it like a wound, eyes skimming the dance floor without meaning to. She catches glimpses of her teammates in flashes. Alexia with her head tilted back laughing, Jenni somehow already tangled in her arms, Mariona dancing with Ana like they’re choreographed.

And then—

Aitana sees him.

Mid-thirties, tall, aggressive posture, one of those men who doesn’t read the room so much as walk through it. He’s leaning into Alessia’s space on the dance floor, gesturing too much, too close, one hand already ghosting her lower back.

Aitana stiffens. Her blood runs cold.

“What the fuck?”

Alessia’s face is neutral, too neutral. Her smile is fixed and empty, the kind girls learn to use when “go away” might not be safe.

None of her friends see it. Ella is on the other side of the room, mid-dance battle with Leila. Mary’s gone to the bathroom. No one notices.

Except Aitana.

She puts her glass down, doesn’t think, just moves.

By the time she reaches them, the man has said something and Alessia’s expression tightens, eyes flaring with discomfort before she schools it again.

Aitana slips in like she’s done it before. One hand on Alessia’s waist, casual, proprietary. Too natural.

“There you are,” she says, low and sweet. “You disappeared on me, baby.”

Baby? Aitana, you’re overdoing it. Stay cool.

Alessia blinks. Hesitates half a second —just long enough to make Aitana regret it.

Then,“Sorry, love,” Alessia says, smooth as anything. “Was just trying to dance.”

The guy raises his hands like he’s been falsely accused of a crime.
“Didn’t know she was taken.”

Aitana felt her hand move on its own, it gripped Alessia’s hip for some reason. Alessia tried not to squirm, her face heating up.

“She is,” Aitana says flatly. “Now you do.”

The guy backs off, muttering something under his breath, but he goes. Eventually.

For a second, neither of them moves.

Then Alessia tilts her head, trying to reestablish the dominance she probably didn’t have before.
“Was that for me or for you?”

Aitana grins, mockingly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not the one who crossed a room for someone I don’t like.”

“You looked uncomfortable, you should be thanking me.” Aitanas arms were crossed now, Alessia’s height doing what it was intended for.

“You looked jealous.”

“In your fucking dreams,”

They’re close now. Alessia’s eyes wondered over Aitanas tight graphic tee, and her tailored slacks that hugged her hips perfectly.

The music surges again—some thumping remix of a pop song neither of them really knows. It gives them cover.

A beat.

Aitana pretended not to recognize that the English striker could potentially, definitely was checking her out.
“Do you want to dance?” Aitana asks finally, voice tight. She doesn’t know why she asks.

Alessia had to hold herself back from smirking, so she raised a brow as innocently as she could. “You sure?”

“No,” Aitana says honestly. “But the guy’s still watching, and now we’ve committed to the bit.” An excuse, he wasn’t even looking at them.

Alessia lets a grin tug at her lips. “Fine. One dance. To sell it.”

Aitana’s hands have moved to behind her neck. Alessia doesn’t move them.

They fall into rhythm slowly, it awkward at first, then less so. The bodies around them blur, dissolve. It’s not romantic. It’s not even flirtation. It’s pressure. It’s closeness. It’s complicity.

Alessia’s breath is warm against Aitana’s cheek, her hands grip her waist where there’s exposed skin. God, Aitana could feel her skin burn under those hands.

Aitana’s fingers curl slightly where they touch skin. Neither of them speaks.

From the booth, Ella spots them mid-spin and gapes.

Jenni nudges Alexia with her elbow. “Are we seeing this?”

Alexia sips her drink. “Leave it.”

“But—”

“She’ll talk when she’s ready.”

Back on the floor, Alessia moves closer not dramatically, just enough that Aitana can feel the heat off her shoulder.

“You’re surprisingly decent at this,” Alessia murmurs. “For someone who hates me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Aitana says without thinking.

“Oh?” Alessia arches a brow.

“I don’t hate you,” Aitana repeats, quieter now. “I just don’t want to want to understand you.”

They’re not smiling anymore. Not moving much, either. Just standing there, barely swaying.

Alessia leans in, voice like a dare. “Then don’t.”

But Aitana’s already looking at her mouth, thinking too many things.

She pulls away first. “The guy’s gone. You’re welcome.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Alessia feels the Catalan midfielder try to escape and that’s when she ensures she is winning—she tugs Aitana flush against her, one hand anchored at the small of her back like it belongs there.

Her shoulder shifts, her breath catches, her hands press a little harder into Alessia’s shoulders like she’s about to put distance between them.

And that’s when Alessia slides a hand lower. Firm. Certain. She pulls Aitana flush against her, leaving no space between their bodies. One arm anchors low at her waist, the other curled around her back like they’re mid-waltz in a room full of strangers.

Aitana stiffens instantly, did she just make that noise?

Her breath stalls as her face lands near Alessia’s neck. Warm skin, familiar perfume, salt, sweat, her senses blur in the dark. Her fingers twitch against Alessia’s shoulders, unsure if they’re meant to hold on or push away.

“What are you doing?” she murmurs, voice thin, biting, but shaken.

Alessia doesn’t answer right away. She exhales, slow, deliberate—letting her mouth dip near Aitana’s ear, teeth just grazing the lobe.

Aitana felt her knees weaken, and there it was.

“Keeping you where you want to be.” It’s cruel.

Aitana bristles. “I don’t—”

“You do,” Alessia says, quiet and measured, voice sensual but mocking. “Or you would’ve left already. Right?”

This couldn’t be happening, not here, not to Aitana.

Alessia’s hands don’t move lower, not quite—but her thumb brushes the cup of Aitana’s bra in a way that feels intentional. Just enough to make her stomach contract. Just enough to feel her in closer.

Aitana’s whole body feels confused. It’s heat and electricity and restraint all tangled into something dizzying. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

She hates that Alessia is so calm. So annoyingly intact. Like this isn’t affecting her.

“Don’t…flatter yourself,” Aitana finally says, though it comes out softer than she meant.

“I don’t have to,” Alessia replies. “You’re the one who keeps ending up in my arms.”

There’s a beat, a sharp pause in the music’s rhythm—and then Alessia lets her lips hover closer to Aitana’s jaw. Not touching. Just enough that Aitana can feel the heat of her breath. Aitana has to stop herself from leaning in.

“You’re drunk,” Alessia says, almost lazily. “You should be more careful.” She sounded good. Why did she sound so good?

“I’m not—”

“You are. But it’s fine. I’ll carry you through it.”

It’s too much. It’s way too much. And Aitana is losing ground in her own head, in her own chest. She clutches at Alessia like she needs something to hold onto just to keep standing.

It doesn’t help that Alessia smells like expensive perfume and whatever she used to smell like that night. The closet. The tension. The almost.

Alessia shifts again, slow, smooth, pulling Aitana just the slightest bit closer. Effective. She drops her voice to something so low it almost isn’t heard.

“I’m letting you think this is yours tonight.”

Aitana jerks back just a fraction. Her eyes snap up to meet Alessia’s— unfocused, hazy, but furious.

“What?”

Alessia tilts her head, looking amused, her eyes menacing and as blue as ever. “Go ahead. Pretend like this wasn’t what you wanted.”

Aitana’s mouth opens and closes. She can’t say anything. Her throat is dry and her pulse is out of rhythm. She doesn’t feel real.

“You got what you came for, didn’t you?” Alessia’s voice is sugar-laced steel now. “Me. On your terms. Just long enough to feel like you’re in control.”

She leans in one final time into the smaller shaken woman, barely brushing her cheek against Aitana’s temple.

“Just remember,” she whispers, “I let you have it.”

And then—Alessia lets go.

She untangles herself, gently, almost tenderly. She doesn’t storm off. Doesn’t even look back right away. She just steps away with a quiet confidence that burns.

Aitana stays frozen.

Her arms drop slowly to her sides, hands twitching like they don’t know what to do anymore. Her chest is rising fast. Her whole body hums like it’s been struck.

Aitana was in a taxi now, one Ona or Alexia had paid for after asking her what was wrong.

The window’s cracked open. Aitana can’t breathe properly.

The car winds through the empty streets of Barcelona, and she presses a hand to her forehead like it might cool the ache building behind her eyes.

She can still feel Alessia’s hands. The weight of them. The warmth. The sheer precision.

I let you have it.

Her jaw clenches. She blinks too hard. She’s not crying. It’s just the wind.

The driver glances at her in the mirror. “Todo bien?”

She nods once. “Sí.”

She looks down at her hands. They’re shaking.

At home, she’s in front of the mirror again. Glitter smeared half off her cheek, lipstick ghosted just around the edges.

Her mouth tastes like citrus and regret.

She pulls her shirt off. Reaches for a cloth. Pauses.

And then, without even thinking, she presses her fingers into the skin at her waist—where Alessia’s hand had rested.

She feels stupid immediately. But she doesn’t stop.

The damage was already done.

Because even if she pretends to herself that she didn’t want it, that she didn’t need it, her body is already betraying her.

She wipes her makeup off mechanically. Avoids looking herself in the eyes.

But she already knows what they’d say.

You lost control.

And worse?

You liked it.

The front door clicks behind her. It’s nearly 3 a.m.

The flat is quiet except for the soft hum of someone’s fan running in another room. Alessia kicks her shoes off, tosses her bag onto the counter, and exhales like she’s been holding something in since the club.

She doesn’t bother turning the light on. The moonlight through the window is enough.

Her hands are still a little shaky, not from nerves, not exactly. From adrenaline. From the residual buzz of having her. She had her where she wanted her this time.

She walks straight to the sink and drinks from the tap, cold water against a still-hot mouth.

In the bathroom mirror, she catches her reflection and tilts her head like she’s trying to figure herself out.

Her lipstick’s gone, smudged clean by sweat and breath. Her mascara’s halfway under her eyes. She still looks good. Too good, maybe.

And she knows what she did tonight.

She knows the weight of it. The timing. The contact. The whisper.
The way she told Aitana I’m letting you think this is yours—and how true it felt.

She could’ve kissed her. She didn’t. That was the whole point.

Because tonight wasn’t about pleasure. It was about power.

She’d felt Aitana’s whole body tense up against her. Could feel the conflict running through every muscle in her— the fight to stay in control, to keep that perfectly carved façade from cracking. And for a few minutes, Alessia got underneath it.

That was the win.

She also remembered how defeated Aitana looked at the end of it, but she didn’t linger there, yet. Couldn’t.

She strips her top off and drapes it over a chair, walking into the small living room in just her joggers. Her phone buzzes once on the counter.

Tooney❤️:
what the fuck was THAT??

Alessia stares at it for a second. Then types, slowly.

Alessia:
What??

Tooney❤️:
Oh COME ON. You and Bonmatí looked like you were about to fuck on the dance floor. Do you want her or do you hate her. Honestly I’m starting to lose track. Probs both?

Alessia doesn’t respond.

She opens her camera roll instead.

Scrolls. Stops. There it is.

The blurry photo Ella took that day— after an international match. Alessia walking off the pitch. And behind her, like always, Aitana. Not even facing the camera, just there.

Like a shadow. Like a problem.

She zooms in, just slightly. Enough to see Aitana’s posture, her strong arms crossed, chin slightly lifted, watching.

She taps her thumb against the screen, thinking.

Not about what she should’ve done tonight. But about how easy it had been to leave Aitana breathless and stuck. How the power balance had shifted, just for a moment, entirely in her favor.

And still…

Still.

Alessia tosses her phone face down on the table.

She swallowed the feeling she had, that she could be entirely out of line. Entirely unrecognizable to herself and her morals.

Oh my God, who gives a fuck, she deserved it. That’s what she’ll keep telling herself.

She sinks into the couch, one arm thrown over her eyes, chest rising too fast.

She had won tonight. She knows she had.

So why the hell did it feel like something had just started?

Chapter Text

July 2022–Pre-EURO Camp, England
The fallout before the fire.

It started in whispers.

Fifteen emails.
One federation.
No protection. There never was, not for the women’s side at least.

In September, too close to the Euros tournament, some of the players wrote —not to each other, but to the RFEF. Separate. Precise. Wounded.

They didn’t ask for applause.
They asked for distance.
For mental clarity.
For a coach to be removed—because silence under Jorge Vilda had become its own form of violence.

This was a boycott, it wasn’t like it was private, they weren’t hiding it. They wanted him out, they needed respect and he didn’t give them that. Nor did the management, this had been a long time, and it didn’t start with their pawn: Jorge Vilda.

And the response? Public. Ruthless.
Like betrayal could be copy-pasted into a press release.

Names leaked. Headlines blurred. The fifteen were called immature, unpatriotic, selfish.
Aitana Bonmatí was one of them.
So was Ona Batlle. So were Mapi León, Patri Guijarro, and two-thirds of Barcelona’s starting midfield.

No Alexia—she was still recovering.
No Irene—she played on.

Laia Codina hadn’t sent an email.
She’d returned early.
Aitana hadn’t spoken to her since. No kisses were shared, and certainly no words.

The damage wasn’t dramatic—it was daily.

Trust died in quiet moments.
In locker rooms.
In glances that dropped too fast.
In the way people measured their loyalty by what they didn’t say.

Their locker room was in shambles.
And even worse, it had been made a spectacle, not by tabloids, not by rival fans..but by their own media outlets.

Classic Spanish media.
When there was blood, they didn’t hide it. They poured glitter on it. They framed it. They picked a side.

Even Lionel Messi had been made victim to it at some point.

And every time the cameras panned across the Spanish squad during warmups or pre-match lineups, the division was unmistakable.

Barcelona players and Madrid players no longer shared anything except a crest.

And even that was starting to feel performative.

No player from Real Madrid had sent one of the fifteen emails.

That said it all.

The whispers started months earlier. But the rupture became undeniable one night in March, during a particularly venomous El Clásico.

It was supposed to be a statement match. Barcelona at home. Camp Nou packed. Electric.

Misa Rodríguez was in goal for Real Madrid, cocky and defiant in a way that always made Aitana want to score just to shut her up.

They’d exchanged words in the past.

“Typical Catalan—thinks playing pretty means you’re better than the rest of Spain.”

Her face twisted.

“Better than you? I don’t need to be Catalan for that.”

“Funny how you hate Catalunya, but you’ve built a whole career chasing Barça’s shadow.”
Misa lunged at her that time, Irene having to come between them.

But this time—something cracked.

Aitana had scored early, a clever finish from a one-two with Patri. Their linkup had continued to be proven deadly.
She didn’t even celebrate, just jogged back to midfield. Not yet at least.

And Misa spat.

Right in front of her. Not at her, not technically. But close enough to stain Aitana’s boots.

Aitana stopped, in disbelief.

Turned.

And in a flash, was in her face.

Chest to chest.
Eyes locked.
Neither blinking.

Misa grinned, unbothered. “You think you’re different because you play pretty football?”

Aitana didn’t flinch. “No. I know I’m different because I win.”

“And I do it by scoring on you.” Aitana continued, venom dripping in her tone.

“Yeah?” Misa hissed. “You win, and then hide behind press statements. How brave.”

That did it.

They shoved. Didn’t know who’d gone for it first.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t PR-approved. It wasn’t Aitana.

And yet—it totally was.

Mariona was the first to get between them, arms out, her voice sharp.
Alexia followed.

Then Rolfö. Who hadn’t really wanted to stop her good friend.

Referees stepped in. Cameras caught a good chunk.

The tunnel before the match had already been thick with tension, Misa had muttered “Fifteen cowards” under her breath as they walked out, loud enough for Aitana to hear. It was for her.

That had stayed with her.
All match.
Every touch. Every pass. Every sprint.

And by the second half, when Aitana slotted in her second goal, a raging bullet from outside the box.

She didn’t have to.

The crowd roared for her. But she did, yelled something in Catalan, directed at Madrids captain, kissed the badge, tapping it aggressively after.

The media, somehow, spun it in her favor.

Barcelona’s heartbeat stands her ground.
Aitana doesn’t back down.
Bonmatí’s fire: exactly what La Roja needs—and lacks.

It wasn’t outrageous.

Misa had been fined for unsporting behavior.

Aitana? Nothing.

No warning. No reprimand.
Just applause. But it wasn’t because Aitana played for Barcelona.

It was because Aitana Bonmatí had mastered the impossible:
Rage, repackaged as resilience.

And still, Misa never forgave her.
Not for the fight.
Not for the silence after.
Not for coming out of it with her image clean while Misa’s was stained like the soles of Aitana’s boots.

The clip made its way to England, of course.
Viral. Replayed on social feeds with Spanish and English subtitles.

Alessia had watched it three times the night it happened.

She didn’t know what she was supposed to feel.

Part of her wanted to admire it. That fire. That edge. Part of her wanted to hate her again.

Of course Aitana could nearly fight someone and come away with a glowing headline.

Of course she could get in a goalkeeper’s face, score twice, and still be called disciplined.

She was the media’s princess, soft-spoken when the cameras rolled, sharp-tongued when they didn’t.

Alessia remembered the bar. The booth. The voice in her ear, too close and less sure of itself, then.

She remembered the way Aitana looked at her, like she could taste Alessia’s fear in the beginning and wanted more.

And now?

Now she didn’t know if the clip turned her stomach—or turned her on. What?

Alessia shut her phone.
Leaned back on her pillow.
Exhaled.

“Fuck.” Her thighs were pressed together.

Because maybe she wanted to be angry.

Maybe she should’ve been angry.

But that kind of fury, the righteous, chest-tight, “she always gets away with it” kind, only worked when you weren’t still picturing how Aitana looked under those stadium lights.

Sweat-slicked. Jaw locked. Nose perfectly pointed. Daring someone to come closer. And she did in that bar.

The lounge was dim, quiet and late enough that even the staff had disappeared. Familiar. Aitana sat on the corner couch, legs pulled up beneath her, scrolling through muted match footage on her phone. Her jaw ticked.

Alexia walked in without ceremony, sweat still drying on her collarbones from a solo cooldown run.

“You’re going to wear out your retinas rewatching that,” she said, dropping her water bottle on the table.

Aitana smiled at that. “Maybe I want to.”

Alexia sat. Not beside her but across. The air between them held too much history.

The silence stretched.

Eventually, Alexia spoke again.
“She’s been suspended for two matches. Misa.”

“I know.”

Another beat.

“She’s lucky it wasn’t more, fucking snake.”

Aitana finally lifted her eyes, they looked lighter now, filled with something that could only be described as a simmering fire. “She spat at me.”

“I saw.”

“And?” Aitana felt her lip twitch.

“And I’m not the disciplinary committee, Aitana.”

“No, but you’re Alexia Putellas. You know your words shape how they talk about us.”

Aitana still felt as though Alexia held more power than she actually possessed, it wasn’t intentional.

Alexia studied her.

“You think I defended her?”

Aitana quirked a brow, sass ebbed through. “You kept her close.”

“She’s a national teammate. You think I get to choose who shows up to camp? Half the team won’t even speak to each other.”

“She called us cowards in the tunnel. Said it under her breath, but loud enough. You heard it.”

Aitana was no longer the girl that blushed around Alexia, who hesitated. They were equals now.

“I did.”

“And?”

Alexia sat back. “And what, Aitana? You want me to banish her? Start policing who’s worthy of wearing the shirt?”

“Yep.” Aitana replied smoothly.

Alexia raised her brows. “At least you’re honest.”

“I’ve always been honest.”

“You’ve always been stubborn.”

“I learned from the best.”

That stung more than she intended.

Alexia smiled, faintly, wryly, but her eyes were serious. “You think I don’t admire you?”

“I don’t know anymore.”

Alexia leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice calm. “You were right to stand up to her.”

Aitana’s chest bloomed at that. Maybe now, Alexia would hide help her hide the body—

“I would’ve done it differently,” Alexia cut her thoughts quick before they could fully unravel.

“but you weren’t wrong. She provoked you. She’s been holding resentment since the boycott. And you didn’t back down.”

Aitana’s voice softened, but not with regret. “She disrespected me.”

“I know.”

“She disrespected us.”

Alexia pressed a kiss to Aitana’s temple, she was endeared.
“And still, we have to show up. Train. Share kits. Pass to each other. Because they’ll blame us either way. Either we’re too emotional, or too silent.”

“So what do I do?” Aitana asked, at last.

Alexia looked at her carefully.

“Don’t apologize. But be smart. You’re too important now to let people bait you into mistakes.”

Aitana’s lip curled. “That’s easy for you to say.”

“It’s not. You think I haven’t wanted to snap in every press conference since they blamed us for standing up for ourselves?”

Aitana looked down at her hands, that flame wavering. “I just…I thought you’d cut her off.”

Alexia tilted her head. “You don’t think that’s already happened? In private? You don’t think I’ve had those conversations?”

Aitana didn’t answer.

Alexia sighed. “You’re not wrong to be angry. But don’t waste it hating the wrong people.”

“And who should I hate?”

Alexia smiled without humor. “The system. Not each other.”

The words sat between them, cold and too clean.

Yeah, well, she’s still going to hate that fascist twat anyways.

Aitana broke the quiet.

“She always admired you, you know.”

“I know.”

“I don’t.” Aitana finalized.

Alexia met her eyes. “I know.”

Aitana giggled, more herself now.

Alexia stood to leave, pausing with one hand on the doorway.

“People are watching now, Aitana. Closely. The media. The staff. The girls. Even the ones who didn’t send an email.” A pause. “You can’t flinch.”

“I won’t.”

Alexia nodded. “Good. Because you’re not the future anymore. You’re the present.”

Then she left.

And Aitana sat in the dark, watching the match on her phone again.
But this time, not to study Misa.
Just to remember what it felt like to refuse to step back.

Manchester—February 2022

The weather was predictably shit. Grey sky. Sideways wind. The kind of cold that wrapped around your ankles like punishment.

But Ona Batlle was smiling anyway.

“You run like a chicken,” she called, jogging past Alessia during the cool down laps.

Russo groaned. “That’s rich coming from someone who looks like a hummingbird with caffeine addiction.”

Ona laughed, it was her full-bodied, contagious, unapologetic.

Their boots slapped the turf in sync.

Ella jogged a few paces behind, smirking. “She’s got a point though, Less.”

“Shut it.”

Ona had started hanging out more after training. At first it was shared recovery routines, a mutual love of bad rom-coms, and Russo’s general inability to say no to someone with an accent that charming.

They weren’t best friends. But they were easy with each other. Comfortable. The kind of friendship that forms without permission.

Ella had noticed it early. She’d been wary at first, territorial, almost. Not about Ona exactly, but about change.

Then she saw the way Alessia softened around her. Less armor. More laughter.
And she let it go. Also because she liked Ona and gravitated towards her, unfortunately.

Now, she mostly just teased.

“Should I start scheduling your physiotherapy sessions together?” she said one day, flopping down on the couch in the players’ lounge.

Ona raised her brow. “Why?”

Ella winked. “So you don’t have to be apart for ten minutes.”

Russo threw a protein bar at her head.

A few weeks later, Ona posted a photo on her story.

Training ground selfie. Wind-blown hair.
Her and Alessia, mid-laugh, cheeks flushed.
Caption: “The running chicken strikes again 🐔❤️”

A harmless post.
A sweet one, even.

Unless you were Aitana Bonmatí.

Barcelona that same night was brooding.

Aitana didn’t remember how she got to Ona’s story. She rarely watched them. She hated social media, it was too curated, too dishonest.

But the photo stopped her cold.

That was her best friend.
And her enemy.
Grinning. Sweaty. Sharing inside jokes.

Her thumb hovered. Then stilled.

“What. The. Fuck?”

She didn’t respond. Didn’t text Ona.
Didn’t like the post.

But she stared at it for a long time.

Long enough for Alexia, who was sitting beside her on the team bus instead of Laia—to glance over and ask, “You okay?”

Aitana locked her phone. “Fine.”

Alexia didn’t push. She never did.

But she knew that look.

Back in Manchester, after training, Russo caught Ona at the lockers.

“Can I ask you something?” She didn’t know why she was doing this.

“Always.”

“You know Aitana, right?” It was inevitable.

Ona grinned, now curious.
“She’s my best friend.”

“Right.”

Silence stretched between them.

“Do you think she hates me?” Russo asked, trying to keep it light.

Ona paused. Thought for a moment, Aitana had told Ona, herself, in Spanish and Catalan, that she hated Russo with all her heart.

Ona settled with this, “Eh..I think she doesn’t understand you.”

Russo questioned her hesitation but eventually nodded anyways. “That’s fair.”

Ona tilted her head. “But I think…she wants to.” Aitana would kill her if she knew what she was doing.

That caught Alessia off guard. “What makes you say that?”

Ona smiled soft, knowing. “Because if she didn’t, she wouldn’t be so angry.”

London–April 2022

United were staying in a nondescript hotel near Kingsmeadow. Clean enough. Beige enough. Forgettable.

Ona and Alessia had been assigned roomies again. It had become a running joke among the staff, Alessia pay mind to it. “You two again? Getting serious, are we?”

Russo would roll her eyes.
Ona would smile like she didn’t mind.
She didn’t.

That night, the room was quiet. Late. Sky Sports murmured from the TV with the sound off. The dim lamp cast long shadows against the wall.

Alessia was on her bed, half-scrolling through her phone, half-listening to the hallway noise outside their door, when Ona’s phone lit up and buzzed.

FaceTime.

“Aitana.”

Ona blinked. Surprised.

She answered quickly, slipping off the bed and ducking toward the corner near the window. She didn’t think to step into the hallway. She never did. It was Aitana.

The voice that came through the phone was clipped. Fast. Catalan.

Russo looked up at the sound. Her Spanish was shaky, her Catalan nonexistent. But she knew that voice. It scratched somewhere beneath her skin.

Aitana was speaking too quickly for her to follow. But then..she heard it.

“Russo.”

That name. Sharpened by a Catalan tongue. Short, cutting.
Alessia sat up straighter.

She kept her eyes on her screen, but her ears betrayed her.

Ona said something back. Lower, calmer, apologetic maybe? Her accent smoothed the edges. But Aitana’s voice rose again, not shouting, just… relentless.

A rhythm that sounded like judgment.

Russo wasn’t sure if she was annoyed or intrigued.

Another beat of Catalan she didn’t catch.

Then Ona sighed, the universal sound of someone stuck between two people they liked in ways they couldn’t explain.

“No és res, Aita,” Ona said quietly. “No és com això.”

Alessia heard it in her tone.
She might not have understood the words, but she understood guilt.

A few more sentences. Then silence.
Ona hung up.

When she turned back around, Alessia was still looking at her phone.

Casual. Pretending.

Ona toweled her hair dry and cleared her throat.

“That was Aitana,” she said.

“I figured.”

“She’s just…she saw the photo.”

“What photo?”

Ona gave her a look.

Alessia smirked. “Right.”

“She gets…weird sometimes. Protective.”

Alessia nodded. “Of you?”

Ona didn’t answer. Just shrugged, curling up on her bed with the blanket.

Russo lay back, staring at the ceiling.

She should’ve let it go.
But that name, said like an accusation, it still rang in her ears.

And she couldn’t help but think…

If that’s how she says my name when she’s angry,
what would it sound like if she ever said it softly? But she’d known hadn’t she? Back in that closet. She wanted to hear it like that again. Wouldn’t admit it.

Aitana was boiling in Barcelona, later that night.

She ended the call before she said something stupid.

Too late.

She was pacing again, barefoot on cold tile, hoodie sleeves pulled past her knuckles like that might soften her mood. It didn’t. Hair frazzled in waves like her thoughts.

She shouldn’t have called Ona. Not now. Not like that.

But the photo, that photo had been sitting in her chest like swallowed glass all day.

Ona and her.

Alessia fucking Russo.

Aitana hadn’t planned on speaking her name aloud.
But it slipped out, like it usually did, bitten off and sharp.

“Russo.”
The way you’d say a bruise after bumping it for the third time that day.

She’d asked, in Catalan:
“Et sembla bé? Ara et fas selfies amb ella?”
(“Is this okay to you now? You’re taking selfies with her?”) She scowled at her beloved friend, her poor poor Ona.

Ona had tried, gently:
“Aita…no és res. És companyonia. És futbol.”
(“Aita…it’s nothing. It’s team spirit. It’s football.”)

But Aitana couldn’t let it go.

“Et recordes de qui és, no? No és només futbol.”
(“You remember who she is, right? This isn’t just football.”)

The hurt had flared in her chest, stupid and aching.

She hadn’t yelled. She never yelled.
But she was close.

And now, she hated herself for it.
Not because she’d been wrong but because it made her sound jealous. Small. Possessive.

And maybe she was.

Not of Ona.
But of the part of Alessia that no longer belonged to her memory alone.

Next Morning in London the hotel breakfast buffet was bleak: rubbery eggs, soggy toast, lukewarm tea.

Ona didn’t seem to mind. She greeted everyone with her usual soft smile, hair damp from the morning shower, cheeks pink from sleep.

Russo trailed behind, pretending to browse the yoghurt selection for a solid thirty seconds too long.

“Sleep okay?” Ona asked, picking up two bananas.

“Yeah.”

They walked to a table by the window. Sunlight leaked in reluctantly.

“You?” Alessia asked, too casually.

“Sí. I mean—yes.” Ona smiled faintly. “Once the call ended.”

Alessia pretended to stir her tea. “Ah.”

She didn’t want to ask.
She didn’t want to care.
But she heard her name. And that was enough.

Ona peeled her banana. “You heard us.”

Alessia blinked. “What?”

Ona raised a brow.

Alessia sighed. “Okay. Yeah. I heard my name. Just my name. I swear.”

Ona nodded slowly. “It wasn’t..bad.”

Alessia smiled tightly. “Didn’t sound good either.”

Ona hesitated. “She’s just…protective. Of people. Of memories. She doesn’t trust easily.”

“Of memories?”

Ona didn’t answer that.

Alessia leaned back, slowly resentment pouring in, heavy and deep, for the Barça midfielder. “You don’t have to explain her to me.”

“I’m not,” Ona said softly. “I’m explaining why she sounded like that.”

“She doesn’t like me. I got that part.”

Ona met her eyes. “She doesn’t know you.”

Alessia scoffed, Ona hadn’t ever seen her this way. “She doesn’t want to.”

Ona reached for her tea. “Maybe she does. Maybe that’s the problem.”

By July, the Euros were here.
But Spain’s team wasn’t whole.
Just filled in.

Aitana walked into England with her jaw locked and her spine straight, but her body remembered what it meant to clench.
To expect disappointment.

You’re not supposed to want the enemy to look at you like that.

The training grounds were sleek and sanitized, sharp lines, English lawns, overpriced vending machines. Something Spain should learn from for their treatment of women’s football pitches.

Spain and England had overlapping sessions.
Not games. Just proximity.

A shared gym.
A shared canteen.
And apparently, one hallway designed by someone who had never heard of personal history.

Alessia Russo was there.

Of course she was.

And after what happened at the bar, the glances, the touches, the breathless nothing that tasted like something. Aitana wasn’t sure if she was furious at herself or the universe.

Probably both.

What made it worse was the photo.
The one Ona had posted.
The one Aitana had replayed in her head more times than she’d admit.

It wasn’t the pose. It wasn’t even Russo’s face.

It was Ona.
Her Ona.
Grinning like she hadn’t known that United’s hero was out to get her.

“Et sembla bé? Ara et fas selfies amb ella?”
(“Is this okay to you now? You’re taking selfies with her?”)
That’s what she’d said on the call.

And Alessia had heard her name.

She didn’t speak Catalan, but you didn’t exactly need a dictionary to know when someone was being talked about.

“Word’s going around,” Alexia said, stretching her quad on a sideline mat. “About the physio staff leaks. From Vilda’s camp.”

Of course it was.

Aitana didn’t look up. “It’s been going around.”

“They’re naming players again.”

“Let them.”

Alexia gave her a look.

“You think it doesn’t matter anymore?” she asked.

“I think it matters too much.”

They were quiet.
Someone called out instructions in English on the far pitch.
The whistle sounded harsher here. Everything did.

“You’re not the only one hurting,” Alexia said, gently. “But you walk like you are.”

Aitana closed her eyes. “I don’t need this right now.” Alexia was assuming here, but she was probably entitled to do so.

Alexia shrugged. “You need something.”

Aitana bit her cheek. Then, “You still talk to Misa?”

Alexia looked over, slowly, carefully. “When I have to.”

Aitana’s jaw clenched. “You never really pick sides.”

“I pick people,” Alexia said. “Sometimes even the ones who don’t make it easy.”

That shut her up. Because it was about Russo too, and they both knew it.

On the other side of camp, Leah Williamson unwrapped a protein bar with a sigh.

“She’s here again,” she muttered, nodding toward the glass doors.

Russo didn’t look up. “Who?”

“You know who.”

“I really don’t.”

Leah stared. “Okay. You’ve literally been weird since the bar. And now Spain’s here, and she’s here, and you’re acting like a ghost with shin pads.”

“I’m bloody pristine.”

Leah snarked out a laugh through one of her expressive brows. “Yeah? Then why are you practicing your Spanish again?”

Russo bit back a smile, slightly embarrassed wondering how she’d been caught. “She insulted my accent..”

Leah grinned. “So this is revenge?”

“No. This is war.”

“Sure, mate. That’s what this is.”

Then she added, quieter, “She still talks about you, you know.”

Russo froze. “What?”

Leah didn’t flinch. “Ona told Tooney. She heard your name. Loudly. On a phone call.”

Russo’s throat went dry. “She was speaking Catalan, who gives a hell?”

“Yeah. But your name still sounds like your name.”

It was late.

The lights in the gym buzzed low, half of them already flickering out like they were tired of holding the weight of so much tension.

And there she was again.
Like the damn vending machine summoned her.

Aitana.
Damp hair, Spanish jumper sliding off one bare shoulder, mouth drawn in something between exhaustion and murder. Her eyes scanned the drink options like they’d offended her entire bloodline.

Russo didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

Aitana could feel her behind her, that was the problem, this had become their norm.

She pressed a button. The machine hissed, groaned, then dropped a bottle with a thud.

She didn’t pick it up.

“You always move like the room’s watching you,” Russo said from behind her, her stupid fucking accent sounded as prideful as it did that night.

Aitana turned her head, slow, eyes unreadable.
“It is.”

Russo tilted her head, eyes trying to divert from Bonmatí’s milky exposed shoulder. “What’s it saying?”

“That I should leave.” Aitana snapped, unforgiving.

“But you haven’t.” Alessia grinned, arms crossed.

Aitana’s gaze flicked down to Russo’s chest, then back to her eyes. “Neither have you.” Just giving her competition a good look.

They stared.

Air thick. Like something had bloomed between them and now neither of them could name it.

“You think I regret it?” Russo asked, voice low.

Aitana’s brows twitched. Just slightly.

“The bar,” Russo clarified. “The way you—”

“Don’t,” Aitana said, sharp enough to slice a tendon. “Don’t say it like it was mine.”

Alessia was grinning ear to ear. Felt good, bigger than Aitana both physically and emotionally. She had her, didn’t she?

Russo stepped forward, purposefully, deliberate.

She didn’t touch her, but her body was heat and breath and bad memory.

“It was,” she shrugged, didn’t care for whatever came next.

Alessia almost morphed when Aitana came around now.

Aitana’s mouth curved. Not a smile. Something crueler.

“You’re proud of that?”

“Maybe,” Alessia murmured. “But I remember it.”

Aitana exhaled through her nose. Her eyes dropped for one second too long lips, jawline, collarbone and then back.

“You didn’t look at me that night,” she said.

Russo blinked. “I—”

“You looked down,” Aitana hissed. “Like you wanted me and hated that you did.”

Russo’s jaw twitched. Her hand flexed at her side, the memory of skin and breath igniting where nothing touched her now.

Aitana stepped in.

Closer.

She pushed Alessia’s hand away from her hip—a short, rough flick. Not today.

“And now what, Russo?” she breathed, voice low and lethal. “You want to pretend you didn’t like how I felt?”

Aitana caught her eyes on that shoulder and leaned to the side.

A pause.

Her voice dropped lower, filthier.

“You practically groped me.”

Russo’s throat bobbed.

Her eyes narrowed, but her face flushed. The kind of flush you try to deny.

Keep control. Keep control.
But she remembered.
Aitana’s waist in her hands. Her breath stuttering against Russo’s jaw. The way she’d leaned in like she wasn’t made of sharp things.

And now she was acting like Russo had been the one to lose control? No.

“You think I didn’t like it?” Alessia murmured, it was truthful but Aitana didn’t know that, didn’t have to.

Aitana’s brown eyes with flecks of gold, burned. It made her furious. Irate, even.

Without thinking, her hand shot out, grabbed the collar of Russo’s Nike pullover, yanked her forward just enough to remind her she could.

Alessia stifled a squeak.

They were breath to breath now.

Aitana’s laugh was quiet. Dangerous. “You liked it enough to leave.”

That landed.

Russo didn’t flinch. But something in her shoulders changed, like the breath she’d been holding turned to ash.

“Maybe I left,” she said evenly, “because I would’ve done worse if I stayed.”

Then, softer, slower, intentional, “And you looked like you’d have loved it.”

Aitana’s mouth parted—barely.

Her breath hitched once before her body snapped back into discipline. Straight spine. Murder in her stillness.

“I’m not a game,” she said, flat.

She shoved Alessia by the shoulder.
Didn’t step back.

Russo let it hit her. She liked the weight of it. Charming and toothy grin painted on her face. Wished her hand were still on her.

“Then stop playing,” she said. Aitana’s eyes were shaking, eyelids crinkled slightly.

They stood there, breathing like runners after the whistle—tight, fast, teeth clenched.

“I fucking hate you,” Aitana whispered.

Russo’s voice was low, familiar again. “You wish you did.”

“Don’t look at me like that again,” she ignored and said clipped.

Russo held her fierce gaze. “Why?”

“Because you don’t get to.”

“Maybe I still want to.”

Aitana didn’t blink. “Then I hope it kills you.”

For a second, just a second, she swore Aitana’s eyes dropped to her lips.

Then, the smaller woman tore her gaze away.

Grabbed the bottle from the machine like it had never been the problem, turned, and walked out like she could burn the whole gym down with the heat in her shoulders.

She didn’t slam the door.

She didn’t have to.

The silence behind her cracked like ice. Alessia Russo felt scorned.

Next morning, at Spain’s training camp, the sun over the training ground was clean and blinding, the kind of light that made everything look calm.

It was a lie.

Aitana was already angry. Tried to keep the image she cultivated over the years, but only; she could feel it in the backs of her teeth, in the way she laced her boots too tight, in the way her skin buzzed with restless memory.

The gym.
Russo’s voice.
That flush. That moment. That look.

She wanted to forget it.

So she ran harder.

Pressed faster.
Moved like she had something to prove to no one in particular—and everyone at once.

They were running transition drills. Sharp passes, recovery sprints, two-touch pivots.

Athenea made a pass too slow.
Too soft.

Aitana didn’t even think.

She lunged. Overcommitted. Caught Athenea’s ankle in her slide.

The Real Madrid player hit the ground with a startled yelp.

“Joder!” she hissed, clutching her leg.

A whistle blew—sharp and scolding.

Everyone stopped. Some surprised, others confused, Aitana had never overcommitted, especially not in a training.

Aitana stood, fists clenched, teeth grinding like she had to chew through her own anger just to breathe. Slightly embarrassed.

“Aitana, coño—” someone muttered under their breath.

Before anyone else could speak, Alexia was already walking toward her. Calm. Controlled. That terrifying type of leadership.

“You need to check yourself,” she said quietly, but the quiet made it worse.

Aitana didn’t meet her eyes. She was shaking—not from exhaustion.

“She’s fine.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I said she’s fine.”

Alexia’s jaw twitched. “Don’t make me Aitana.”

For a second, Aitana looked like she might snap.

Instead, she stalked off toward the water station, shoulders like coiled wires.

From the far end of the field, England watched.

Leah leaned against the doorway like she’d been standing there a while.

“You’ve been in your head since warmup,” she said, arms crossed.

Alessia didn’t look up from her phone. “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what your passes said this morning.”

Russo shrugged. “Bit off. It happens.”

Leah didn’t move. “You’re not sleeping either.”

“Jesus, Leah—are you tracking my heart rate too?”

“I would if it meant you’d stop acting like a ghost.”

Alessia hardened. “Drop it.”

Leah didn’t.

Instead, she stepped in, pulled out her phone, and tossed it down onto the bed beside Alessia.

Screenshots. Headlines. Spanish media in full panic mode.

“Fifteen players refuse national team call-up under Jorge Vilda.”
“Aitana Bonmatí among key names involved in player protest.”
“Mental health concerns cited. Division in Spanish locker room.”

Alessia’s brows
furrowed. She picked it up without meaning to.

She read the bylines, skimmed the names. Her eyes stuck for a second longer than they should’ve on Aitana’s.

Then she blinked, tossed the phone back like it burned.

“I’m not her therapist.”

Leah raised an eyebrow. “No one said you were.”

“She made her choices.”

Leah sat on the edge of the bed, this was not the Alessia she had attended youth training camps with.
“She’s fighting half her nation. And still starting every match.”

Alessia’s voice stayed cool.
“Good for her.”

Leah just looked at her.

Alessia leaned back like she couldn’t be bothered. “She’s not my responsibility.”

“No,” Leah said, soft now. “But something about this is getting under your skin.”

Russo didn’t answer.

Didn’t have to.

Her mouth was hard, but her knee bounced once. Then again.

Leah’s gaze sharpened. “Did something happen?”

Alessia scoffed. “Define ‘something.’”

Leah just waited.

“She’s a Barça player,” Alessia muttered eventually. “Drama follows her like perfume.”

“But it’s not perfume that’s bothering you, is it?”

Alessia looked away.

Her jaw clicked. “She’ll be fine. She always is.”

Leah didn’t believe that.
Neither did Alessia.

But that was the story they were telling today.

Chapter Text

July 5, 2022–Las Rozas Training Ground

They were still training. Alexia had recovered from the muscle discomfort she had and returned to training with the girls.

But discontent had begun to wash over the Spanish women’s national team, particularly over Patri and Mapi but they had still been called up to camp and had come.

The Barça girls were glad even though they understood that eventually, they would have to address ever-growing problems and fears that haunted the squad.

Alexia was particularly happy today, excited to get started after a monumental season she’d had with Barça, they hadn’t had a single loss in the league season. She had become the top goal scorer both in Liga F as well as the UEFA women’s champions league.

She’d never imagined that she’d win the Ballon d’Or last year even though she had led her beloved club to a treble and scored in both finals.

Yes, she was an influential player with undoubtedly massive impact but didn’t imagine in 2021: that she’d beat the likes of Sam Kerr, Vivianne Miedema, her teammate Lieke, and even Pernille Harder. But most importantly, Jenni.

Jenni cried that night. Kissed her with a reverence and told her she’d deserved it and made history.

Then she won it again, in 2022, a back to back achievement that made her the first to woman footballer to do so as twice in a row.

Imagine her surprise when her name had been announced, she’d shook Beth Meads hand, and got to hold her second Ballon d’Or.

This was why Aitana believed what had just transpired today, in front of all of them, was even crueler.

It was a warm-up drill.

The kind no one thinks about, short sprints, light change of direction, an offhand joke tossed across the grass. Someone laughed about sunscreen. Someone else groaned about the heat.

And then it happened.

A sound. A shift. A muffled scream, and a dreaded snap. Then a silence so immediate it felt like someone had pressed mute on the world.

Alexia was on the ground.

Not rolling. Not shouting.

Just still. Face buried in the pitch.

Aitana didn’t register it at first. She’d been jogging to her mark, looking ahead.

It was Jenni who stopped. Jenni who ran.

“Ale?”

Nothing.

One leg bent under her body, hands braced on the pitch. Her face was pale. Still no sound. They knew what had just come.

Jenni knelt beside her. “Talk to me. Alexia—what happened? Where is it?”

By the time the physios reached her, Alexia had started to shake. Tears welled up in her eyes. Just…shaking.

Aitana moved without thinking. She didn’t remember getting there—only the feeling in her throat, like it had closed up around a scream that hadn’t come out.

She felt the same devastation she faced when she was carded in that u-20s WWC semi-final back in France.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t seen something of this nature before. She’d seen injuries. Bad ones.

This was worse.

Not because of the pain, but because of the way Alexia wasn’t looking at anyone. Not even her. The way it had happened to her, the same Alexia who had been made the face of the upcoming Euros, who had just won one of the most prestigious awards in the world—back to back.

Jenni’s hand stayed on Alexia’s back the whole time.

“She didn’t twist,” Jana whispered, clearly shaken.

“It was the plant foot,” another murmured. “Non-contact.”

Alexia was wailing, she’d never seen her this way before, curled up in a fetal position. Utter devastation etched on her face.

ACL.

That’s when Aitana finally looked away.

It felt like betrayal. Like watching something sacred break.

That night, the team group chat went silent.

Jenni stayed with Alexia at the hospital. Paredes spoke briefly to the press. Alexia was scheduled to get surgery on the 12th.

Forcing her to withdraw from the Euros she’d prepared to dominate.

Aitana sat alone in the stairwell of the hotel, one hand gripping the metal railing like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

Laia passed her once and didn’t stop.

No one talked about the tournament anymore.

Only about time.

Six to nine months. If we’re lucky. Women footballers were affected differently by the dreaded injury, lucky to ever properly come back from it. Rehabilitation a long and lengthy process.

Surgery. Then.
Maybe never the same again.

For the women’s game, an ACL injury didn’t just mean healing. It meant disappearing.

Aitana didn’t sleep.

She didn’t cry either.

She just kept seeing Alexia’s eyes— wide, unfocused—and the moment she realized she could no longer get up.

October 17, 2022–Théâtre du Châtelet, Paris

Alexia Putellas walked onto the stage in a black dress with her hair tied back and accepted her second Ballon d’Or.

Her hair was swept back neatly, and her makeup had been done perfectly. Her smile was gracious. Her voice didn’t waver. Almost did. Aitana and the other girls knew their captain was never a fan of the spotlight. Even though she could perform in it. On the pitch.

“I hope this will inspire girls—not just to play football, but to stay.”

But Aitana, sitting in the audience with the rest of Barça, could feel the weight of it. Like something unfinished. Like something they still owed her.

That night, when the cameras shut off, Alexia hugged everyone in order.

Aitana lingered.

They didn’t speak long.

But when Alexia pulled back, she touched the side of Aitana’s jaw briefly, almost like a parent might.

And now Alexia had been in some hospital. The lights in the private room were dim. Still too bright.

Alexia didn’t look like herself.

Her face was bare no makeup, no expression, and her body had settled into a kind of stillness that didn’t suit her. It wasn’t rest. It was…resignation.

Aitana had waited to be let in alone. Jenni and some of the Barça girls had stepped out. Someone needed to sleep.

She sat by her captain’s side slowly, hesitantly. Her hand hovered, then rested over Alexia’s.

She was startled by how cold it felt.

Alexia didn’t meet her eyes.

“I’ll make you proud,” Aitana whispered. “I’ll finish what you started.”

For a second, she wasn’t sure Alexia had heard her. Then the older woman turned her head—just slightly—and blinked.

“You lead now, with Jenni and Patri.”

Aitana shook her head, quickly. “Not like you.”

Alexia’s smile was barely there. “No. Not like me.”

Her voice cracked when she said it. And it scared Aitana. Because Alexia didn’t break. Not for anyone. Not like this.

“You’ll come back stronger, Ale—”

Alexia cut her off with a hand against her arm, firm. “You don’t know that. None of you know that.”

A beat.

“We do,” Aitana said, voice tight. “You’re the strongest person I know. You led us after Vicky. After everything.”

Alexia’s hand lifted again. This time it shook slightly. She didn’t raise her voice, she didn’t need to.

“You know what this means. If I come back—”

Aitana interrupted her this time. “When you come back.”

That earned a flicker of recognition. Something warmer. Something more like her.

“Yes,” Alexia breathed. “But I won’t be the same.”

Aitana looked at her for a long time. She didn’t speak. Just reached up and gently cupped her captain’s cheek, forcing their eyes to meet again.

They respected and loved one another so much. Their resemblance helped their relationship, well, other times it didn’t.

“You’re Alexia fucking Putellas.”

Alexia’s face twitched. “Don’t.”

“You’re going to watch us win the Euros. You’re going to lead from the side. Not Vilda. Not Montse.”

Aitana tried to not think about Englands super team, the one that striker was in.

She then softened, leaned in slightly, her tone somewhere between reverence and command.

“Next summer, you’ll be back beside me. At the World Cup. Not like you were. Maybe better.”

Alexia’s lips trembled. Her chest shook.

“La Reina,” Aitana added quietly.

Alexia rolled her eyes. “I hate that.”

Aitana smiled. “I know.”

It was the first thing they could laugh at. Brief, tired.

When Jenni returned, Aitana stood, pressed her hand one more time to Alexia’s arm.

And left her to rest.

“Codi?”

Laia Codina was curled awkwardly in the plastic chair just outside the hospital door. Her hoodie was half-zipped, one shoe off, chin tucked into her shoulder like she’d folded herself down to the size of what the night had taken from them.

Aitana stepped quietly into view.

“Laia.”

Nothing.

She tried again.

“Codi.”

A stir. A groggy grunt. Laia blinked once, then again — registering her, frowning under the fluorescent lights.

“You should go home,” Aitana said. “Get some rest.”

Laia sat up slowly, her body unfolding like it hadn’t moved in hours. She ignored the suggestion.

Aitana hesitated, then knelt in front of her — hands placed lightly on Laia’s knees.

The motion made Laia recoil instinctively.

“What are you doing?”

“I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly?”

Aitana breathed in, her voice small but urgent. “For… all of it. For letting things go the way they did. For pushing you away. You didn’t deserve that.”

Laia studied her. Her face was unreadable in the hallway’s wash of white light.

“I was angry,” Laia said at last. “Still am, sometimes. You didn’t just push me away — you iced me out like I meant nothing. I kept thinking… maybe it was because of her.”

Aitana blinked. “Who?”

“La Russo.”

There it was. A pause, thick and unexpected.

“You think I pushed you away because of Alessia?” Aitana sounded more surprised than defensive.

Laia raised an eyebrow. “I think you’ve been strange ever since that tournament. And when you saw her again… at camp… you looked at her like you didn’t know if you wanted to kill her or kiss her.”

Aitana scoffed, cheeks flushing with fatigue and disbelief. “There’s nothing between us. Never was. Never will be.”

Laia tilted her head, not fully believing her — not disbelieving either. “I’m not asking for a confession, Aiti. I just wanted to know if you ever saw me the way I saw you.”

Aitana froze.

“I did,” she said finally. “Maybe not in the way you hoped. But I never stopped loving you. As my best friend. As my person. That’s what you were.”

“That’s what I still am?”

Aitana’s voice softened. “You couldn’t not be.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. All the space between them suddenly very loud.

Laia’s shoulders dropped slightly.

“Okay,” she said.

Aitana blinked. “Okay?”

“I forgive you.”

Aitana exhaled like she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath.

“But don’t go weird on me again,” Laia added, voice rough. “I can’t take another year of silence and pretending like you didn’t rip something out of me.”

“I won’t,” Aitana promised. “I’m done pretending.”

Laia reached forward and gently flicked Aitana’s forehead — a flicker of the girl she used to be.

“Good,” she said. “Because we’ve got a World Cup to win next year. And if I have to play center-back with all this emotional trauma unresolved, I might tackle you myself.”

Aitana laughed, exhausted and grateful.

And for the first time in months, they didn’t feel so far apart.

July 6, 2022
Matchday 1–England vs. Austria (1–0)

They watched from the hotel.

The Spanish squad huddled around the screen, necks craned, popcorn discarded by the 20th minute. England weren’t just fast, they were ruthless. It wasn’t the scoreline that scared Aitana. It was the calmness in the chaos. The machine of it all.

“Wiegman’s got them drilled like soldiers,” Alexia muttered beside her, still recovering, arms folded tightly against her chest.

“Yeah,” Mapi said. “But only one goal.”

Alexia glanced at Aitana. “One is enough if they never let you breathe.”

Aitana didn’t reply.

She was already imagining being suffocated.

July 8, 2022 – Spain vs. Finland (4–1)

The goal wasn’t planned. It was felt.

Aitana’s third, it was a vicious strike from outside the box after weaving through a dying defensive line, didn’t just hit the net. It exploded it.

For a moment, she didn’t know where to go. Then she turned, saw the crutches waving.

Alexia.

Front row. Screaming like she was on fire. Smiling like nothing had ever happened.

Aitana rushed the side of the pitch, her momentum not stopping until she was by the barricade. A crutch dropped between them.

High five. Palm against palm, sweat and warmth and something unsaid.

“You still got it,” Alexia said, her voice just loud enough.

“I’m not done,” Aitana whispered back.

Behind them, Alessia Russo watched from a tunnel monitor, teeth grinding against something she couldn’t name.

July 12, 2022 – Germany vs. Spain
(2–0)

They looked like children.

That’s how Alexia described it—not unkindly. Just truthfully.

Popp was relentless. Precise. Aitana felt her cheeks burning as her passing lanes vanished, as Patri was outrun, as Mapi misjudged the bounce.

Alexia sat slumped, wincing every time Germany scored. She kept her sunglasses on despite the dim. Nobody blamed her.

Aitana kept glancing up between plays. Every time Alexia’s body jolted from the bench, something tightened in her chest.

The silence in the locker room afterward was cavernous.

Aitana watched France highlights alone later that night. Watched the Netherlands struggle and eventually win. Wondered if Spain were meant to be here at all.

July 16, 2022 – Matchday 3:
Spain vs. Denmark (1–0)

Marta Cardona saved them.

A 90th-minute goal, a solo run no one saw coming. The kind of goal that shouldn’t happen. The kind of goal you cry about without knowing why.

Aitana fell to her knees when the whistle blew.

Alexia, waiting in the tunnel, clapped like a proud sister and cried like a captain. When Aitana reached her, they didn’t speak. Just bumped foreheads for a second.

“I told you,” Aitana whispered. “You lead from here.”

Alexia nodded. “You better not let England win.”

Russo, in the England locker room, watched the replay. Saw Aitana hugging Laia, saw the way her body curved toward her like it always would.

So they were still what they were in 2018.

She didn’t say anything. Told herself she didn’t care.

But she felt it.

Quarter-final –Brighton–
England vs. Spain

In the tunnel before the match, Alessia had some time. Sarina wasn’t starting her today.

Alessia tried. She wasn’t good at this small kindnesses, truce-making, at least when it came to a certain midfielder. But she tried.

“Good luck,” she said.

Aitana didn’t look at her. “I don’t need your luck.”

That was it. Nothing more.

Alessia squinted her eyes and almost said something snide. Sarina called her name. She wasn’t starting.

Aitana kept walking.

She didn’t feel nerves. She felt fire. At least, that what is looked like.

Things had kicked off, Alessia was one the bench with Tooney, and nervous as ever even if she wasn’t on the pitch.

Spain were dominant. Aitana was everywhere.

Threading passes. Dropping into the hal-space. Demanding more. Clapping at Mapi, pointing for Pina to press, asking Laia if she could “win one header this time.”

She wasn’t cruel. But she was sharp.

At one point, Laia turned to her, hurt in her eyes and that’s when Ona stepped in.

“Ease up,” Ona muttered.

“I wasn’t being mean,” Aitana snapped.

“She’s still hurting,” Ona said. “Maybe not from you yelling. Maybe from everything else.”

Aitana blinked. Didn’t respond. Just jogged toward Laia who tried to seem unaffected, and patted her back.

She forgave her.

Her next touch was heavy.

In the 54th minute Athenea had found some space, finally, a Madrid player making themselves useful. Esther had managed to get in and there was Spain’s advantage. Esther González scores.

It wasn’t clean. But it was enough.

Aitana sprinted toward the corner flag, eyes wide, fists pumping.

On the bench, Alessia stood.

“Sarina—” she began. Trying to be as respectful as possible, Sarina pushed her glasses against her nose.

“Start warming up.”

In the 58th minute, Russo was on for Ellen White, who gave her a hug and headed for the bench. “Smash it!”

Alessia nodded and jogged in.

She didn’t look toward the Spanish bench. Didn’t need to.

She already knew what she’d see: Aitana, furious and glowing.

She wanted to outshine her.

62’. Russo gets clipped—not badly. Just enough.

Aitana’s studs scrape the outside of her boot mid-turn. Not a foul. But definitely not nothing. Alessia not knowing if it was intentional, later just assuming for herself.

Russo glances over her shoulder.

“You always this personal?” she mutters.

Aitana doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look her way. “No. Only with players who think they’re clever.”

And that’s it.

That’s all it takes to make Russo think about every time Aitana didn’t look at her after France.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t exist, not to her.

In the 64th minute, Tooney is on for Fran Kirby, looking ready as ever.

That’s when the match changed.

“Watch the ten,” Mapi yelled.

Too late.

Ella had arrived, and she’d already proven to be a problem.

In the 79 minute, Spain were awarded a free kick. Mariona’s delivery, chaos. Lucia Garcia with a back volley. Ella blocks but doesn’t clear it. Another corner for Spain

They couldn’t break through.

Aitana bit her lip until it bled.

In the 84’ Spain knew it was coming.

It happened fast. Lauren Hemp to Russo. Russo gifting a beautiful header to Toone.

One. Two. Goal.

Aitana stood frozen as Ella ran like a maniac, Alessia right behind her, fists clenched.

Her stomach was beginning to sink.

The Spanish Staff members were still upset at the goal being rewarded and by the 88’ on the bench, Misa screamed. “There was a fucking foul in the buildup! VAR!”

She wouldn’t stop.

The ref showed her yellow and she kicked the cooler. Aitana turned quickly from the pitch and snapped.

“Misa! Enough! We’re still in this!”

Ignored.

Alexia, watching from the stands, sank lower in her seat with her leg elevated.

Later on, Keira Walsh’s pass doesn’t make it too far but Georgia Stanway gets to it anyways, from the edge of the box.

A missile. A masterpiece.

Top corner. Sandra couldn’t get to it.

England erupted.

Aitana doubled over. Still on her feet, but only just.

She yearned for a restart. For time. For something.

But there was only the end. Alessia ran off with the other Lionesses, celebrating, they were on to the semis and Spain were going to be on their way home.

Again.

Alexia waited on crutches.

When Aitana finally made it through, she collapsed into her. Not fully—just enough. A captain’s embrace, not a mother’s.

Alessia watched on.

She didn’t move.

She didn’t interrupt.

Englands locker room unlike how Spain left theirs, was electric and messy.

They’re buzzing.

Toone’s still wearing one boot, Leah’s already on FaceTime with someone’s dog.

Someone’s talking about Bonmatí. Hemp maybe.

“She plays like a mini Picasso,” Picasso wasn’t even that good, Alessia thought silently.

“And did you notice she checked up on me when I’d gone down?” Lauren’s eyes were childlike as she’d gone on.

“Maybe she did it for herself?” Millie Bright inquired, Leah shook her head laughing.

“Whether we like it or not she’s class, on and off the pitch. Doesn’t play it up for the media.”

Alessia scoffed, and a few of her teammates looked over at her while the others continued to sing and dance around.

Sarina caught on, and smiled at that. “Don’t fancy her?”

Russo just remembers she actually around other people, and shrugs it off. No one questions it, goes back to celebrating like the rest of the squad.

She’s staring at the ice pack on her ankle.

It’s already melting.

Now in the press tunnel Aitana dreaded, she doesn’t even crack a polite smile.

The press questions come in clusters — tactics, morale, “where does Spain go from here?”

She answers like a captain without the armband. Just how Alexia and Vicky Losada had modeled, it came naturally.

Russo has a black cap on, clean from her shower, blending in with broadcasters and journalists, sees her from across the barrier. Watches how the flash makes her flinch. Watches how she says, we didn’t lose because of one moment.

Watches how tired she looks.

Not physically.

Existentially.

And Russo thinks about what Hemp had said, about how Aitana had stopped. Had come back.

She shouldn’t care.

She doesn’t.

Except she does.

Something in her stomach coiled.

Near the tunnel, before they make it to their own respective buses, they pass each other again. Alone this time.

Aitana slowed just enough to mean it.

Russo didn’t break stride. But her eyes flicked sideways. Their arms brushed, bare skin, fleeting heat and that was enough to break something unsaid.

Then Russo, voice low, almost reluctant.“Classy, the Hemp thing.”

Aitana didn’t turn.
Just said, quieter than she meant to, like something uneasy had pressed its hand to her throat. “Not everything is for you to question.”

A pause.

Russo half-smiled, but it wasn’t sharp. It wavered. “Then stop doing it where I can see.”

Aitana stopped.

Not fully. Just…enough.

She turned, slow. The fire still in her eyes, but dulled and banked under exhaustion. Her hoodie making her look smaller than she already was. Her mouth opened like she might say something biting.

But nothing came out.

Russo didn’t wait.

She stepped forward. One arm, then the other—careful, unceremonious. A pull. A body folding forward into another.

A hug.

Too real to be mistaken.

Too quick to be a mistake.

Aitana stood stiff at first, arms caught somewhere between rejection and surrender.
“This isn’t—” she started, too quietly. “I don’t need—”

Russo’s chin was near her temple now. “I know.” Aitana took in Alessia’s scent she recognized too well and quickly.

Her fingers curled loosely at Russo’s lower back, almost out of reflex.

She didn’t hug her back. Not properly.

But she didn’t pull away either.

Not for a few long seconds.

And Russo didn’t rush it. Just squeezed.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t smile.

Just breathed her in like they were someplace no one else could reach.

Then, without letting go fully, Russo murmured her chin on Bonmatí’s head for a few seconds, “I heard what happened.”

Aitana’s stomach turned.

Russo pulled back just enough to look at her, not with sympathy. Something steadier. “I know they failed you. Not just tonight.”

Russo was on autopilot, her strong hands hovering over the midfielders arms. Aitana’s jaw clenched. Her voice frayed, she couldn’t help it. “You don’t know anything.”

Russo’s gaze didn’t flicker. “You-,”

“Your team, deserved better.” Alessia quickly remedied, giving Aitana space and her hands still there, now conscious of what they’d just done. What she’d just done.

The quiet after that wasn’t cold.
It was careful.

Their eyes met fast, brief. No truce. No apology.

Just something that felt like grief wrapped in recognition.

Aitana looked away first. Face slightly pink, and eyes cloudy.

But Russo saw it, the way her throat moved like she was swallowing glass. The way she shifted her weight like she was afraid of standing still too long next to her.

Alessia felt weirdly like herself again.
More than she had in weeks.

She let Aitana go.

Not fully.

Just enough to let her keep pretending.

And then they both walked.

Different directions.
Again.

But slower this time.

The press room was hot. England hadn’t been able to leave yet, unlike Spain who were on their way home.
Too many lights, too many cameras. Alessia sat between Leah and Sarina, bottle cap twisting slowly between her fingers.

The adrenaline was still in her legs, but her mouth was dry.

They’d done it. They’d survived Spain.

The questions came fast.

“How does it feel to assist your United Teammate in such a crucial match for your nation?”

She smiled, modest. “It feels incredible, yeah, but credit to Ella, that finish was class. It’s always about the team. No one does it alone. Ona Battle of course, still is just as incredible.” It was charming.

“Spain seemed to give you more trouble than anyone so far this tournament. What made them so hard to break down?”

Alessia paused. Well, that was true.
The room waited.

“I mean, we still have the semis but yeah, they’re…they’re different,” she said eventually. “Spain don’t just play the game. They feel it. They hold the ball like it belongs to them. Every pass means something.”

Sarina nodded subtly beside her.

“We struggled to find rhythm. That first half—they controlled the tempo. Their midfield…it’s hard to explain. It’s like they move as one organism.”

She was choosing her words carefully now.

But now she couldn’t stop herself.

“Their number 6: Bonmatí—she didn’t stop. At all. You press her, she turns. You double her, she slips it past you. She plays like she’s angry at gravity.”

A light chuckle from the media. Alessia didn’t smile.

“She was everywhere,” she continued. “Leading. Instructing. Driving them forward even with the absence of Putellas, a back to back ballon d’Or winner. I think…sometimes the best players don’t need to score to show they owned the game. And Bonmatí, she owned it. Even when we were winning.”

Her voice was calm, but her eyes flicked toward the back of the room, like she could feel someone watching.

Leah leaned slightly closer, subtle but there.

“You okay?” she muttered.

Alessia just nodded.

“Do you think Spain deserved more from this match?”

Another pause. “I think they deserved to be seen,” Alessia said.

Silence.

“To be respected. You could tell they’re trying just as hard as any other nation here. You could feel it. They were playing with something to prove. And they almost did.”

Sarina gently shifted her chair. The PR rep looked mildly alarmed.

But Alessia kept going, her voice softening, somehow more personal. It wasn’t like her to say much to the press, sometimes she was even shy.

But she continued, with a relaxed smile on her face, deep blue eye considerate:
“They pushed us in a good way. It wasn’t just physical. Anyways,” Alessia cleared her throat, trying to shake Aitana off her mind.

“You could tell they were playing for more than a semifinal.”

“More than the trophy?” someone asked.

Alessia looked down. Twisted the bottle cap again. Then nodded, just once.

“Maybe.”

Later, Aitana would watch the clip on her phone.

Alone. Sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, ice on her knees, her boots still in a pile on the floor.

She replayed the part about owning the game.

Then again.

She plays like she’s angry at gravity.

She didn’t know what to do with that. Or the way Alessia had said her name. Like it was something delicate.

No smirk. No bite. Just honesty this time.

She set the phone down. Decided it was just another game she was playing off the pitch.

But the words she gave her in the tunnel, the way she enveloped her in her strong arms. What the hell could she say about that? She didn’t overstep. And she let it happen. She almost hugged her back, even.

Aitana didn’t know if she wanted to cry or scream.

Spain went home early. England marched on. And triumphed at Wembley stadium against Germany, it was historic.

For a while, Aitana didn’t check social media. Couldn’t. Everyone had something to say—about her, about Alexia’s absence, about whether Spain even belonged in the conversation.

She rewatched the game once. Alone. On mute.

When Alessia’s header flicked to Toone, when the goal landed like a blade between her ribs, she didn’t flinch.

She just closed her laptop and went running.

Ran until she stopped thinking. Until she could feel only her own breath.

Manchester United was good enough, safe and familiar, not too far from home and Alessia came back a hero.

The Lionesses had done it. She had done it.

But a gold medal didn’t change Manchester United’s reality—not enough money, not enough depth, and still no trophies.

The women weren’t even made a priority, the club and its owner felt they had to focus on the men and how they’d fell behind in contrast to their rivals.

It was maddening.

They lost the Conti Cup final. Fell short in the FA Cup semis. And in the WSL, Arsenal edged them for second, Champions League spots slipping from their fingers in the final weeks.

And yet—Alessia was loved.

Homegrown, humble, heart-on-sleeve. The banners came out every game: RUSSO 23

Sometimes girls asked for her boots, her shirt, and sometimes she gave them away.

She kept scoring. Kept holding her shape. Kept smiling for the media.

But when Champions League nights aired, and she watched Barcelona 1–0 Chelsea in London, and then 1–1 in the return leg at—watched Aitana glide past Erin Cuthbert like she wasn’t even there, something ugly tightened in her throat.

She wanted to be there. Wanted United to be there.

Wanted to want less from Aitana.

Barcelona got their season of Redemption, an ongoing theme with Barça Femini.

Lucy Bronze had joined in August after the Euros and so had Keira Walsh later on in September.

Keira was great, kind, a little shy because the Spanish and Catalan during trainings was rapid fire. But they all had tried to make her comfortable enough, Keira adapted well and Aitana took a liking to her.

Alexia was slowly but surely coming back, she’d made her return in the squad against Chelsea in the Semis. She also liked Keira and Lucy, tried to put the Euros behind them but still mentioned it jokingly, in passing.

Aitana became more ruthless than she was before.

Her goals were clinical. Her interviews sharp and engaging. Her posture? Unshakable.

But she wasn’t untouched. Everyone noticed the way she stared too long after games. How she didn’t hug Laia with the same energy. How she smiled at Keira like she was trying to convince herself.

Barcelona finished the season with the Liga F title—again.

But it was really Europe that mattered.

They met Wolfsburg in the Champions League final. The same Wolfsburg who had crushed them before, leaving their team scathed and shaken. The same ones who mocked them when they were nobodies.

And this time?

They came back from 0–2 down.

It was truly beautiful. Patri had thrived.
Alexia came on as a late substitute playing during stoppage time.

Then.

Patri. Fridolina. And then Aitana—the assist for the winner.
Rolfö buried it. 3–2.

The final whistle was a roar in her veins.

She didn’t cry. But when Alexia, found her on the pitch and pulled her into a tight, proud embrace, Aitana buried her face in her shoulder.

Laia didn’t get any minutes that day, but they were champions again.

Alessia watched Barcelona lift the European trophy from a hotel lobby in Manchester. She turned the volume up. Then back down. Then off.

In June, everyone tried to relax before what could possibly be one of the biggest tournaments of their life. The 2023 Women’s World Cup.

Ona’s birthday was on the tenth of June. Convenient. Ona had told everyone it would be small.

Just people she loved. Just old friends before everyone left for the World Cup.

She didn’t tell either of them the other would be there.

So when Alessia walked through the patio doors—black top, denim jacket hanging off her shoulder and saw Aitana, barefoot, drink in hand, sitting with Mapi and Pina under the hanging lights, her heart did a strange thing.

Stopped.

Started again.

Aitana didn’t look away. Didn’t smile. But didn’t leave either.

The party went on.

Music played. Laughs came. Alessia stayed close to Ona. Aitana floated through conversations like smoke.

She wasn’t trying to be seen. But Alessia noticed her anyway.

The soft tilt of her head when she listened, the quick lift of her brow when something caught her off guard, the way her laugh curled around the room like something private. She looked light. She looked warm. She looked like she didn’t remember.

Alessia tilted her drink. She remembered everything.

Ella had slid onto the couch beside Aitana before Lucy could even finish the sentence about cards. Aitana looked a little surprised by that.

“How are you?” Ella asked, too quick, catching herself. “I’m good. Are you enjoying Barcelona?”

“I always do, mate.” Ella smiled, then felt it. A stare, hot and unblinking, from somewhere across the room. She didn’t need to check who it was. The energy was familiar.

Aitana was wringing her hands in her lap. The couch seemed to shrink around them.

“Oh! Congrats, on your second UWCL title I mean,” Ella added. “You guys really turned the tables there. We watched you lot, in our hotel in Manchester.”

Aitana glanced up, touched, her face not only just flushed from the alcohol she’d drank before. “You guys, you did?”

She remembered that she had to be careful, this was Alessia’s good friend and whatever else, she hadn’t cared. Anyways, she was also an enemy.

Still, Aitana’s smile cracked something open at that revelation. Alessia had watched her final. Her face smug. She looked young again—like someone waiting to be told a secret.

“Of course,” Ella said, suddenly more careful. She didn’t want to be a pawn in whatever this was, but she was also nosey, extremely nosey.

Across the room, Alessia leaned into the table. Her knuckles were white against the rim of her glass.

“She’s still practically in love with her,” Ona muttered beside her to someone, without looking.

Alessia blinked, Ona quickly separating herself from Ingrid. “What?”

“You’re holding your breath.”

Alessia exhaled. Looked away. Looked back again. “Uh, no.” She could only respond, with an awkward smile.

There was something in the way Aitana angled toward Ella. The casual ease. The way she laughed into the space between them like it belonged to them. It made Alessia ache.

Ella wasn’t doing anything wrong. Well, she was but not really. That was the worst part. She was just being Ella. Just talking. Just knowing Aitana in a way Alessia hadn’t earned yet—or had, once, and lost.

Ella shifted closer, legs folding beneath her on the couch like she planned to stay a while. Alexia, and the other girls were still playing with Lucy, beating her at every card game in the book.

“You still hate London weather?”

Aitana smiled with a small shake of her head. “It’s not weather, it is punishment.”

Ella laughed. “You know, I actually missed your dramatics.”

Aitana chuckled and her eyes crinkled at the side, didn’t know who had told her about her dramatic side, but she was smiling. “I don’t think anyone has ever missed my dramatics.”

“Well.” Ella leaned back and studied her face for a moment. “Some people don’t know how to read you properly.”

Aitana’s fingers paused in her lap. That quiet hum behind her eyes came back—like the room had tipped sideways just a little.

Ella noticed.

“You alright, gal?” she asked, tone softening.

Aitana looked down. “I’m good.”

Ella didn’t push. But the silence between them stretched—not awkward, not tense. Just…full.

Aitana could feel the shots she’d been dared to do with Jana and Bruna begin to set in.

Then Aitana asked, “Do you think people can outgrow feelings?”

Ella blinked, a little confused. “For people, or for themselves?”

Aitana’s eyes flicked up. “Both.”

Ella took a beat, then replied, “I think some people outgrow how they’ve shown it. But not the feeling. Not really.”

They sat in that for a moment.

From across the room, Alessia watched Aitana smile faintly, eyes half-lowered, lips parted just enough to make her chest tighten.
She wanted to walk over and ruin it.

Alessia didn’t drink much after that.
Didn’t laugh when Lucy started doing her ridiculous impressions, didn’t really hear the rules of the card game someone eventually convinced them all to play.

She watched Aitana.

Or rather, she tried not to—but every time she looked away, some sound or flicker pulled her back. A hand gesture. The tilt of Aitana’s chin. The way her laugh got caught in the corner of Ella’s shoulder like they were the only two people in the room.

It wasn’t that she wanted to be Ella. She was trying to convince herself that she was still upset at Ella talking to the midfielder.

But really, it was that Ella got the parts of Aitana that weren’t locked away. That didn’t bite.

That weren’t hers.

Ona bumped her knee once beneath the table. “Are you okay?”

Alessia stared at her glass. “I’m perfect.”

Aitana’s voice carried in the air. “I think I’m going to go to the bathroom.”

Ella nodded with a cool smile, and stayed on the couch. She didn’t follow.

But Alessia did. As sneakily as she could.

The hallway was quiet when the night dulled.

Drinks had been poured and forgotten. Someone was singing off-key in the living room. Somewhere else, a door slammed.

Aitana was inside—half-lit by the vanity bulb above Ona’s mirror, running her hands through hair streaked now with subtle brown warmth, like summer had finally kissed her.

She didn’t hear the door open at first.

Then she did.

And she froze—but only for a breath.

Alessia leaned in the doorway like she belonged there. Loose jeans hugging her hips. Black top soft with wear more visible because her jacket had been discarded somewhere now, her top was clinging to her torso in a way that made Aitana’s stomach tighten. A single chain at her neck. Hair tied back, but a few strands had come loose and curled at her temple.

She looked unbothered. Like she’d come in just to check her lip gloss.

Aitana didn’t know what she was doing there.

Didn’t know what she was doing here either, in a bathroom she hadn’t meant to linger in this long. Her pulse was still thudding from the conversation with Ella. From the shots. From everything she hadn’t said.

But mostly—from her.

“So this is how it is now? You’re trying to steal my mates too?” Alessia asked, voice low, near-accusatory.

Aitana dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a tissue—buying herself time. Her reflection didn’t help. She looked flushed. Exposed.

She didn’t even try to lie. Didn’t feign calm.

But she did lift her chin, did level her voice—because pride was easier than honesty, always had been.

“Your ‘mate’ seemed like she wanted to steal me, Lessi.” Aitana said Tooneys nickname for her, low, daunting, mocking.

A flicker. There. In Alessia’s face.

Not quite anger. But something rawer. Something truer.

Aitana registered it, and hated herself for liking that she could still hit a nerve.

But part of her—part she didn’t dare name—was also hungry.

Hungry for Alessia’s attention. Her voice. The way she was looking at her now, like she was trying to solve a riddle she had memorized years ago but never understood.

Alessia stepped in. Let the door click shut behind her.

Aitana raised a brow, starting to feel unsure. So did Alessia, but she didn’t care.

The room shrank.

Aitana swallowed. Confused. Defiant. Hazy with heat and the weight of being wanted.

She hadn’t expected her to come here. Not here. Not like this.

But now Alessia was inside the bathroom with her, and every part of her—body, breath, memory, she knew exactly where this was heading.

And still, she held the line.

For now.

“You’re the one who wanted space, you created whatever this is.”

Alessia’s throat tightened.

“Maybe,” she said. “But I didn’t ask you to fill it with someone else.”

That landed. Not sharp. But real.

Aitana turned toward her fully now. Her silhouette in the narrow light looked smaller than usual. Looser around the edges. She didn’t deny it—not outright. But her voice was quieter this time.

“There’s no one else.”

That was the problem. Alessia believed her. She just didn’t know if that made it better.

Their eyes caught. Held. Time stretched.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Alessia said, voice low and flatter than she meant. It came out tight—too tight.

Aitana tilted her head. “Like what?”

“Like I’m a mistake you regret but keep repeating.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Aitana smiled—a slow, terrible thing—and rolled her shoulders back like she wasn’t scared of the fire between them. Like she might pour gasoline on it herself.

“Aren’t you?”

That cracked it.

Alessia’s jaw ticked. She stepped forward until the bathroom closed in around them—until she could feel Aitana’s breath on her cheek, smell the sweet floral perfume tucked behind her ear, the kind of scent that lingered on pillowcases.

Her hand hovered near Aitana’s waist. Close. Too close.

Aitana didn’t move.
Didn’t push her away this time.

She didn’t know if she could.

“You looked happy with her,” Alessia said, voice like smoke. It wasn’t jealousy. Not really. It was deeper than that.

“Is that who gets the soft version of you now?”

Aitanas’s thin eyebrows furrowed.

Who? Laia? Ella?

She didn’t answer—because there was no right answer.

But something in her tightened. Her gaze dropped, lifted again. Steelier now. And she smirked, letting herself be cruel.

“You want soft?” Her voice dipped. “You never did.”
A pause. A breath. Then, twisted like a blade—“Not in that closet, at least.”

Alessia flinched.

Memory slammed into her chest. Her mouth parted like she might say something—something gentle, something stupid. But she didn’t.

She stepped in harder. Cornered Aitana against the wall. Her hands clamped around her hips.

Aitana gasped—eyes flashing wide for a half-second. A small, involuntary groan slid from her throat.

And then Alessia snapped.

“As if you weren’t aching for me to fuck you on that dance floor in that bar. Just like now.”

Aitana shoved at her shoulders, hard—more instinct than rejection. The taller woman didn’t need to use too much of her strength. Aitana wanted to say no. To look above it. But her legs were already remembering what it felt like to be pressed against Alessia in the dark.

Alessia didn’t budge. She used their height difference, kept her pinned. Her voice darkened.

“I wanted honest,” she spat. “But you—you give that to everyone but me, you’re a fucking fake.”

It sat between them like lightning.

Aitana’s jaw worked. Her hands shook. She didn’t know what to do.
Push again? Hit her? Yell?

No. Not this time.

Alessia looked like she might say something else. Her lips parted—“I—?”

“Shut the fuck up, Russo.”

And Aitana grabbed her. Pulled her down by her long neck and kissed her like she wanted to make her bleed for it.

There was no caution. No prelude. Just fire.

And Alessia kissed back, hard.

She clutched at Alessia’s top, pulled her in until fabric strained. Alessia backed her into the counter. The edge of the sink bit into Aitana’s spine—but she didn’t stop. Didn’t care.

Alessia’s hands fumbled up her sides, not sure where to settle, too aware of what this was.

Aitana kissed like she’d been holding her breath for years. Like she was furious for still wanting this. For needing Alessia’s mouth more than any truth.

The bathroom wasn’t even locked.

Anyone could walk in.

They didn’t care.

It was teeth, heat, palms under fabric. Breathing like it hurt.

Aitana tugged Alessia’s chain between her teeth, dragged it down, then let it drop between them like a dare. Her eyes were blown wide, half-lidded with heat, her mouth flushed and parted. The stare she gave Alessia was wicked—pure sex and defiance.

“You don’t get to look at me like that,” she breathed against Alessia’s red lips, voice rasped and already wrecked.

“Then stop giving me reasons to.”

Alessia’s voice broke somewhere in her throat. And still—she surged forward.

Their hips knocked. Their mouths collided again like punishment, Aitana pulled at her bottom lip with her teeth. Aitana was gasping into it now, fighting it, chasing it, pushing at Alessia’s shoulders only to pull her right back in.

They were clumsy. Desperate. Angry.
Lips dragged down jaws.
Hands yanked at belt loops, fabric bunched and twisted in fists.
A ring hit the faucet. A hip slammed into the soap dispenser.

One of them laughed—a sharp, helpless sound—only to moan a second later when the other bit back.

Alessia’s mouth dropped to her throat and sank in.

Not gently.

Not sweetly. She relished in the way Bonmatí yelped.

Aitana writhed, head tipping back against the mirror, her thighs clenching around Alessia’s waist like instinct. The Catalan’s shirt was rucked halfway up her torso, the hem twisted between Alessia’s fingers.

Alessia could feel her—all heat and breath and sweat. She needed more of her. She ran her hand down her polished abdomen.

“Fuck,” Aitana hissed through her teeth, hands clawing up Alessia’s back now, nails grazing skin. Her legs locked tighter. Her body arched.

Alessia growled—quiet and real—and pressed forward, letting the weight of her hips pin Aitana fully to the counter.

“Still hate me?” she whispered, voice low and dangerous against Aitana’s skin, lips ghosting over her collarbone.

Aitana froze. Her hands paused just under the hem of Alessia’s shirt, fingers trembling against her abs she’d pretend she didn’t care about over stalking Instagram sessions.

Her mouth opened, but nothing came.

Then—barely audible, breathless—
“Always.”

It was a lie. A beautiful, broken lie.

And Alessia knew it.

“Yeah?” Her hands grabbed at Aitana’s thighs, spreading them wider. Aitana found herself being close to exploited,
“Hey—!“ Her mouth found the underside of Aitana’s jaw. Her voice, hot and sharp in her ear, “Say it again.”

Aitana let out a sound that wasn’t a word—just air, desperate and raw. She tried to bite down on it, but Alessia had already gripped her hips and rocked into her with slow, punishing pressure.

Aitana gasped. Loud. Couldn’t stop the way her hips bucked back. Couldn’t stop anything now. She could feel herself losing.

Alessia’s manicured hand slid up the inside of her sweaty thigh.
“Tell me again how much you hate me.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Aitana whispered—almost whimpered—“and fuck me already.”

That shattered something.

And they crashed again—a mess of mouths and hands and sweat, a tangle of breath and friction and years of things left unsaid.

Their teeth kept almost clashing every time they fought for power through barely kisses.

Alessia grew feral, pushed Aitana’s cropped top up over her chest, dragging the bra with it.
Bare and freckled skin, flushed and heaving, met the dim yellow light.

Perky, perfect. Everything Alessia thought about. Everything she’d tried not to.

She exhaled hard, mouth parted. For a second—just one second—she stared.

Aitana felt it. Felt that look.
Felt her pulse trip at the heat of it.

She wanted to cross her arms.
She wanted to tell her to stop looking.

But she didn’t.

She was too far gone for shame.

“What the fuck are you waiting for?” she snapped, voice already fraying.

Alessia growled under her breath and leaned in, mouth closing over a nipple like it had offended her. She sucked once, then twice, letting her teeth scrape her nipple roughly before pulling back to breathe. Aitana’s chest arched to be touched again.

“You’re so sensitive,” she muttered. “And fucking desperate.”

Her palm covered her again, rough and claiming.

Aitana gasped. Arched. Swore. Her hands shot into Alessia’s hair, fingers twisting in blonde locks that were no longer tied up, like she needed something to hold herself together.

“Stay fucking still—” she bit out, trying not to let her voice shake.
“I’ll give it to you.”

“Then use your fucking fingers.”

That did something to Alessia—her cheeks flushed, but her mouth twitched into something darker.

She didn’t reply.

She just undid her pants with quick, unsteady fingers, shoved her hand down and beneath Aitana’s panties.

Her breath caught. Aitana was soaked. She ran her fingers through her, she was soft and Bonmatí shivered.

“Fuck, Bonmatí.”

Well—yeah.

Aitana’s hips lifted immediately, her body chasing the contact like she hadn’t spent the last half hour pretending she wasn’t going to let this happen.

Aitana finally gritted out. “This..this is a mistake.”

Alessia licked her lips, breathing hard. “Probably.”

They stared at each other.

“I leave for Australia next week,” Alessia said.

“I know,” Aitana breathed out.

Then Alessia’s face was pressed to hers—mouth dragging along her jaw, teeth occasionally catching skin, her nose buried in her cheek.

“Russo,” Aitana whispered—more like whimpered. Her thighs trembled where they were locked around Alessia’s hips. “You’re so desperate to fuck me.”

Alessia groaned.

“You’re the one dripping into my hand.”

And then—finally—she pushed two fingers in. Deep. Fast. Like she’d been holding back too long.

They didn’t know who moaned.

Aitana’s back hit the mirror. Her mouth dropped open.

Alessia kissed her again—rough and deep and so reverent it almost broke the illusion of hate between them.

She watched her the whole time, eyes flickering between her scrunched brow and trembling mouth, cataloging every flutter and twitch.

“Move,” Aitana hissed, voice strangled, wrecked.

And Alessia listened.

But not gently.

She set a pace that was unforgiving. Ruinous.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Aitana’s voice broke as she clawed at Alessia’s back, nails dragging hard over damp skin, red welts blooming. She’d leave marks. She wanted to. Proof that this had happened. That she’d let herself burn for her.

Alessia was gasping now, too—eyes locked on the way Aitana writhed, hips snapping forward, breasts bouncing with each thrust. Her other hand gripped her thigh like it was the only thing keeping her steady, mouth dragging wet, open kisses down the inside of her leg.

Aitana was speaking under her breath, in a language Alessia didn’t understand, probably Catalan.

She alternated—tongue and hand, hand and tongue. Aitana didn’t know what she was doing anymore except chasing it. The high. The edge. That bright nothingness at the top of the wave.

“Faster,” Aitana snapped, breath nearly gone. Her voice was sharp, untamed. She didn’t care how she sounded. Alessia’s arm ached, but she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Not when Aitana’s walls clenched around her fingers, and Alessia kissed her—deep, messy, desperate—to stifle the rising moan that was getting too loud. Her palm and fingers came up and curled gently around Aitana’s throat, just enough pressure to make her gasp.

With every thrust, every curl of her fingers, gripping the midfielders throat, she thought about every time Bonmatí humiliated her.

Seeing her kiss Laia Codina at the pool. Every challenge she’d committed on her. How she’d looked down at her on the pitch. Everything.

Tested her. Wrecked her. Now she’d be the one to do the same. Almost.

“Come on, darling.” It wasn’t sweet.
Aitana’s back arched like she’d been struck by lightning.

Alessia took note of that. Filed it away. Every twitch, every expression. She murmured something in her ear in the aftermath—Spanish or English, it didn’t matter. Aitana didn’t hear it. Her brain was white noise.

And then it was over.

Alessia slowly pulled her fingers free, soaked and glistening. She wiped them on her jeans, almost thoughtlessly.

That gesture—casual, cocky—snapped Aitana back into herself.

Her legs unwrapped from Alessia’s hips. Her face turned toward the door, away from the girl who had just made her come.

She hated feeling like this.

Too open. Too seen. Too taken.

She swallowed, chest still heaving. Her pride clawed its way back up her throat.

She looked at Alessia then at the flushed cheeks, the parted mouth, the wild blonde hair falling in strands around her collarbone, ocean eyes that were wild and crashing in waves.
She was beautiful. Wrecked.

And for a split second, Aitana wanted to ruin her, too.

So she hopped off the marble counter and dropped to her knees.

Alessia blinked. “Wha—”

Aitana didn’t speak. Just hooked her fingers into the waistband of Alessia’s jeans and tugged them down, slow and deliberate, her mouth brushing hot over her hip.

“Aitana-” Alessia’s breath hitched. Her hands found the edge of the counter behind her.

Aitana looked up, smirk ghosting across her swollen lips. Only she would have such confidence after being taken like that, only Aitana Bonmatí. Sickening. Sexy.

“Alessia.”

She mouthed over the inside of Alessia’s thigh, dragging her tongue just to the point of cruelty.

And then—A knock. A voice. Muffled through the door.

“Aitana?”

Keira.

They both froze.

“You in there? You okay? Have you seen Less?”

Aitana’s mouth paused against skin. Alessia’s breath caught—heart slamming against her ribs.

Silence.

Aitana looked up again, dark eyes glinting. She didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

Instead, she kissed higher.

Alessia’s eyes slammed shut.
She bit her fist.

“I’m fine,” Aitana called out finally, voice remarkably steady. “Alessia?”
She said as if she wasn’t in between her legs.

“Think I saw her go outside.”
Fucking hell.

Keira hesitated. Then, a soft, “Okay.”

Footsteps receded.

A beat passed. Alessia looked down, shaking slightly.

“You’re fucking mad.”

Aitana smiled against her skin—lazy, wolfish. Her mouth warm and smug. Alessia thought it was the prettiest thing she’d seen.

She cupped Alessia over her panties, pressed her thumb lightly against the growing damp spot like it was some kind of triumph.

“And you love it.”

Alessia’s hips jerked, involuntary. Her hands gripped the edge of the counter behind her so hard her knuckles ached. **She couldn’t believe what she was seeing—**Aitana on her knees, eyes glassy and wide, cheeks flushed with pride and sweat, her braid loose and hair wild, and still somehow smirking up at her like this was nothing.

She licked her—slow and deliberate—right over the soaked fabric.

“Come on.”
Alessia’s voice cracked.

She was the one whining for it now.
That realisation hit like a slap.

Aitana just hummed, fucking pleased with herself. Her fingers hooked under the waistband of Alessia’s panties. She didn’t tug. Just waited.

“Say please,” she said softly, like a taunt, like a promise.

Alessia’s breath hitched. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

Panic bloomed.

Not because she didn’t want it—she wanted it more than she’d wanted anything in months, years even—but because this was Aitana.

Because they were in Ona’s fucking bathroom.

Because someone had already knocked.
Because Ella was probably whispering about it by now.
Because if anyone had heard the moaning—

“You’re completely insane,” Alessia hissed, her whisper sharp and trembling. “If you think I’ll ever beg you for anything.”

But her body said something else. Her thighs trembled. Her fingers twitched. She didn’t move away.

Aitana tilted her head, expression softening in a way that only made things worse.

“You already are.”

Alessia’s jaw clenched.

She hated her.
God, she hated her.

But Aitana leaned in again, and her tongue slipped just beneath the fabric this time—low, slow, obscene.

Alessia whimpered. Bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

And then she did the unthinkable. She whispered it.

“Please.” She would regret this.

Not loud. Not sure. Barely even audible. But it was there.

And Aitana heard it. Her lashes fluttered. Aitana’s eyes went darker, the gold in her eyes as visible as ever. Her lips curved like she’d just won a war.

Her teeth caught on the inside of Alessia’s thigh. “I knew you could do it, Less.”

Alessia looked down at her—red-faced, furious, panting—and for a second, she didn’t know if she wanted to scream or cry or kiss her until they both forgot who they were.

Outside the door, she could hear footsteps again. Voices. Laughter. Ella’s voice—close.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Tooney would never let her down about this if she found out.

They were running out of time. And everyone was starting to figure it out.

There was nothing tender about it.

No apology. No pretense.

Just skin and sweat and months of hatred turned inside out.

Alessia gasped. Loud. Too loud.

Aitana’s hands grabbed her hips—tight, firm, unrelenting.

And then she looked up at her, expression predatory. One she recognised. Mouth still dangerously close. “Keep quiet.”

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

Alessia’s head dropped back against the mirror with a soft thunk, her breath coming in jagged waves. “Jesus Christ…”

Outside, voices neared.

Someone was laughing. A door creaked open. Footsteps passed by. Ella’s voice. Then Keira’s.

“She’s still not back?”

Alessia’s stomach flipped.

Aitana didn’t stop.

Her tongue was devastating. Precise. Slow when it wanted to be cruel, fast when it wanted to unravel.

Alessia’s thighs clenched around her shoulders. Her fingers scrambled for the sink edge again, her other hand flying up to cover her mouth.

Aitana hummed at her taste. Alessia bit down on her own palm to keep from moaning.

And still—Bonmatí didn’t stop.

She hummed once again against her, smug and possessive, and it made Alessia twitch violently.

She was going to come.

Here. Like this. With Aitana fucking Bonmatí on her knees in someone else’s bathroom while her teammates walked the hallway outside.

Her body bucked. Her eyes blurred.

She reached down, grabbed Aitana’s hair in her fist completely ruining her braid, and held on.

“You’re such a fucking nightmare,” Alessia whispered, nearly sobbing the words.

Aitana’s reply was a long, deep suck, plunging her fingers and curling them inside of her, that made Alessia break.

Her body convulsed, silent and feral. Her teeth sank into her knuckles.

And Aitana didn’t stop until she felt her legs start to give. Kept brushing her pointed nose Russo was obsessed with against her pulsing clit.

Only then did she finally ease off, pressing a soft kiss to Alessia’s thigh like she hadn’t just ruined her completely.

Aitana lapped at her like she was a dog without an owner, hungry, and taking whatever scraps it could get. Russo shouldn’t feel so good on her mouth, tastes so good on her tongue, so right.

Alessia was trembling under her mouth, hips still canting forward slightly. Still gasping. Still processing.

The footsteps outside faded again.

And in the silence that followed, Aitana rose to her feet—face flushed, lips slick, smug as hell.

“Now we’re even,” she said, brushing a strand of hair behind Alessia’s ear and kissing the edge of her lips.

Alessia couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even believe she existed.

She didn’t know if she wanted to hit her or fuck her again.

Probably both.

Silence bloomed.

Heavy. Humid. Unbearable. Reality set it.

Alessia’s heart still hadn’t calmed. Her thighs ached. Her lips felt raw, like they’d been kissed too hard—and they had. Everything about her felt ruined.

And then, Aitana stood in front of her like it meant nothing.

Still catching her breath. Still flushed and smug and gorgeous. Her shirt clung to her skin. There was a smear of pink along her jaw that Alessia had put there. Her moles that made a constellation on her flushed face, even more distracting.

She hated how much she wanted to kiss her again.

Aitana glanced at the door, then at Alessia and something unreadable was etched in her face.

Then she turned to the mirror and began fixing her hair like this was normal, braiding it loosely. Like she hadn’t just pulled Alessia apart like thread between her fingers. Like Alessia hadn’t done the same.

Alessia still couldn’t speak.

She swallowed hard. Pulled her ruined panties back up. Buttoned her jeans with fingers that trembled.

Aitana didn’t say anything, but her eyes cut sideways.

“You okay?” she asked softly. Careful. Too careful.

Alessia blinked. The nerve.

“I hate you,” she said. But her voice came out like a confession.

Aitana didn’t flinch. She just tucked a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear.

“Get in line.”

It was too much. Too close to the truth. Alessia looked down at her top, adjusted it, then let out a slow breath.

“We can’t leave together,” she muttered.

Aitana nodded. No argument, for the first time in forever.

“You first.”

Alessia hesitated. Her eyes caught on Aitana’s mouth again—the mouth that had just been on her, pretty pink and thin lips. Her fingers twitched like they wanted to reach out. She didn’t.

She stepped to the door, turned the knob slowly.

Listened.

Laughter still echoed down the hall, but no one was standing right outside.

She looked back once. Just once.

Aitana didn’t look at her. Wouldn’t.
It shouldn’t surprise Alessia but it still did.

Aitana was adjusting her top again, fingers quick and sharp, wiping her lip with the back of her hand like she was trying to erase something.

Alessia slipped out.

Walked straight down the hall like nothing had happened.

No one stopped her. No one asked.

And ten minutes later—when the hallway had cleared again—Aitana came out, head high, not a single crack in her armor.

Except her hands were still shaking.

The living room had shifted.

The music was softer now. Drinks half-finished. A few shoes off, bodies lazily sprawled across couches, the night winding down like a cigarette burning to the filter.

Alessia had planted herself beside Keira, staring into her cup like it might give her answers.

Ella glanced over with a suspicious little smirk and nudged her.

“You disappeared,” she said lightly, sing-song. “Was it something I said?”

Alessia didn’t bite. “Bathroom.”

Ella arched an eyebrow. “Long piss.”

Keira snorted.

But before Alessia could find something dry to say, the door clicked again—and out stepped Aitana.

Fresh braid. Collar straightened. Cup already in hand like nothing had happened.

Like she hadn’t just ruined Alessia with her mouth.

And worse—she walked straight to Laia.

Alessia froze.

She watched—watched—as Aitana laughed at something Laia whispered in her ear. Watched as Laia bumped her shoulder with hers, grinning wide like this wasn’t complicated. Like this wasn’t layered with betrayal and sex and history.

Aitana leaned in. Said something close. Smiling.

Alessia’s jaw tensed so hard her teeth ached. Her hand curled into a fist against her thigh.

Something about it—about seeing them like that—made her stomach twist.

Because it wasn’t just jealousy.

It was rage.

Rage at the way Aitana let Laia near her like nothing had changed.
Rage at how Laia still looked at her like she knew a version of her Alessia never would.
Rage at how Aitana let it happen. Chose to let it happen.

Keira leaned in, voice low.

“Less…was she in there with you?”

Alessia didn’t look at her. Her eyes were still locked on Aitana and Laia, still tracking the way Laia touched her wrist for just a second too long.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Right,” Keira murmured, sipping. “Just sounded like someone was dying in there. Thought maybe someone fell in.”

Ella grinned, clearly catching on. Glanced between them—between Alessia’s clenched jaw and Aitana’s casual brilliance.

“I mean,” Ella added, “the mirror fogged up a bit, didn’t it?” Ella was joking, but she hadn’t known that it was quite literally the reality.

“Mhm,” Alessia didn’t care right now, couldn’t speak. She was too busy watching Laia say something else in Aitana’s ear—and Aitana laugh. Soft. Easy. Familiar.

It made her feel sick.

She wanted to get up. Wanted to tell Codina off, choke her out maybe.

God, what the fuck was she doing?

She wanted to remind Aitana that you don’t get to do that to someone and then flirt with your ex two minutes later.

But Aitana passed by her instead. Didn’t even look at her.

And yet—as she walked past the couch—her fingers brushed along Alessia’s shoulder.

A soft touch. Barely anything.

But it scorched.

Alessia closed her eyes.

She hated her.

She wanted her.

And it was getting harder and harder to tell the difference.

This wasn’t love.

It was unfinished business.

And Alessia intended to finish it.

Chapter Text

Australia. July 2023.
Three weeks before the world split in two.

Aitana hadn’t slept.

Not really.

She’d lain still for hours, body aching in places she didn’t want to admit, mind replaying things she’d sworn she wouldn’t touch again. Things she swore she’d never let happen.

Not like that.

Her fingers had stopped trembling. But her palm still smelled faintly like Alessia—her neck, her chest. The sweat beneath her collarbone. The back of her knee. The damp fabric between her thighs.

Aitana curled that hand into a fist and tucked it under her pillow.

She could still feel her.
The weight of her hips. The sound she made when she came apart. The heat that clung to her skin afterward. The way she’d said please.

The way she’d pinned her down and taken what she wanted.
Left marks and didn’t ask if she could. Maybe unintentionally.
Aitana didn’t know. That’s what made it worse.

God.

She swallowed against the throb in her throat. Shut her eyes. Willed it away.
It didn’t mean anything.

She said it out loud. Once. Then again.
But her voice was hoarse. And the lie didn’t hold.

What meant even less—what shouldn’t mean anything was the way Laia had looked at her afterward. When Aitana rejoined the party with her braid frizzed, shirt readjusted in a way it hadn’t been before. Like Laia could smell the truth under her perfume.
Like she could see the mess Aitana was trying to stitch back into herself.

She rolled onto her side.

The bruise on her hip from the counter edge was small, but blooming. Her body didn’t lie the way her mouth did. The gall of that English striker was astonishing.

Had she been jealous of her and Toone? Was that it? Was she jealous of Toone?

No.

No, this had to be another one of her sick games.

Alessia scrubbed too hard that same night. The skin beneath her ribs turned pink. Her neck stung from steam.

But the smell was still there.
Faint. Clinging. She couldn’t tell if it was real or imagined anymore.

She stood in the hotel shower with her head against the tile, hands braced on the wall, just like a certain midfielder’s had been.

The water was running cold now. It should’ve helped, like it did after she played. It didn’t help.

She’d tried to sleep. Tried to drink herself calm. Tried to joke with Keira about Ella’s sunburn.

None of it worked.

Not when she could still feel Aitana on her mouth.
On her thigh.
On her goddamn chain.

She was supposed to hate her.

But it was getting harder and harder to keep the rage from melting into want.
And harder still to figure out where one ended and the other began.

It was hard when she was so good with her mouth.
Hard when she’d been on her knees for Alessia—for fuck’s sake.
What the fuck was this woman’s issue?

She hadn’t told anyone. Wouldn’t.

Keira had looked at her twice that morning, eyes narrowed. Like she was sniffing something beneath the usual chaos.

And it made Alessia spiral worse.

At Ona’s house, She started watching the way Keira talked to her—Aitana. Noticed how easily they smiled now. How they always seemed to be near each other in Barça photos, in the warm-up circle, even on instagram stories. Whispering something. Laughing low.

It hadn’t been like that a year ago. But now?

Now Aitana looked at Keira like she trusted her. And Keira, well, Keira was observant. Too observant.

Alessia didn’t think Aitana would say anything. She knew she wouldn’t dare. Aitana Bonmatí was too proud to admit she’d dropped to her knees for someone she claimed to hate.
But still.

The thought of Keira knowing, even guessing..made Alessia’s stomach twist.

It made everything worse.
It made her paranoid.

Ella had teased her about disappearing at the party. Alessia had laughed it off.

She was still laughing, technically.
Just quieter now.

She turned the water off. Stepped out. Stared at her reflection in the fogged-up mirror.

Her lips were raw.
Her thighs ached.
Her fingers still smelled like her.

She hated her.
She wanted her.
She was fucked.
And she was fucked by Aitana Bonmatí.
Literally.

Spain vs Costa Rica – July 21, 2023

Aitana wasn’t trying to prove anything.
Not to anyone else, at least. They didn’t have to right now.

The whistle blew and Aitana slipped into the match like water: smooth, sharp, unbothered. She knew what they said about Spain’s squad. That they weren’t ready. That the boycott had gutted them. That she wasn’t a leader. That she was overrated. That Alexia would make or break their chemistry.

She didn’t care.
Let them talk.

She carved up Costa Rica’s midfield with frightening ease, dragging defenders out of shape, setting tempo without speaking. Scored in the 23rd minute, off her laces, low and clinical then barely celebrated.

It wasn’t arrogance.
It was clarity.

They won 3–0.

Afterward, she gave a short interview in quiet English, she had to keep it casual. When they asked how it felt to score in her first World Cup start, she just blinked and said:

“We’re not here to participate. We’re here to win.”

Keira showed the clip to the rest of the lionesses, half in jest the other in admiration.

“Who pissed in her cheerios?” Ella joked, she also admired Aitana but she wouldn’t say that now.

“They’re going to be quite some trouble aren’t they?” Esme huffed, the other lionesses nodded.

“Nothing we haven’t seen or heard before.” Alessia added brashly, Ella nodded at that.

In her own room, Alessia opened her phone and watched that same clip three times, sound off.

We’re all here to win, Alessia thought silently. God how aggravating, classic Spain thinking the world revolves around them.

England vs Haiti – July 22, 2023

The press said she looked calm.
Focused. Sharp.

They didn’t know she’d barely slept.

England scraped a 1–0 win thanks to Georgia’s penalty, but Russo wasn’t clean. She’d made smart runs, held the ball well but her touch felt off. Too heavy. Too eager. Like her body was stuck in a different rhythm than everyone else’s.

She could feel Sarina watching.

“Good effort,” the Dutch woman said afterward. “You’re close.” Close to what, Alessia wasn’t sure.
The edge? Breaking point? Something worse?

Back in the hotel that night, she found a post-match clip of Aitana tucking her hair behind her ear mid-interview, eyes bright with focus, sweat clinging to her all too familiar cheekbones. There was blood on her sock from a late tackle.

Alessia nearly dropped her phone.

They hadn’t even ended with the group stages, she couldn’t forget that this was the Women’s World Cup.

Whatever, she’s fine.

Spain vs Zambia – July 26, 2023
Aitana POV

It was too easy.

Zambia’s high line collapsed under the weight of Spain’s control. Mariona got a brace. Alba Redondo danced. Jenni scored. But it was Aitana who orchestrated it all, again—two assists, one goal, and still, no real celebration.

Her body remembered the Japan game from last summer.
The humiliating defeat. The silence on the plane.

She refused to repeat it.

She sat on the bench in the 70th minute, towel over her shoulders, eyes locked on the field.

Laia leaned over at one point.
“All good?”

Aitana nodded, but didn’t look at her.

Things had been off between them for a while. They’d talked once, months ago carefully, like moving glass. But whatever they’d said hadn’t fixed anything.

Now there was space between them.
Not loud. Just constant. No more late night shared kisses or ending up tangled in each other’s sheets.

Laia had slipped closer to Alexia and Misa again just laughing freely, leaning against them at dinner, sharing private looks during training. It made Aitana’s stomach turn more than she’d admit.

She hadn’t forgiven Misa. Not really.
And as much as she still loved Alexia, that felt different too.

She wondered if it was because of her ACL injury and how things had been misconstrued through media coverage, Spanish journo’s who thirsted for some sort of rivalry between them.

Truthfully, Aitana began to wonder at some point if Alexia had felt differently towards her because of it.

But it was still Alexia.

Alexia still talked to her. Still celebrated with her. But something had shifted.

There was distance now—beneath the surface. A subtle pull in opposite directions, like magnets flipped the wrong way. They didn’t clash.
They just stopped gravitating.

Aitana clenched her jaw and fixed her eyes on the pitch.
She didn’t need to be understood.
She needed to win.

The whole squad was tense after Keira went down with what looked like a knee injury. And if you’re a woman footballer, you understand that anything having to do with the knee is extremely tenacious.
England depended on Keira, built off of her, celebrated her.

Alessia didn’t realize how much of her calm came from Keira’s presence until it was gone.

She didn’t score.
Barely got a shot off.

The press was kind. Sarina wasn’t cruel. But Tooney saw it.

“You need to get out of your head, mate,” she said. “You’re not chasing a ghost.”

Alessia wanted to scream. Because that’s exactly what she was doing.

Except the ghost had a pulse. A ponytail. A golden first touch. And she was probably icing her calves in Brisbane right now, unbothered.

The hotel cafe was neutral territory. Technically.

England had just finished their closed training when the Spanish squad filtered in from their morning session, sun-drenched and half-laughing. Aitana was trailing slightly behind Olga and Ivana, earbuds still in, water bottle in hand. Hair tied up, ankles wrapped.

Alessia noticed her the second she stepped in.
She wasn’t even trying to.

There was no drama. No standoff.
Just a quiet tension, like a room remembering something it wasn’t supposed to.

Alessia glanced away, cheeks flushed. She’d been telling herself she wouldn’t look this time. That she’d just grab her
fucking smoothie and leave.

Alessia, be fucking normal how old are you? She scolded herself repeatedly.

But Aitana stopped at the counter, a few feet away, and suddenly Keira was standing between them.

“Aita,” Keira said softly. Not to Alessia.
To her.

Aitana broke out into a warm smile, then pulled out one earbud. “Keira.”

Keira loved this girl already. “We saw your last match. Tight rotation.”

Aitana gave a nod. “Better now.” Her voice was quiet but not stiff. “You?” Aitana prodded knowingly, of course she watched Englands match.

Of course?

Keira’s smile tilted just slightly. “Bit of a scare, but no tear. Staff think it’s just strain. I’ll miss China but I’ll be fine for knockouts.”

Relief flickered across Aitana’s face. Almost imperceptible.
But Alessia saw it. Questioned it too.

“You scared everyone,” Aitana said. “Even my mother texted me.”

Keira laughed gently. “You can tell her I’m not out just yet.”

A beat passed. Not awkward, just full. Familiar, maybe. Too familiar.

Alessia shifted behind them, straw between her teeth, jaw working.
She didn’t say anything.

And then Aitana turned. Her eyes flicked to Alessia—just once.

Nothing changed in her expression. No smirk. No softness. Just that same impossibly unreadable face. Her mouth parted like she might say something, then didn’t.

What the hell?

Alessia didn’t look away. She didn’t dare.

The memory between them was a physical thing. Bone-deep. Now hidden under shirts and bruised lips. Her shoulders tensed.

Keira held back a grin, sensing the static, stepped in again.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll let you get back to it. You lot looked sharp today.”

“We’re working,” Aitana said simply. “No more five-nils.” Aitana attempted to seem as calm and unbothered as she could, but she could feel eyes on her. Stupid blue eyes.

Keira smiled again, then clapped Alessia’s shoulder once as she passed by.

When Aitana turned to leave, her hand brushed lightly across Alessia’s forearm. Barely anything. A ghost.

But it was deliberate.

And Alessia? She didn’t flinch.
She just exhaled, slow and sharp—like she was holding back a punch.

Or worse.
A memory. Or even worse, pulling Aitana back for something else.

Ella was watching from the back table with Lucy, halfway through a protein bar.

She leaned in, muttered, “Someone’s not over it.”

Lucy arched an eyebrow. “Which one?”

Ella grinned. “Exactly mate.”

Aitana sat back down with the team, peeled the lid off her yoghurt slowly, trying not to look smug. Didn’t feel any eyes on her at the moment.

“Is Keira okay?” asked Ona quietly, half-leaning in. “Everyone looked tense.”

Aitana just nodded, biting back a grin.

She didn’t answer fully, not because she didn’t know, but because all she could think about was the way Alessia’s shoulders had gone rigid the moment she spoke to Keira. The way her sharp jaw ticked when she looked at her.

The way she didn’t look away.

Her fingers still buzzed faintly from where it had brushed Alessia’s forearms, same spot Aitana had gripped when Alessia pushed her into that counter. Same place her nails had left half-moon marks on Alessia’s skin. She hadn’t meant to touch her. Not really.

But something in her body had decided otherwise.

She stirred the yoghurt, barely paying attention.

Alessia couldn’t take her eyes off them.
Off her.

Something about it felt inevitable.

Aitana dipped her spoon into the yoghurt, soft and slow, and her lip twitched.

Her thighs pressed together beneath the table—muscle memory, not shame.

She remembered the mirror. The sink. The sound Alessia made when she begged. When she came.

Jesus Christ Aitana, you’re at the table, Aitana thought silently and straightened her back.

Not when she was close to Keira.
Not when she was just breathing near her.

Aitana didn’t know what it was.
Only that it wasn’t over.

Not when Alessia was this easy to read.
This easy to rile.
This easy to want. She wanted her?

She pressed the spoon between her lips and smiled to herself, teeth sinking softly into it.

Entertaining.
And completely hers to ruin. She was going to make sure she hadn’t forgot just in case, for football reasons.

Spain vs Japan – July 31, 2023

She felt it unravel before halftime.

The rhythm was wrong. The spacing off. Irene was caught too high again. Olga kept pushing forward and leaving space behind her like they were chasing a fifth goal instead of protecting the back line.

They’d been warned.
They’d all seen the tape.
Japan didn’t need possession, they needed one moment. Just one.

And then they had three.

By the 35th minute, they were down two. By halftime, three. The grass beneath Aitana’s boots felt slippery. Not wet—just unfamiliar. Like the world had shifted under her feet and no one else had noticed.

“Stay calm,” Alexia said beside her in the tunnel. “We’ll play through.”
But Alexia wasn’t the same either. Not yet. Not sharp.

And calm wasn’t working anymore.

The fourth goal was a dagger. A long ball over the top, another sprint Japan didn’t lose, another flinch in Misa’s hands.

Aitana didn’t scream. She ran. Pressed. Tried to fix it all with her legs, her lungs, her fucking will. It didn’t work.

After the whistle, she didn’t move.

She stood there, hands on her hips, sweat dripping off her temples, ponytail stuck to her neck. All around her, her teammates were bending over, collapsing to the pitch, staring into nothing.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t even curse.

She just… stopped.

“Aitana,” someone said behind her. It might’ve been Ona. Or Cata. She didn’t answer.

When she walked into the tunnel, she didn’t bother with a towel. Shook everyone’s hands. Didn’t speak.

Her hotel room was dark. She hadn’t turned on the main light. The TV glowed faintly, replays looping in English. Every goal shown again. Again.

She didn’t flinch when her own mistakes showed. She didn’t argue when the pundits blamed the system. The rotations. The manager.

None of them said her name.
But they didn’t have to.

Aitana sat on the carpet near the bed, back against the lower bed frame, knees pulled up. Her socks still on. Shin guards off since she’d made her way up the stairs, now discarded somewhere across the carpet.

Just go wash up Aitana.

She hadn’t spoken to Alexia since the final whistle. She hadn’t looked at Laia either.

She’d turned her phone face down hours ago, after seeing the England score.

6–1 against China.
Alessia had scored again.

Of course she had.

Aitana shut her eyes. Quietly seething, trying to take deep breaths like her mother had taught her.

And for one moment, just one, she let herself think about that fucking bathroom.

She didn’t want to think of Japan, Laia, Alexia, Jorge Vilda.

Just Alessia’s mouth. The mirror. Her voice when she broke.

She wanted to believe that whatever this was, it could stay in the past. Stay contained.

But even in the silence of her room, even with the shame of a four-nil loss wrapped around her like a second kit. She knew it was inevitable.

Salma who was assigned to her room was still in the bathroom—so Aitana gave herself a moment. Just one.

She didn’t care. Not right now.

Her breath stuttered as her fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her shorts. The cotton clung damp to her skin.

She breathed out, careful.

She was thinking of Alessia.

She was getting off to her competition. Her enemy. Her ‘rival’.

And worse—she wanted her again.

Aitana pressed the back of her head against the bedframe, eyes squeezed shut, jaw tight.

She just knew she needed to come.
She needed someone.
She needed her.

She tried to stay quiet, focused, biting down on a moan as her fingers moved faster. Tried to picture anything else.

But all she could think about were Alessia’s fingers. The way she almost choked her when she was close, how she found out Aitana liked it. The way the tile dug into her back. The sound Alessia made when she lost control. How she tasted, how she trembled and tugged on her braid.

“Fuck you,” Aitana breathed, voice fraying, her other hand sliding up under her shirt, clutching at her chest.

She was close.
Too close.
She didn’t want to be but she couldn’t stop.

And then—
It hit. Sharp and fast.

She came, trembling, hand pressed between her legs, chest heaving, thighs quivering.

All of it for Alessia fucking Russo.

Shame crept in like smoke. Her body still pulsed with it, with her. She didn’t know when it had gotten this bad.

But it was.

And worst of all—She still needed her.

She shut her eyes, swallowed hard.

Fuck this. Humiliating. Who the hell had she become?

She told herself she didn’t care.

Told herself Spain getting battered 4–0 was hilarious. That watching Aitana who was calm, tight-jawed, flailing beneath the surface..was satisfying. That she deserved it.

But her fingers had opened Twitter the second the final whistle blew.
Just to check. Just to see.

There was a freeze-frame in the feed: Aitana in profile, sweat dripping from her jaw, mouth parted slightly, hands braced on her hips. The caption said something like: “Even in defeat, composure.”

Oh ridiculous. Delicious.

Alessia scoffed. Grinned. Bit her bottom lip. Composure, her ass. She knew that face. Knew what it looked like when that same mouth was gasping into her neck.
Knew how that body writhed when she couldn’t hold still anymore. Knew the sound she made when she was impossibly close.

That photo didn’t show the real Aitana. Only Alessia had seen that. And now?Now she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Alessia didn’t care that she was almost deluded, didn’t care if she really knew Aitana or not. But secretly, she did.

She shut the door to her and Niamh’s hotel bathroom quietly. Turned the water on, even though she didn’t plan to shower.

Her hands shook.

She leaned against the counter, stared at herself in the mirror. Her lips were flushed. Her thighs still bruised faintly—from tackles, from training. But her body remembered what it felt like to be wrapped around under Aitana’s strong legs. To be clawed at. Yanked. Almost begged.

She shouldn’t.
She wouldn’t.

She pressed her back up against the wall. Her fingers dipped beneath her pants anyway.

She shut her eyes and it all came back, the mirror. The tile. The weight of Aitana’s voice when she had curled her fingers. The scratch of her nails. The taste of her mouth.

“Fucking hell,” Alessia breathed, her other hand gripping the edge of the counter.

She didn’t know what she was doing.

She didn’t last as long she usually did, alone.

And when she came—fast, bitter, shaking, she bit down on her own wrist to keep from saying her name out loud.

The shame didn’t come right away. Only anger. At herself.
At Aitana.

At whatever sick hold that woman had on her.

She still wanted her.

And she knew deep in her chest, where the obsession curled sharp and warm that this wasn’t finished.

Quarterfinals — Spain vs Netherlands (August 11, 2023)

They’d prepped all week. Tighter lines. Quicker decisions. No space between centerbacks. No high fullbacks when they didn’t need it.

It was war-footing football now.

The Dutch dragged them into extra time and for a moment, Aitana thought it would break them. Alexia had started but faded by the hour mark. Jenni missed her penalty. Irene was bleeding from her lip by the end.

But when Aitana stepped up for the spot kick, she didn’t hesitate.
She buried it. Low. Hard. Ruthless.

1–0.
The Dutch equalized late, but it didn’t matter.

Salma scored the winner. Spain roared.
Aitana dropped to her knees again.

Not in triumph.
In fucking relief. Everything felt so conclusive in this tournament.

When she looked to the stands, she didn’t see anyone.
But she imagined Alessia watching.
Like a sicko.

Quarterfinals — England vs Colombia (August 12, 2023)

She hated how hard it was.

Colombia pressed like demons. The crowd hated England. Every touch was booed. Every throw-in delayed. Russo had never felt so hated—or so needed.

Colombia was a very physical team, this is why other teams struggled, because they claimed physicality was overbearing when really it was just part of the game.

Alessia knew that.

She scored.

A flicked finish, tucked low. One of the ugliest goals she’d ever bagged. But it didn’t matter. It got them through.

Ella hugged her too tight after the final whistle. Keira looked like she was trying not to limp. Lauren Hemp had a bloody knee.

They’d scraped it.

Later, alone in her room, unrestrained, Alessia watched Spain’s match highlights again.

She paused the clip right as Aitana stepped up for her penalty.
Zoomed in.

The set of her jaw.
The blank intensity in her eyes.
The way her left hand shook just slightly before the run-up.

Alessia smiled.
Bitter.
Infatuated.

Oh, what the hell.

She couldn’t tell if she wanted to kiss her again or ruin her completely.

Semifinals — Spain vs Sweden (August 15, 2023)

Sweden was everything Spain wasn’t—tall, organized, brutal.

By the 80th minute, the match was a deadlock of nerves and bruised shins. Jenni had dropped deep again. Salma looked exhausted. Alexia barely made it off the bench.

It had to come from someone else.

And it did.
Olga. A bullet strike in the 89th minute. The net rippled like fate had bent in their favor.

Aitana didn’t celebrate like a girl who just reached her first World Cup final.

She stood still. Let the stadium shake around her. Her knees didn’t give out this time.

“It’s happening,” Laia said, breathless, grabbing her arm.

Aitana smiled faintly. Let herself be touched.

But her eyes were already somewhere else.
England. Alessia.

She hadn’t cried. Not yet.

Her chest was still rising too fast, adrenaline prickling under her skin, the roar of the stadium still echoing in her ears like static. Olga was sobbing. Jenni had dropped to her knees in prayer. Alexia clutched her face like she couldn’t believe it was real.

Aitana just stood still.
Half-laughing, half-winded.

Then arms wrapped around her from behind—strong, familiar—and a voice pressed into her ear.

“I told you,” Fridolina Rolfö murmured. “You’re a fucking monster when you’re pissed off.”

They switched kits, and someone had tried to cover up Aitana in her sports bra out of respect as she slipped Fridos Sweden kit over her head.

Aitana let out a real laugh then—quick, shocked, giddy. She turned just in time for Rolfö to scoop her off the ground in a ridiculous, showy bridal carry.

“Frido, what are you—!”

“Calm down,” Rolfö grinned. “You’re small. I can carry you.”

Aitana swatted at her shoulder but didn’t fight it. Her arms wrapped loosely around her teammate’s neck, laughing into the hollow of her throat.

Flashes went off around them. Cameras caught it immediately Spain’s #6 held like a bride in full kit half which wasn’t hers, hair sweaty, smile crooked, fingers clutching the sleeve of her club teammate like the war was finally over.

Rolfö set her down gently.

“Finish the job,” she said, more serious now. “You get to write the ending. So make it worth it.” Aitana was cupping her face now, tears both shining in their eyes.

Aitana could only nod.
No speeches. No promises.
Just steel in her spine.

Alessia wasn’t even watching the game anymore. The match had ended an hour ago. The highlights were looping across the big screen in the hotel lounge. She was scrolling aimlessly, earbuds in, pretending not to care.

Then the screen flicked to it.

Aitana.
Held.

Rolfö lifting her like she weighed nothing, all teeth and flushed cheeks. Aitana’s arms loosely slung around her neck, that stupid little smirk she only wore when she thought no one was watching. Her legs half-kicking like she didn’t mean to be carried but she liked it.

Alessia stared.

Now it was showing Aitana holding Swedens beloved’s face in her hands, near the tunnel.

It felt so intimate.

Was that really necessary?

Someone whistled. Ella, maybe. Or Niamh.

“Barça girls, man,” someone muttered behind her. “They’re too comfortable.”

“It’s just the culture there!” Jess Carter laughed.

“Can you blame her?” Lucy added, obligatory because she was playing for that club. “Fridolina’s a legend.”

Alessia didn’t say anything.

She couldn’t stop looking at Aitana’s face on the screen.

That look. That ease. That private moment made public.

She bit the inside of her cheek so hard she could almost taste blood.

It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything.

But still—

The sight of Aitana in someone else’s arms made her fists curl.

The photo had gone viral within the hour.

Aitana Bonmatí, bridal-style in Fridolina Rolfö’s arms, smile half-shy, eyes lit up like she wasn’t carrying the weight of a country.

@BarçaFemZone:
“This is your MVP. Your little World Cup villain. Your midfielder in love with chaos.”🇸🇪🇪🇸 📸: Rolfö x Bonmatí 😭😭

@FIFAWWC:
“Aitana Bonmatí—carried into the final. Literally.” 👰🏽‍♀️🔥🇪🇸

@HempoSeeds (a burner account Tooney was definitely behind): “If Russo doesn’t score out of sheer spite, I’m gonna be upset.”

The hell?

Alessia refreshed the image again. And again.

It wasn’t even the fact that Fridolina had carried her. It was the way Aitana had let her. Let herself be held. Touched. Grinned at like a girl with no walls. Like she was soft. Like she wasn’t the same person who had told Alessia it was her turn before dropping to her knees.

“Okay, what’s that look chick?” Ella said, sliding onto the couch beside her, shoving a bowl of crisps between them.

Alessia blinked. “What?”

“That face,” Ella said, pointing at her with a crisp. “You’re scowling at a still image like it owes you money.”

Keira, sitting across from them, lifted an eyebrow.

“Please don’t tell me this is about Aitana and Frido.”

Alessia looked down at her phone. Locked the screen.

“It’s not,” she lied.

Ella grinned immediately. “So it is.”

“They’re teammates,” Keira said calmly. “That’s how they are. That how Aita is. You know this.”

Aita, their closeness was beginning to turn something in Alessia. She didn’t know why.

“Do I?” Alessia muttered, too fast.

A beat passed. Ella and Keira shared a look.

Alessia bit the inside of her cheek again, then shrugged.

“I just think it’s funny how she always needs someone’s hands on her,” she added, tone dry as sand. “First Tooney, now Rolfö. Anyone else wanna line up?”

Ella almost opened her mouth to retort that, she never had her hands on Aitana like that.

Keira narrowed her eyes slightly.
Ella blinked.

“Mate,” she said. “You’re literally red.”

Alessia stood.

“Not because I care, she’s a media princess.”

No one believed her.

England vs Australia (August 16, 2023)

The crowd was against them. Naturally. Every touch booed. Every shot heckled.

But it made Alessia sharper.
Hungrier.

She was everywhere. Tangling with defenders, body-checking Foord when she dropped too deep, fighting for every loose ball like something bigger was at stake than just a final.

Lauren Hemp was on fire. Ella had magic in her first touch.

But Russo? Russo was feral.

She scored the third goal and didn’t even smile. Just pumped her fist, teeth bared. A warning.

“That’s our fucking Less,” Grace screamed behind her, voice gone hoarse. But Alessia didn’t hear her.

Because somewhere in her skull was Aitana’s voice. A whisper. A gasp. A snarl. She couldn’t shake her. And now she had one more match to prove something she still didn’t have the words for.

The hallway smelled like air conditioning and Gatorade.

Players passed one another in overlapping waves—cameras trailing, press officers hovering, makeup half-worn, sweat still fresh. Spain had just finished press. England had just arrived.

Alessia was laughing aloud with Hemp about something stupid when it happened. One of those laughs where she’s wiping her tears away.

Aitana turned the corner.

Still in her kit. Hair tied back. Compression sleeves still on. She looked taller than she was, posture like steel.

Their eyes caught. Held.

Ella said something next to Alessia. Alessia didn’t answer. She wasn’t laughing anymore.

Aitana didn’t smile. She didn’t look away, either.

For a second, they both just stood there in the middle of chaos—two girls with medals in reach, pride in shreds, and no idea how to stop what they’d started.

Aitana’s gaze dropped to Alessia’s lips (?) then back up.

That was all.

She moved past.

But as she passed by shoulder barely brushing, Alessia turned and caught the scent of her again. That fucking perfume.

Crisp. Floral. Impossible to forget.

Ella turned to her.

“You alright?” Alessia swallowed.

Didn’t answer. Her fists were clenched. She was going to lose her mind. Or fuck her. Or both. And they still had ninety minutes to go.

Alessia wasn’t drunk.
Not enough to make this an accident.

Three glasses of wine. Maybe four.
Enough to make the lines blur a little. Enough to let herself watch.

Because Aitana was there.

Curled into the far side of the lounge like a vision Alessia didn’t have the strength to resist. Hoodie zipped halfway up, Spain shorts riding high, one strong bare thigh tucked under the other. There was something devastating about the way she was holding her tea with both hands, talking quietly with Jenni and Mariona, her voice too low to hear.

Too calm. Too composed.

Like she hadn’t wrecked Alessia with her mouth in a bathroom nearly a month ago.

Like she hadn’t told her to shut up and meant it.

Alessia shifted against the couch, leg bouncing. Her throat was dry. Keira looked over once, frowned, but said nothing. Maybe she knew. Maybe everyone knew.

Across the room, Aitana laughed at something Jenni said. Tilted her head back. Glanced up—and caught her.

Fuck.

Their eyes locked.

It wasn’t long. Two seconds. Maybe three.

But it cut.

Alessia felt the breath leave her chest like she’d been grazed. Because Aitana’s gaze wasn’t sharp, or smug, or even guarded. It was something worse.

It was soft.

Like she knew exactly what she’d done. And didn’t regret a second of it.

Almost an hour later, Aitana had looked like she was over this team mix up and ready to rest. So she collected her things and gave Keira a tight hug before leaving.

“Heading to bed?” “Yeah, you should too, you’ll need it.” Aitana joked, Keira slapped her shoulder and let her go.

Alessia got up, timed herself sloppily, it’d been an hour since Bonmatí left. She moved quickly. Nearly knocked over Hempo’s water bottle. She muttered an excuse, said she needed air.

But she didn’t go outside.

She found Salma first.

“You wouldn’t happen to know Aitana’s room number, would you?”

Salma blinked at her, caught off-guard. “We….share..why?”

They had never interacted before today.

Poor girl, she looked petrified, she was starting to look around for one of her mates.

Alessia was too quick. “She left something. At…the media table, I think. I grabbed it by accident.”

That’s the best she could come up with?

Salma hesitated giving Alessia a long quizzical look, then shrugged.
“We uh, are in 409.”

Salma hoped Aitana wouldn’t murder her in her sleep.

That was all Alessia needed.

She had just slipped out of her hoodie. Just pulled her hair loose. She was reaching for the lights when the knock came.

Three short raps. Deliberate. Then quiet.

She paused. Who could that be?

Salma was with teammates in the common room. No one else knew she was here yet.

Aitana opened the door carefully. She hadn’t put a bra on—just a Barça tee and her shorts. Her hair was messy, her pulse already quick.

Then she saw her.

Alessia Russo. Standing there like a ghost she’d summoned. Tight black tee under a Nike tech jacket, her hair curling at the ends. A glassiness in her eyes Aitana couldn’t name. Couldn’t handle.

Oh, fucking hell.

“I…” Alessia’s breath caught. Her voice was low. Rough. “I think I had something of yours.”

Aitana blinked, guarded and flustered. “What?”

Alessia didn’t answer. She was looking at her. Staring, really. Her mouth parted.

What the hell is this?

She didn’t know what she was doing.

“Are you alone?” she asked. Had to, wanted to.

Aitana’s fingers curled tighter around the doorframe. “What’s it to you?”

Aitana’s first thought wasn’t what are you doing here?

It was God, she looks so good like this. So easy.

Aitana, be logical.

Alessia didn’t say anything. She looked past Aitana briefly, into the empty half-lit room.

A pause.
They both stood there. Neither breathing normally.

Alessia still wouldn’t answer her.

Aitana’s brow furrowed, her voice almost steady. “Why are you here?”

Aitana groaned, starting to get frustrated and warm. Alessia was still staring, her pink lips parted.

“You’re lucky Salma’s not here,” Aitana murmured conceding, voice quieter than she meant.

“She told me the number,” Alessia deadpanned. “I lied.”

Aitana leaned against the frame curious, and surprised. “About what?”

“That you left something. A wrist wrap or whatever.” Alessia had a hand at her temple, trying to process.

A pause.

“And did I?” Aitana laughed beginning to get cocky, Alessia Russo was really at her door and she’d lied to get here.

She looked like a puppy, maybe a curious golden retriever in a Lionesses Nike tech set.

Alessia’s eyes dropped to her mouth. “Mhm. You left me fucking insane.”

She did? Aitana’s lip quirked, usually she had something snarky to reply with but couldn’t think of anything.

Not when Alessia looked the way she did.

Another pause. Then Aitana stepped aside, slowly.

It wasn’t even conscious.

Then she made a rather rash and probably regrettable decision. She tugged on Alessia’s tech sweater and pulled her into the room. “Get in.”

Alessia squeaked but allowed the midfielder to pull her in. It’s what she wanted after all, right?

The door clicked shut behind them, but they didn’t move at first.

Aitana stood near the bed, strong arms crossed near her chest like she needed a barrier. She was in a white Barça shirt and black shorts. No bra. Her nipples were faintly visible through the fabric, and Alessia’s eyes lingered a second too long.

Aitana noticed. Of course she noticed. She decided to drop her arms and check out Russo.

“This is stupid,” she said flatly.

“Yeah.” Alessia felt self conscious now but she couldn’t stop herself.

“You’re playing me tomorrow.”

Aitana was so close now.

“You’re playing me.”

They stared at each other.

And then Alessia moved. Aitana’s brows furrowed but she didn’t move.

Russo crossed the small space between them and breathed out on her lips.

“I had to see you.”

“You’ve seen me,” Aitana whispered, didn’t know why she was, she could smell the wine in Alessia’s breath.

“Not enough,” Alessia said, and then her mouth was on hers—hot, urgent, tasting like wine and something ruined.

Aitana blinked through the kiss, staggered by the way Alessia moved, like she’d been holding this in for too long and had finally snapped. Lips parted, breath caught, her back hit the dresser with a soft thud as Alessia pressed in, hands braced on either side of her.

Like before.

She tried to speak, managed only, “You’re drunk.”

Alessia’s mouth dragged across her jaw. “A bit.”

Aitana wondered if Alessia knew she touched herself when she thought about her, the other day.

Aitana didn’t know Alessia should be charged with the same offense.

Her teeth grazed skin, and Aitana swallowed a sound that felt too real. “You don’t even like me.”

Alessia laughed, low and slurred, but mean. “Yeah?…I know? But I keep thinking about this..?”

Aitana wanted to pry but couldn’t.

Russo kissed her again, sloppy and full of heat, like she wanted to crawl inside her mouth and live there.

“You’re ridiculous,” Aitana whispered, dizzy.

“You’re maddening,” Alessia said, pulling back just enough to look at her, blonde hair already disheveled. Aitana blushed slightly.

Russo’s eyes were glassy, feral. “And I hate you for it.”

Aitana’s breath hitched. Her heart punched against her ribs.

“Russo,” she warned.

But her hands were already on Alessia’s waist, holding her like she didn’t mean it.

“Tell me to stop,” Alessia dared her,

Aitana didn’t. How could she?

Instead, she kissed her again—softer this time, but still shaking—and felt something collapse inside her chest.

Because this wasn’t just lust. It wasn’t just history. It was everything they’d buried and denied and turned into performance. And now it was pouring out of Alessia like a confession she’d been trying not to scream.

Rough, fast, no rhythm—just the kind of kiss that tastes like you’ve been dying for it. Alessia ran her tongue over Aitana’s lip and got closer.

Aitana gasped into it. Alessia grabbed her waist, shoved her back against the dresser again.

Clothes rustled. Breath stuttered.

“You…” Aitana began, but it was hard to form words—let alone finish them. Her head tipped back against the wall, breath caught.

“You love pinning—” Alessia didn’t wait. She grabbed her face and kissed her harder, silencing her completely.

“—me against things.”

Alessia groaned into her mouth, teeth catching on her lower lip like she couldn’t help herself. Her hands were everywhere now—shoulders, waist, ass—gripping, claiming, like she was trying to make sure Aitana didn’t float away.

And Aitana let her. No—pressed into it.

She kissed Alessia like she wanted to be punished. Like she wanted to be reminded this was real. Her hands fumbled with the hem of her shirt, yanked it up, then clawed her fleece jacket off so fast the sleeve caught for a second.

“Fuck,” she muttered, breathless.

Alessia didn’t give her time to breathe. She shoved Aitana’s shirt higher, mouth crashing to the newly exposed skin. She licked at Aitana’s ribs, teeth grazing just under her chest, biting the flesh there like it belonged to her.

Aitana gasped—loud.

“You can’t even wait,” she breathed, dazed, her fingers curling in Alessia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want to,” Alessia growled, voice low and hoarse. “You walk around like this and expect me to be normal?”

Like what? Aitana was sure she was hallucinating.

She grabbed both thighs and lifted Aitana like she owned the right—slammed her back against the wall behind the dresser now. A low dresser. A wall. It didn’t matter. Her legs spread instantly, wrapped tight around Alessia’s hips, breath catching in her throat.

Aitana’s laugh was short. Wild. “You’ve gone mad.”

“Just for you.” She didn’t mean that, couldn’t have.

Alessia kissed her again—open-mouthed, filthy, starving. Her tongue pressed into her mouth without hesitation. She sucked Aitana’s lip like she was trying to leave a mark. Her hips rocked forward once, dry but firm.

Aitana moaned. Loud. Shameless.

She clawed at Alessia’s shirt, shoved it up, let her palms roam up the front of her chest until she found warm skin and a tight sports bra.

She palmed over it, fingers curling under the band. Alessia cursed against her mouth.

“You’re not gonna stop, are you?” Aitana murmured, smirking now.

“No,” Alessia said, too fast. “Not unless you make me.”

Aitana’s eyes darkened.

“I’m not going to.”

That was all the permission Alessia needed.

“God, you’re—”

“Don’t say it,” Aitana warned, voice already shaking.

Alessia smirked up at her, kissed the inside of her neck, then bit it—sharp enough to sting. “No promises.”

“You’re so annoying,” Aitana hissed against her mouth now, heart thudding.

“You came,” Alessia muttered, voice hoarse and stunned. “You let me in.”
She sounded wrecked already—relieved, disbelieving. Like the sight of Aitana alone had done her in.

Then her hands were under Aitana’s shirt without hesitation. Alessia’s jaw slacked, she wasn’t wearing a bra. And before Aitana could smirk at that, Alessia was merciless.

No finesse. Just need. Groping, squeezing, pulling at her like she’d been dreaming about this and couldn’t pace herself now that it was real. She reveled in the way Aitana was gasping, probably in disbelief.

She was going to kill Aitana before she could even do anything.

Her thumbs rolled over Aitana’s nipples now through her shirt, tugged at them rough and sloppy until Aitana moaned, biting down hard on her bottom lip.

“Yeah,” Alessia was talking to herself, and Aitana couldn’t believe how fast it hit her—how easy it was to let Alessia touch her like this. Just like in the bathroom. Her body caved instantly, without hesitation. Like it missed being ruined.

Alessia ducked her head, mouth hot through the thin fabric, lips dragging over her tits like she didn’t care how messy she was. Like she wanted to leave her drenched.

“Fuck—slow down,” Aitana gasped, fingers threading into the back of Alessia’s hair, yanking her up roughly.

But Alessia didn’t listen.

“Sexy,” she groaned, voice thick, wet lips dragging up Aitana’s stomach. She was slurring now—drunk on her skin, on the taste, the sweat, the fucking power of it. Her mouth was still open, still pressing, still sucking.

Aitana looked down at her—pink cheeks, swollen lips, eyes blown wide. Her mouth was slick. Her whole face was flushed, like the act of touching her had rewired something.

“You’re filthy,” Aitana snapped, chest rising and falling like she was about to lose it.

And then she shoved her.

Hard.

Alessia stumbled backward with a low grunt, hitting the edge of the bed, arms out to catch herself.

“You don’t get to grope me like that whenever you want,” Aitana hissed, voice cracking with something between arousal and indignation. Hopping off the dresser.

Alessia licked her lips, completely enthralled. Smirked.
“You love it.”

“Shut up.”

“You do. You..You act like you hate it, but you were dripping the second I touched you.”

Aitana was fuming so she stepped forward, and Alessia stayed exactly where she was—spread out, open, cocky.

Alessia was still grinning like she’d won. Like this was exactly how she’d pictured it—Aitana furious and flushed, above her.

She spread her legs a little wider.

Waiting.

Inviting.

Daring.

Fuck.

Aitana climbed on top of her. Straddled her lap like she owned her.

And maybe she did.

Alessia let her. Looked up at her like a girl gone stupid. Hands immediately gripping Aitana’s thighs, sliding up to her ass, pulling her down harder onto her.

Aitana moaned, she’d never been touched like that. Not by a woman.

“You shouldn’t have let me in,” Alessia rasped, eyes flicking between her mouth and the sharp cut of her collarbone.

Aitana leaned in, breath brushing her lips.

“Neither should you.”

And then she kissed her—slower, but mean, like she was taking something this time. Alessia groaned into it, hands greedy, trying to push her shirt higher and tug her closer all at once.

There was no pretending anymore.

They were already gone.

She tried to pull Aitana closer, tried to drag her fully into her lap, but it wasn’t happening.

“Not this time, Russo,” Aitana snapped—and shoved her flat onto the mattress.

Alessia let out a sound between a gasp and a laugh, but it died in her throat the second Aitana climbed on top of her like she owned the right. No more teasing. No grin on her face.

Only hunger.

Aitana pinned her by the shoulders, her grip firm, her body heavy and hot against hers. Her eyes? Feral. Dark. Deliberate.

It made Alessia’s thighs press together, instinctive and helpless.

“Fuck,” Alessia breathed, “Aita—”

“Hush.”

The command sent something electric down her spine.

Aitana leaned in, breath hot and ragged against Alessia’s neck, the damp strands of her hair clinging to flushed skin like static. Her mouth hovered there—close enough to burn—but she didn’t touch.

She just breathed.

And then, like the restraint had finally snapped, she grabbed the black tee at the hem and yanked it over Alessia’s head in one brutal motion, tossing it aside like it was in her fucking way. The sports bra came next—no hesitation, no finesse, just need.

Alessia didn’t even have time to gasp.

She was bare, back arched, pink and flushed and trembling.

Aitana didn’t wait.

Her hands went straight for her chest, palms rough, thumbs pressing hard into swollen nipples like they owed her something.

Alessia choked on a moan.

“Look at you,” Aitana murmured, her voice thick with disdain and want. “Already fucking begging.”

Alessia’s hips stuttered up into her, a pathetic grind for friction she didn’t even try to hide. “You love it.”

Aitana smiled—snarled—all teeth and sin.

“I do.” She pinched a nipple, hard, just to hear the sound Alessia made. “But not as much as you do.”

Her nails raked down her ribs and abs—slow, cruel, enough to sting. Alessia twitched beneath her, thighs jerking, back arching.

Aitana was watching it all. Drinking it in like it was hers.

“You look better under me, Lessi,” she purred half mocking with the nickname, licking her lips.
“Where you fucking belong.”

Oh.

Alessia’s breath caught. Her mouth fell open. “Jesus Christ.”

Aitana grinned wider, leaned down, dragged her teeth over her collarbone without care, biting hard enough to make her jolt.

“You gonna say it?” she whispered into her skin. “Gonna tell me how bad you’ve needed me?”

Alessia’s head thudded back against the pillow. “I hate..you.”

Aitana rolled her hips down, slow and deliberate, letting the soaked heat between her thighs smear across Alessia’s own thigh.

“Lie again,” she hissed, rocking once, harder this time.

Alessia’s breath punched out of her.

She was losing it. Absolutely losing it.

And Aitana?

She’d already gone.

Alessia reached up, desperate to grab, to flip her, to do something—but Aitana caught her wrists and slammed them back down against the mattress with a thud.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Alessia panted beneath her, eyes wide, pupils blown. She looked ruined already, and they hadn’t even started.

“I’ll make you wait,” Aitana said, voice low and dangerous. “I’ll take my time…”

And Alessia believed her. God help her—she wanted her to. Her face was burning just like her body.

“Russo,” Aitana said, voice low and dangerous. “Stop moving.”

The warning made Alessia freeze. Just like that. Her breath caught, muscles twitching beneath the weight pressing her down.

Aitana didn’t ease up. She gripped the strikers chest and bit under her tits like they’d offended her—because right now, nothing did but Alessia.

Alessia was panting already. Flushed and trembling, chest rising and falling like she was in shock, like Aitana had stolen the air from her lungs. And Aitana loved that. Loved how quickly she could break her down.

She was doing everything she’d been thinking about.

She cupped her tits with both hands, firm and greedy, thumbs brushing over her nipples until Alessia let out a guttural groan. Then Aitana leaned in, her breath hot on her cheek, and whispered—

“You’re insufferable.”

Her mouth dragged along her jaw, slow and almost loving.

Alessia gasped, dazed. “You love it.”

“Maybe I do.” Aitana bit her earlobe, sharp. “But only off the pitch.”

And then she closed her mouth over one nipple, sucking, licking, biting while her other hand twisted the other cruelly—like she wanted to hear every filthy sound Alessia could make.

“Oh—” Alessia’s head dropped back, breath caught somewhere between a moan and a cry. She tried to lift her hips for friction, grinding up for anything.

But Aitana had her pinned. Unrelenting. Inescapable.

“You’re shaking,” Aitana murmured, dragging her tongue over the swell of her chest, then down, then lower. “You like being ruined, don’t you?”

Alessia moaned—high, helpless.

Aitana didn’t wait.

She pushed Alessia’s shorts aside and pressed two fingers against the soaked fabric underneath, rubbing slow, torturous circles right where it hurt.

Alessia’s back arched. “Bonmatí—”

Aitana smirked against her throat. “That’s more like it.”

She slipped under the waistband and didn’t tease—just slid her fingers straight through the wetness, like she knew exactly what she’d find. And God, Alessia was soaked. Slick. Practically dripping.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” Aitana asked slightly curious, casual, cruel.

Alessia could barely speak. “Every fucking night..since then.”

It slipped out raw. Shameful. Honest.

Aitana blinked—and kissed her throat.

Soft. Barely there. Too much.

“Me too.”

She flattened a hand over Alessia’s stomach to hold her down and started fucking her with the other—deep, slow thrusts, thumb brushing her clit just enough to make Alessia whimper.

“I know you can beg,” Aitana said, tone almost sing-song now. Vicious and amused.

Alessia whimpered again, eyes screwed shut. “If you’re not gonna fuck me, just let me leave.”

Aitana laughed—sharp, dark, low in her throat. It vibrated against Alessia’s chest.

“You came here for me to fuck you, Russo,” she said, curling her fingers just right. “This is the easy part.”

Alessia was trembling. Wrecked. Her thighs were clenching, hands gripping the sheets so tight her knuckles went white.

Aitana dragged her fingers up again and slapped her clit. Once. Sharp. Alessia cried out.

Did Aitana really just do that?

“Don’t be pathetic,” Aitana snapped. “You wanted this. You needed this.”

And she wasn’t wrong.

Alessia was panting, wild-eyed, her body completely out of her control. Aitana was murmuring curses in Catalan under her breath, moaning now too, drunk on the feel of her, on the mess she was making.

Aitana didn’t care that she wasn’t getting verbal responses anymore, she needed the striker under her to know:

“No one..No one else will fuck you like this,” Aitana whispered, tone shaking, wrecked. “Not like you want. Like the desperate little slut you are.”

She bit Alessia’s neck hard enough to bruise.

Alessia should’ve slapped her. Should’ve thrown her off.

But instead, she moaned.

Loud.

Thighs trembled, hips bucked.

Aitana stilled for a second—eyes wide.

“You like that,” she said. Not a question. A fact.

This was absolutely malicious.

Alessia said nothing, face red, chest heaving.

So Aitana grabbed her chin, forced her to meet her gaze. “Say it.”

Aitana looked insane, the green in her eyes apparent as ever, and her cheekbones looked carved in.

Alessia gasped, tried to fight it—but her hips moved on their own, desperate and slick and obscene.

Aitana growled, “Then why are you dripping?”

Alessia whimpered.

“I said why?”

“Because it’s you,” she whispered—broken, breathless, eyes half-closed. “It’s always fucking been you.”

Conceding. Again. Couldn’t blame it only on the wine.

It knocked the wind out of Aitana.

She stared at her, stunned—but her hand didn’t stop. If anything, it sped up. Her fingers curled deeper. Her thumb rolled tight devastating circles.

She leaned in. Whispered, breath trembling, “Then come for me.”

Alessia choked on a moan.

“Come on my fingers, Russo.”

She did.

Her whole body buckled, convulsing around Aitana’s hand, hips stuttering, mouth open in a scream that Aitana caught with her palm. Her legs shook. Her chest heaved. It was violent. Wild. Nothing held back.

Aitana watched it all. Felt it all.

Alessia falling apart under her—loud, desperate, undone.

Her slick heat pulsing around Aitana’s fingers. The way she twitched, gasped, moaned through it like she’d lost her goddamn mind.

Aitana didn’t look away once.

She licked her lips. Slow. Breathless. Her cheeks flushed. Her chest rising like she’d just run a marathon she wasn’t supposed to enjoy.

Then, softly—too softly—she leaned in.

Pressed a kiss to Alessia’s cheek, tender and unhurried. Mocking, almost.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Nearly sweet.

“Bet you hate that it’s me.”

And she meant it.

Not anyone. Her.

Because no matter what they said, no matter how much they fought—it was always her.

And Alessia couldn’t even speak.

Just lay there—ruined, wrecked, and burning from the inside out.

“Don’t say anything,” Alessia rasped. Sobering up a bit.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“I hate you. I hate you.”

Aitana smiled faintly, eyes glassy.

“Sure.”

Aitana had Alessia Russo beneath her—breathless, flushed, dazed—and none of it was enough.

Not yet.

This thing she’d been dreaming about, this thing that had haunted her since June, it had her by the throat now. It was animal. It was stupid. It was inevitable.

And it was happening.

Alessia was biting her lip, eyes darting anywhere but hers like she didn’t trust what might spill out if she met her gaze. So Aitana did the only thing that would force her to look.

She peeled off her Barça shirt in one swift, vicious tug, flung it somewhere behind her like it disgusted her. She straightened over her—bare-chested, panting, trembling—and proud as she could.

Alessia blinked hard, visibly swallowing. Trying so hard not to stare at the same freckled tits she’d got off to more times than she’d ever admit.

But she stared.

Of course she stared.

Aitana saw it—the hunger. The ache. The defeat.

“Fine,” she muttered, ripping her shorts and panties down in one angry, impatient motion. “Don’t look away now.” Accent heavier.

Alessia didn’t.

Her mouth parted helplessly, and her hands froze on the sheets, but her eyes traced every inch of her: the swell of her full, freckled breasts, the sharp cut of her waist, the slick between her thighs like something designed to drive her mad.

Aitana climbed over her, slow and heavy, deliberate like a fucking storm cloud rolling in.

She straddled her stomach, high enough to pin, low enough to be obscene.

Alessia’s hands flew to her hips, instinctive, reverent. Her thumbs stroked trembling circles at her waist, like she didn’t know what else to do.

Like she was bracing for impact.

Aitana leaned down, hair hanging in soaked strands, her breath hot and frenzied.

“Don’t look so fucking innocent.”

Alessia opened her mouth, but no words came.

Just a moan as Aitana dragged her slick cunt across her abs. Slow. Deliberate. Filthy.

The sound—wet, obscene—echoed between them.

She just kissed the curve of Aitana’s breast. Gentle. Worshipful.

Aitana inhaled sharply. “No marks,” she warned, voice tight, fingers digging into her arms. But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t care if Aitana had left her own.

She couldn’t.

She was shaking already.

Aitana shifted forward, dragging her soaked cunt across Alessia’s abs—slow and filthy, so wet it left a smear of slick in its wake.

Alessia choked on a breath, hands tightening on her hips like she’d never felt anything like this before. Like she couldn’t believe she was allowed to.

Aitana rolled her hips again. This time harder. Her clit caught just right on the muscle, and she cried out, teeth sinking into her bottom lip to muffle it.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” Alessia breathed, eyes wide, chest rising and falling fast.

“You like this?” Aitana rasped, voice wrecked. “Me using you like this?”

Alessia could barely speak.

Her hands were on her ass now, gripping, guiding. Helping her move. Needing to.

“Say it,” Aitana demanded.

“Yes,” Alessia choked out. “God—yes, I fucking love it.” Alessia couldn’t help it, she could tell herself she didn’t want to obey all she wanted.

And Aitana lost it.

She started grinding harder, faster, messier. Slick smeared everywhere—across Alessia’s abs, down her sides, soaking the striker.

She was riding her like she’d been starved for it. Like this was the only chance she’d ever get and she was going to die wringing every drop out of it.

Aitana leaned forward, bracing herself on Alessia’s chest, her knees tight around her ribs. She moved faster, every grind precise and deliberate and desperate.

She was looking into Alessia’s eyes now, and Alessia—sobered, stunned—was watching her like she was witnessing something sacred. Something insane.

And she was right.

Aitana’s slick was dripping down her torso now, warm and sticky, smearing across Alessia’s skin as she rode her like it wasn’t the night before a fucking World Cup final.

Every roll of her hips came with a gasp—bitten off, tight, ruined.

Alessia was palming her breasts again, helpless, desperate, worshipping the way they moved with every thrust. Aitana let her.

Every thrust made her cry out. Every movement sent a ripple of wet heat across Alessia’s stomach.

“You’re insane,” Alessia whispered, like it physically hurt to say it.

“Say it again,” Aitana gasped.

“You’re insane,” Alessia repeated, voice breaking.

But her eyes were glassy. Shining. Her mouth open. Her hands gripping like she didn’t want to wake up.

Aitana’s thighs shook. Her rhythm stuttered.

“Look at me,” she gasped. She sounded completely unlike herself now, or was this her?

“I am,” Alessia moaned, hands trembling on her skin, skating over Aitana’s sensitive chest. “You’re—”

Aitana whimpered, her thighs quaking.

And she was. Alessia was right there, holding her gaze, letting her fall apart on top of her.

Aitana whimpered—sharp and unfiltered. “Come on, Bonmatí—”

Alessia reached up, gripped the back of her neck. Held her there, close, close enough to feel it—

Aitana came hard, gasping, body locking up with a strangled moan. Her thighs clenched around Alessia’s ribs, until her whole body trembled. Slick coated Alessia’s skin, warm and devastating.

Aitana was still straddling her.

Still gasping. Still twitching.

It didn’t stop right away.

She kept grinding through it—shaking, whimpering, wrecked. Her face scrunched, mouth open, sweat dripping down her chest.

Alessia just held her through it.

Let her use her. Let her ruin her.

Her slick coated Alessia’s stomach, glistening, obscene. It was everywhere. Sticky. Warm. Smearing across flushed skin like proof—like fucking evidence of how far she’d gone.

And she had gone far. Too far.

She sat there, stunned. Thighs trembling around Alessia’s ribs. Chest heaving. Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides, not sure whether to hold on or crawl away.

She couldn’t even look at her.

Alessia lay there, staring up—flushed, soaked, silent. Her abs flexed under Aitana’s weight, like her body was still reacting. Still processing.

And then—Alessia moved.

One hand—slow, deliberate—slid up Aitana’s thigh. Her palm cupped her inner thigh, fingers dragging through the mess there like it belonged to her.

Aitana flinched. Her whole body jolted.
She didn’t know what Alessia was doing.

“Alessia,” she warned, breath still ragged.

But Alessia didn’t answer.

She was looking at her now. Really looking. Like something had snapped quiet in her brain and all she could do was act.

Her blue eyes were sharp, and her lips were red.

Her other hand found the small of Aitana’s back. Pulled her forward again—back down her chest. Back to where she’d just come.

The smear of slick hadn’t even cooled yet.

Aitana gasped. Her knees braced harder around Alessia’s sides.

“What are you doing,” she breathed, heart stammering.

And still—no answer.

Alessia’s hand slid between her thighs.

Two fingers. Straight in.

Alessia was going to take everything she could.

No warning. No mercy.

Aitana cried out, her body buckling forward, hands flying to Alessia’s shoulders for balance.

Her cunt was already pulsing again—oversensitive, soaked, aching.

“Fuck—fuck,” she whimpered, hair clinging to her cheeks.

Alessia just watched her.

Watched the way her mouth dropped open, the way her thighs clenched, the way she started grinding down again—couldn’t stop grinding down again.

It was animal.

Sloppy. Soaked. Not the Aitana Bonmatí that gave press conferences, neat and impeccable.

Her slick was smearing everywhere. Between them. Against her abs. Onto Alessia’s palm. All over her knuckles.

Aitana should’ve pulled away.

Instead, she rocked her hips again—harder this time.

“You’re not even gonna stop, are you?” she gasped.

Alessia’s pretty jaw clenched. Her pupils were blown. “No.”

Aitana moaned. She could barely stand the way Alessia looked now, so sure, so feral, it confused her.

She was loud.

The angle was brutal—filthy—each thrust deeper than it should’ve been. The palm of Alessia’s hand pressed flat against her clit now, sliding with every grind.

“I already fucking came,” Aitana whined, gripping whatever she could. “You’re making me—”

“You can come again.” Alessia spat, craving each of Aitana’s whines more than she wanted to.

That was the first full sentence Alessia had spoken since she pulled her forward.

It ruined her.

Aitana bit down on her own hand, hips stuttering, cunt clenching hard around Alessia’s fingers.

The noise between them—just slick and breath and stifled gasps.

No talking. No teasing.

Just taking.

And Alessia took it. All of it.

Watched her fall apart again. Felt her collapse forward, shaking all over, moaning into her collarbone as her body clenched and twisted and gave up.

The second orgasm hit harder.

Worse.

Aitana came with a whimper and a curse and everything else she didn’t know how to name.

And still—she stayed there.

Still straddling her.

Still twitching.

Still soaked.

Alessia held her as they twitched, thumbs stroking softly, reverently, like she was trying to remember every second.

Aitana collapsed onto her chest, breath shallow, sweat sticking them together.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then—

“I still hate you,” Alessia whispered.

Aitana laughed—hoarse and breathless. “Good.”

Aitana breathing in ragged bursts, trying to hold herself upright. Alessia blinking up at her like she couldn’t decide if she was impressed or horrified. Her hands were still spread across Aitana’s aching thighs—warm, steady, claiming.

Then—

“You’re shameless,” Alessia whispered again, dazed.

Aitana didn’t care, didn’t want to think about it, she leaned down and kissed her again. Alessia kissed back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hard either. Just messy. Tongue, teeth, spit—two women who should’ve known better and didn’t care.

They stayed like that, tangled, sweaty, ruined—until the weight of it all started to settle.

Aitana’s breath was uneven. Her chest blotched red, her hair stuck to her face, her thighs still trembling around Alessia’s stomach. Slick had soaked everything between them—skin, pride, sanity.

She sat up slowly, winced, and glanced down.

At the mess.

Her mess.

Her come smeared across Alessia’s abs, shining against flushed skin and toned muscle, a filthy fucking painting of everything that had just happened.

Aitana flushed darker. She looked like she might bolt.

“I should clean—”

Alessia reached up and grabbed her wrist, lazy but firm. Pulled her right back down.

Aitana stuttered. Blushed harder. Now she was shy?

Alessia didn’t say a word. Just dropped her own hand to her stomach and dragged her fingers through the slick.

Aitana inhaled sharply. Could feel it—feel the shift from afterglow to something worse. Something addictive.

Alessia didn’t break eye contact.

She brought those fingers to her mouth. Sucked slow. Like she was tasting her after a long day.

Aitana’s knees nearly gave. She clenched her jaw to hold in a moan.

“Alessia—” her voice cracked, useless.

Alessia hummed around her fingers. Pulled them out with a soft, deliberate pop.

Her pupils were wide, glassy. Her mouth glossy. Her voice wrecked and amused.

“Are you embarrassed?” she asked, grinning now. “Is Barcelona’s golden girl blushing?”

Aitana blinked. “No… I just came on your abs.”

“I noticed.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Alessia said, gently, dragging her fingers back down through the mess. “Stop it.”

Aitana did.

Her whole body stilled, watching her like she’d just found a new kind of drug.

Alessia smirked and looked at her own hand again, still shiny. Still wet.

“You taste nice,” she added, casual. Like she was commenting on wine.

Aitana swallowed. Hard. “You’re disgusting.”

Alessia raised a brow. “And yet…”

She ran her fingers between Aitana’s thighs again—lazy, slow, unhurried—and Aitana shuddered, slightly embarrassed .

“Thought so.”

“Fuck off.”

Aitana opened her mouth to insult her. Or moan. Or climb back down and do it again.

She didn’t get the chance.

Because then—

The doorknob rattled.

They froze.

A muffled voice from outside: “Aita? I forgot my charger, Esther won’t share.”

Salma.

Alessia exhaled like she’d been punched in the stomach, but she was still grinning pinned under the midfielder.

Aitana scrambled off her like she’d been scalded. “Mierda, mierda, mierda,” she hissed, frantically looking for her panties and any article of clothing around the room, hands shaking.

“Shower,” she whispered, grabbing Alessia’s wrist.

“Wait—” Alessia didn’t move.

Aitana hissed, dragging her shirt over her head and grabbing her arm.

“Now, Russo.”

Alessia tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway, breathy and low as she let herself be dragged.

The water was boiling. Aitana hadn’t even touched the knob before shoving them both under.

Alessia’s forehead hit the tile with a soft thunk.

“This isn’t funny,” Aitana muttered.

“You’re panicking.”

“You tasted me off your fingers and now Salma’s outside the fucking door.”

Alessia turned, kissed her shoulder. “I didn’t make you come on my stomach.”

Well, she helped.

“You didn’t stop me either.”

“I’m not an idiot.” Aitana was trying really hard to tear her eyes off of her body.

A beat.

Aitana groaned. “Hand me the soap.”

But they didn’t move fast. Not really.

The water was still running when they both remembered the final was tomorrow. That the steam wasn’t covering anything. That their mouths were too close.

Alessia helped Aitana towel off her thighs, mostly because she couldn’t stop staring. Aitana’s legs twitched when her knuckles grazed her skin.

“You missed a spot,” Alessia muttered, dragging the towel back across her lower stomach. Her voice was rough. Still low. Still wrecked.

“I’m going to kill you.”

“You already fucked me,” Alessia grinned, fingers still moving.

Aitana lingered too long at her shoulder. Bit gently at her neck.

“Not so worried now, are you?”

Alessia sucked in a breath. “Oh, so now you’re cocky. How convenient.”

Aitana pulled back just a little, eyes gleaming despite everything. Her hair was still dripping. Her lashes wet. Her thighs a little unsteady.

“You’re the one who said I should shut up.”

“And you listened,” Alessia teased.

“I regret it.”

But her voice was soft. Her body didn’t back away. The air between them stayed thick. Hot. Heavy.

They still thought they hated each other.

They had to.

“This isn’t normal,” Aitana murmured.

“No,” Alessia said. Her voice was hoarse. “But it’s not nothing either.”

Aitana bit down on her bottom lip.

Alessia’s hands moved lower. Over her ass. Her thighs. Her inner thighs.

Slow.

Tender.

Like she was still inside her.

Alessia handed Aitana her Barça shirt, now damp and wrinkled from the chaos. She helped her pull it down, slow, quiet, too careful. Her fingers skimmed Aitana’s waist, arms, sides—and she kissed her in between. Absentminded kisses. Possessive ones.

One just under her ribs.

One behind her shoulder.

One at the corner of her mouth near the moles she secretly obsessed over.

Aitana didn’t kiss back.

But she didn’t stop her either. Just blushing and taking it.

And then came the knock.

“Everything okay in there?”

Salma’s voice, clear and just close enough to ruin everything.

Aitana’s eyes snapped open. She shoved Alessia back like physical space would erase the wreckage of what had just happened. Her towel slipped from her shoulder. Her legs were still damp. Still warm.

Alessia raised a brow, already grinning. “Relax. You don’t look like someone who just came on my—”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

But Alessia just chuckled and pulled her fleece jacket on—backwards, wrong sleeve first.

She didn’t have time to check Alessia out right now for how flushed and cute she looked, putting her clothes on the wrong way. Idiot.

Aitana’s hands were shaking as she yanked the door open.

Her hair was wet, clinging to her temples. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips looked kissed.

Too kissed.

Her thighs were bare, still glistening. She hadn’t even clocked that.

Salma stepped inside with a water bottle in one hand, her phone in the other. She paused. Her eyes flicked from Aitana to Alessia—who was now calmly tying her shoelace while standing beside the bed like she hadn’t just been ruined minutes ago.

“You two…” Salma said slowly, head tilting. “Weird vibe.”

Aitana’s jaw tensed. “What?”

Salma didn’t answer immediately. She took a step forward, looked around the room. The sheets were crooked. There was a faint mark on the dresser. A shirt that didn’t belong to either of them draped over a chair.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Just…weird vibe.”

“Nothing happened,” Aitana said—too fast, too high. Her voice cracked like a teenage lie.

Salma blinked. Her gaze dragged over Aitana’s flushed face again. The hair. The bruising near her jaw that hadn’t been there an hour ago.

Alessia didn’t help.

She just smiled. Easy. Shit-eating. Confident.

“It’s late,” she added. “We were just talking.”

“Right,” Salma muttered, like she’d stopped listening halfway through the sentence.

She walked to her nightstand. Picked up her charger. Let the silence grow teeth.

“You okay, Aita?”

“I’m fine.”

“You look…flushed.”

“It’s warm.”

“In here?”

“Mhm.” Aitana was praying Salma would just leave it, she was beginning to really look obvious.

Salma gave her a look that said sure, then turned to Alessia.

Her eyes narrowed—just briefly. “You good?”

“Great,” Alessia said. “Hydrated. Centered. Grateful.”

Aitana nearly rolled her eyes.

Salma lingered at the door, one hand on the handle, her stare still bouncing between them. Like she was putting something together and hadn’t decided if she wanted confirmation yet.

Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Salma opened the door and stepped back into the hallway.

She paused once more, glanced over her shoulder.

“Just be careful,” she said.

Aitana’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Salma shrugged. “You two can’t even breathe near each other without tension leaking off the walls. Don’t let it cost you something, you know who she is.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Thick. Uneven. Breathing too loud.

Alessia leaned back against the dresser and smiled, smug. “Well.”

Aitana ran a hand through her hair. “She knows.”

“She suspects.” Alessia was far too smug.

“She knows.” Aitana had her head in her hands, what had they done?

Alessia tilted her head, eyes dropping to her thighs. “You’re still wet.”

“Shut up, you did a terrible job.” Drying her off, she meant.

But she didn’t move.

And neither did Alessia.

The door clicked shut.

Aitana exhaled like she hadn’t breathed in minutes.

Alessia leaned back against the wall, grinning like she hadn’t just gotten wrecked in enemy territory. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“You’re worse.”

“I don’t lie.”

“You came into my room saying you needed wrist wraps.”

Alessia shrugged. “And you let me in.”

A beat. A long one.

The silence wasn’t just heavy—it was sickening.

It wasn’t just sexual now. It was something else. Something bigger. Something that neither of them had a name for. Alessia looked at Aitana like she was trying to memorize her face. Like she wouldn’t get another chance after tomorrow.

And Aitana looked back like she already knew that.

Knew it was over. Knew it never really wasn’t.

She was the one who broke the silence. Her voice barely audible.

“We should sleep.”

“Right.” Alessia sounded different now—quieter, rougher. She tied her hair up like it gave her something to do, then cleared her throat like it mattered.

Aitana had done what she always did—taken what she wanted, said things she probably didn’t mean, just to see if she could fuck Alessia over a little more than last time.

Whatever. Let her try.

Alessia would make sure she felt it tomorrow. On the pitch. On the podium.

No goodnight. No hug. No softness.

Aitana just opened the door again, jaw locked tight, and Alessia stepped out into the hall like none of it had happened.

And for the first time in weeks—

They didn’t look back at each other.

But they both knew they’d feel it.

Every second of it.

Tomorrow.

The silence at the table was thick. It lingered longer than it should’ve.

Then the door opened.

A few players glanced up.

Aitana didn’t.

But she didn’t need to.

She felt it.

Felt Alessia Russo enter the room like a shift in weather—shoulders too square, hoodie tugged low like it could hide her jawline. Her walk was casual, practiced, like she hadn’t torn someone open the night before with her hands and mouth and quiet fury.

Aitana’s fingers twitched around her spoon.

She didn’t look up.

Salma did.

Her eyes flicked from Alessia to Aitana and lingered.

Ona kept eating her toast, oblivious. But the table next to them had gone quiet. A few glances. Whispered jokes that didn’t land. Someone muttered something about “energy being weird this morning.”

And it was.

Because Aitana hadn’t moved.

And Alessia, across the room now, was very pointedly not looking in her direction.

But her ears were red.

Her face flushed under the collar of her sweatshirt. She grabbed a plate. Reached for fruit. Buttered toast with the slow deliberateness of someone trying to act normal.

It was obvious.

Too obvious.

Someone from the England table made a noise under their breath. A low whistle. A side-glance. Leah elbowed her and shook her head.

Aitana didn’t hear what they said. Didn’t care.

She finally looked up.

Met Alessia’s eyes across the room.

And everything stopped.

Just for a second.

Just long enough to give it away.

Then Alessia blinked and looked down again, jaw tight, throat visibly swallowing. She looked tired.

Aitana turned back to her yogurt. Stirred like nothing had happened.

Salma’s chair creaked as she leaned forward. Her voice dropped low enough to keep it private.

“You’re gonna crack.”

Aitana didn’t answer.

But her spoon had stopped moving.

And across the room, Alessia hadn’t touched her food.

Chapter Text

Alessia didn’t sleep.

She lay there, hoodie clinging to sweat-soaked skin, muscles still twitching from what had happened, from what she let happen.

The room was dark. Silent. Except for Niamh’s quiet breathing across the hotel room.

Alessia had stumbled in around 2 a.m., soaked hair, flushed cheeks, skin smelling like someone else’s. She’d mumbled something about forgetting her charger and then showered with the speed of a soldier cleaning blood off their hands.

Niamh didn’t ask. Didn’t look up.

Which was worse.

Because that meant she knew. Alessia swore she did.

There was a silence between them now that hadn’t existed before.

Alessia had scrubbed her thighs until they burned. Her abs still sticky. Her neck?

She looked in the mirror now and winced.

A mark. Red. Ugly. Undeniable.

“No marks,” She remembered how the smaller woman said it, clearly she exempted herself, and Alessia let her.

She touched it.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Not a word. Not a glance. Not even a smirk.

A final kiss. A roll of her hips. A fucking mess between her legs and a soft “we should sleep.” Again, and again. Who was she?

And then she opened the door like none of it mattered. Like Alessia was a one-night itch scratched before the final.

You let her use you again, Alessia thought. Like a fucking prop. Like a reminder she could still have you if she wanted to.

Because that’s what it was, wasn’t it?

Not love. Not even lust. Power.
And she let her win again.

Fucking hell.

Her fists curled. She was humiliated. Burning. Angry in a way she couldn’t even name.

This was the World Cup final. And she was marked like property. By a player she was supposed to annihilate soon.

She pulled her Nike tech sweater tighter around her throat and stepped out into the hallway.

She needed air. But Georgia found her first. Fuck. Fuck indeed.

The conversation wasn’t long. Not the way it usually lingered, in a gentle Georgia way.

Just sharp.

Private.

Stanway’s voice had none of Keira’s patience, none of Ella’s humor. Just cold, biting reality. It was the woman she saw in the lockers.

“I heard something. I’m not saying who told me. Doesn’t matter.”

Alessia wouldn’t be able to even know who, she couldn’t create one critical thought if you held a gun to her head right now.

Alessia swallowed. She felt the blood drain from her face.

“Georg—“

Georgia’s eyes dropped to her neck. Stayed there. Then she put a hand up, utterly distraught, probably.

“This is the fucking World Cup final, Less. Not a rom-com. Not some Sunday hookup. What are you doing?”

Alessia said nothing. “You’ve been off. Everyone sees it. You’re lucky Sarina’s too focused to make it a problem. But it is one. This is history. If you fuck it up for us because of her—”

Alessia flinched. “There’s no—“
Georgia stared harder, ready to pounce. Alessia shrunk.

“You better get your head right. Or you’re not starting.” She turned.

“Says who?” Georgia scoffed. First time she’d done it to the striker. Alessia stood completely slack in the hallway.

Marked. Red-eared. Fuming. And still she thought about the enemy.
Jesus Christ, ALESSIA.

Not a word at the door. Not even a look.
She was going to bury her. Someway, somehow. On the pitch. In front of the world.

Aitana had slept for exactly 39 minutes. Unlike her, anyways, it definitely couldn’t even be called sleep.

Her sheets smelled like Alessia. Her thighs still sticky from sweat and something else she didn’t have a name for yet.

She hadn’t come twice in a single night since she was twenty-one. And even then, she didn’t let herself. Not like that.

Not on top of a striker she claimed to hate.

God.

She rolled over, covered her eyes with her arm. Her thighs ached. Her back too.

But the worst was her chest. Her chest that was marked in places no one could see but her.

Empty. Buzzing. And she hadn’t said goodbye either. Didn’t even look at her when she left. Because if she had, she wouldn’t have let her leave. Wouldn’t admit that.

She would’ve said something stupid. Or kind. Or irreversible. So instead, she let the silence say it for her again.

Why would she have to do anything for the enemy, anyways? To give her leverage? Absolutely not.

And when Salma came back into the room, quiet and observant, Aitana knew she was caught.

She’d never ever been caught, never was in the position for it.

Her eyes gave it away.

So did the way she looked at the dresser. The crooked sheets. The faint scrape near Aitana’s jaw.

She didn’t ask. Not until breakfast.

But someone else did.

“Aitana.”

Alexia. Of course it was her.

No smile. No softness. Just her name, clipped. Controlled.

She followed her to the hallway.

Irene was already there. Irene was never there until she needed to be, that was trouble and Aitana didn’t like trouble.

No one else.

No cameras.

Just judgment. Or at least that’s what Aitana felt.

“You’ve been the best player in the tournament,” Irene said.

“By a mile,” Alexia added.

Aitana blinked. Waited. This couldn’t be good.

“But there’s…something else going on.”
Irene’s voice cut sharper. “Something that’s being talked about.”

“I don’t care what the press says.”

“It’s not the press.” Shit.

Aitana’s jaw clenched. “Who, then?”
Alexia didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Aitana hated this, they knew that.
Aitana’s eyes narrowed. “Salma?” It really didn’t matter, sort of did, traitor. Aitana thought inwardly.

Another silence. Another nail in the coffin.

“She cares about you,” Alexia said. “She said she’s worried. That you’re distracted.”

“I’m not.”

“Someone saw something,” Irene said. “Heard something. A name. A moment. A Lioness.”

No. No. No.

Alexia’s voice was quieter now, careful. “Salma said she walked in and the room smelled like perfume. Not yours. And your sheets—”

Aitana’s blood froze.

“Stop.”

Alexia did. But Irene didn’t.

“She said you were shaking. Looked wrecked. Wouldn’t meet her eyes. Aitana, you know what this is. You’ve been the one holding this team together.” Her voice cracked on the end. “And now they’re looking at you like you’re slipping.”

“I’m not,” Aitana snapped. Too sharp. Too loud.

Alexia looked tired. Not angry—tired. Like someone who’d been holding pieces of everyone else and suddenly realized no one was holding hers.

“We’ve all been there,” she said gently. “You know I have. But—”

Poor Alexia.

Aitana’s rage twisted in her chest, ugly and wild. It spilled out like venom.

“Don’t. Don’t bring up Jenni like we’re the same.”

“No one said—”

“You think I don’t know?” Aitana’s voice rose again. “You two are still tangled up. I saw the way you looked at her after Sweden. You have partners. But you’re not being subtle. And suddenly I’m the one being questioned?”

Alexia froze.

“You think just because you’ve got the armband and a couple of Ballon d’Ors, you’re above it?”

Alexia’s mouth parted, stunned.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered.

Aitana scoffed—scoffed, like someone she wasn’t. “What exactly have you done to help us here?”

That did it. Alexia flinched. Like the words struck bone.

And still—she didn’t fight back. Just crossed her arms. Held her breath.

Her lip trembled.

Irene stepped in before the silence cracked wide open.

“Enough.”

Aitana’s voice had already broken. Her fists clenched. Her chest heaved like she’d just finished running. She hadn’t meant it—not like that. But she couldn’t stop once it started.

Because Alexia hadn’t been there for her. Not when the boycott started. Not when the press turned. Not when Laia walked away. Not when she couldn’t breathe in that locker room.

And now she was. Too late. Too late, and trying to act like she still knew her.

Alexia turned. Didn’t say anything. Her mouth was tight. Her steps were stiff.

Aitana almost followed.

Almost.

But couldn’t. So she let her leave. And Irene stayed.

She didn’t say anything about the outburst. About Alexia. About the pain that clearly wasn’t just about some English girl.

That wasn’t hers to touch.

So she waited. Until the silence pressed down hard enough to crush.

Then she said, voice firm but not cruel:

“You’re going to go out there tomorrow. And you’re going to remind the world who the fuck you are. Not because you’re the best. But because you’re the only one who can be.”

Aitana didn’t move.

“Whatever she did to you—whoever she is to you—leave it in the room.”
Another pause. Not cold. Just final.

“Use it. Use all of it. But don’t let it cost us. Remember the girls.”

And then she walked. And Aitana?
She was alone again. Like always.

Later that day at team warm-ups, before anyone could shuffle into the stadium.

Aitana stepped onto the pitch like a fucking machine. Boots tied too tight. Jaw locked. Everything underneath her kit coiled like a trap.

Her gaze scanned automatically. Staff. Press. Opponents. And then, there she was. Alessia Russo.

Ponytail whipped high. Tunnel jacket rolled to the elbows. Jaw flexing like she wanted to rip the grass out with her teeth.

Aitana froze. She looked different.

Not for long. But long enough. Marked. Her. She’d done that.

She remembered the way Alessia had begged. The way her thighs trembled. The way her mouth opened like she couldn’t believe it was real. The way she held her when she made her come. Stop.

And now?

Now Alessia looked at her like she wanted to kill her.

Aitana’s stomach twisted.

Good. Better this way.

Because if she was going to be hated—if she was going to be remembered for something:
Let it be this.
Let it be war.

And let it be leverage.

She’d be whatever Alessia thought she was. A villain. A ghost. A bitch in boots.

She was winning today.
She’d crush Alessia under her boot like she’d promised to herself.

Little did she know—someone else had made that same promise.

Alessia’s body was definitely wrecked. Her legs still ached. Her throat still burned. The mark was there, half covered by her collar, still too obvious.

She’d caught her reflection earlier.

The blood had come back. Just a little. Right where Aitana’s mouth had broken skin. Cunt.

And now everyone looked at her different. Georgia. Keira. Even Ella had gone quiet after breakfast.

But Aitana?
Aitana walked around like nothing had happened.

Didn’t even look her way in the morning meeting. Didn’t blink during the tactical review. Didn’t seem to care that Alessia had crawled into her room like a fucking idiot.

Didn’t even say goodbye.

And now she was out there, spine straight, hair tight, chest out—like she hadn’t come twice on Alessia’s stomach with a gasp and a grind and a soft little moan that still echoed in her skull.

The bloody nerve.

Fuck. That. Alessia flexed her jaw. Dug her studs into the grass.

She wasn’t going to play nice.
She wasn’t going to look away.
She was going to bury her. Had to.

National anthems were beginning.

The air was thick, humid, and electrical. The stadium noise pulsed like a heartbeat. What a crowd.

Aitana didn’t move during hers. Didn’t blink. Her lips didn’t part.

Her stare was fixed.

Somewhere ahead. Somewhere past the cameras. Somewhere near Alessia.

She didn’t need to look to know where she was. She could feel her.
The weight of her stare. The tension crawling between them like a wire. This wasn’t happening.

She didn’t flinch. But her fingers curled tighter behind her back. She’d fucked her. Ruined her. And now she’d finish the job in front of seventy-five thousand people.

No one would remember what happened last night.

Not if she crushed her today.

Alessia could barely breathe.

The anthem was playing. Her teammates were linked at her sides. But her eyes had drifted.

Just for a second. To her. Bonmatí.

Rigid. Still. Radiating something cold and impossible to name.

Alessia hated her. She hated her. She wanted her mouth again.

She wanted to elbow her in the ribs.

She wanted to score and rip her shirt off and let the whole fucking world see who was really built for this.

The camera panned past them. Neither girl blinked. Tunnel. Minutes before kickoff.

Aitana jogged in place. Head down. Breathing tight.

Behind her, Olga adjusted her tape. Salma bounced on her toes.

In front of her—Russo.

Broad shoulders. Steady breathing. Jaw tense.

Aitana’s eyes dropped for a second. Saw the pink line still blooming on her neck. Found it too easily. Wanted to?

Right where her mouth had been. Almost like she wanted to make sure she’d left it.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. She just stared. Alessia turned slowly.

Met her gaze.

And didn’t look away this time, it wasn’t nervous, kind, not even awkward like she’d usually been. The silence between them said it all.

Whatever they’d done—whatever had happened last night, none of it mattered now.

They were enemies again. Rivals.

And one of them was about to lose.

The whistle blew. And Aitana moved first.

Not sprinting. Not rushing.
Just one touch. Then another.
She collected the ball near halfway, let Keira close her down, then slipped out of it like water. Smooth. Effortless.

Her feet barely made noise. Her eyes were already reading the pitch like a sheet of music. England pressed. They had to. But Spain didn’t panic.

Aitana didn’t panic.

She was everywhere. Dropping deep. Shifting wide. Pulling defenders just far enough out of line before reversing the tempo like she’d rehearsed it in her sleep.

And maybe she had.

Because today wasn’t about control.
It was about revenge.

She spotted Alessia pressing high in Sarina’s system. Saw her trying to angle herself to cut off passing lanes. Saw her fail.

Aitana let the ball roll once across her boot before turning. Their eyes met. Again. But this time, she didn’t hesitate.
She let the ball go.

Passed straight through midfield.

A cut. A slice. A humiliation. One-two.

And suddenly it was Mariona on the move. Then Salma. Then Olga. The overload came fast.

Too fast. England weren’t ready. They were playing well, maybe, better than Spain, but it wasn’t enough.
Bronze was too high again.

Carmona slipped in unnoticed.
And just like that—GOAL.

Olga Carmona. Minute 29. Bottom left corner. Past Mary. Past hope.
Spain 1. England 0.Alessia saw red.
Not metaphorically.

Actually.

The moment Olga’s strike hit the net, it felt like her skin peeled back. Like something inside her snapped.

No.

Aitana hadn’t celebrated like someone scoring a final-winning goal.
She did pump a fist, yelled out. Then turned.

Jogged back. Expression lacking fire.
But her eyes? Her eyes looked straight at her. Like she knew. Like she’d planned it.

Like she was whispering across the pitch: That’s what you get for crawling into my bed and thinking it meant anything.

Alessia was seething. Burning. Unraveling. How were legs already aching? She sprinted harder. Pressed higher. Tracked back even when it wasn’t her job.

She fouled Putellas once—shoulder in too hard—but the ref let it go. Thank the heavens above.

She didn’t look at Aitana. Not directly.
But she saw her. Everywhere. What a nightmare.

In transition. Drifting. Dictating.

And that was the worst part. Because no matter how hard she ran, she couldn’t touch her.

She couldn’t lay a finger.

Not when Aitana moved like this. Like a specter. Like a memory trying to outrun itself. Magician, they said.

Every pass was elegant. Brutal.
Every change of tempo left Alessia behind. And the more she chased, the more it slipped.

And then—minute 35—Aitana nutmegged Stanway.

Not intentionally. Not even looking.

But the crowd roared, and Alessia watched Georgia’s head snap up, saw the moment it hit her, saw the shake.

It was humiliating. And Aitana didn’t flinch. Her eyebrows furrowed, arms out, and legs still moving through the air.

Halftime, England hadn’t managed a goal, managed to keep Spain with only 1 goal, but that was it. Played better, but still were down by 1. Ridiculous.

Alessia walked into the locker room like a live wire. Didn’t sit right away.
Didn’t speak.

Sarina said something about width. About breaking lines. Lucy was clapping her hands and chanting, some of the girls were listening.

Alessia wasn’t.

She was watching the replay in her head. Watching the way Aitana moved.

Not even sweating. Not out of breath.
Like she was dancing.

And the worst part? She made Alessia look slow. Smaller. Like she was chasing something she’d never catch. Like this was her punishment. She was in hell.

She glanced down at her hands.
They still smelled like her.

Fuck.

Aitana hadn’t looked at the scoreboard once. She didn’t need to. She felt the match in her bones. Every second England lagged, she pressed higher.
Every time Bronze inched too far forward, she sent Olga into the space behind. Every time Alessia shifted toward her?
She ghosted away.

Not because she was afraid.

Because she wanted her to notice.
Because if Alessia was going to break, she wanted to be the one who did it.

Because she was cruel when it came to her. And she didn’t know how to stop it.

She passed by her once—near the left sideline—and muttered something low enough to feel, not hear.

Alessia’s neck flushed red. Aitana smirked. This was what she’d wanted.
And she was going to finish it.

The whistle blew.
And everything fell away.

Aitana dropped.
Not from pain. Not from exhaustion.

Just release.

Hands on the grass. Eyes closed. Her body shook once—then again—before she was buried beneath teammates.

Someone screamed in her ear. Another grabbed her hair, nearly pulling her up with them. Alexia’s voice cracked behind her: “Joder, lo hicimos.” Hugging Jenni like she might lose her.

They did. They had won the World Cup.
Not just for Spain. Against Spain.

Against the federation. Against the coach. Against everything that told them to shut up and play. Regardless of opened hotel doors, and insults.

Aitana’s laugh caught in her throat as her medal was slipped around her neck. She looked at Irene. At Ona. At Cata Coll—who was seventeen when this fight started. They were children when this began.

Now they were champions. But her eyes drifted once more—across the podium, down to the sideline.

Alessia sat on the bench. Head in her hands. Still in her kit. Still taped. Still stunned. She hadn’t even changed yet.

She was trying to sob quietly.

But she wasn’t quiet enough. Aitana tried not to look too long, she wrecked her. Did what she needed to do. Right?

Alessia didn’t notice the cameras.
She didn’t notice Keira trying to pat her back.

She just shook her head, whispered something like I blew it and I can’t fucking believe this.

Aitana beat her again. She was worthless. Not even close enough as a player. And then she buried her face in her towel.

The photos were already online by the time Spain started their lap of honor.

The Ceremony.

Gold. Flash. Applause.
Jenni was next forward to receive her medal. Aitana was clapping. Laughing. Turning to say something to Alexia.

And then—Rubiales.
Arms keeping Jenni close.
His mouth on hers.
The jolt of her shoulders.

It lasted two seconds. Three, maybe.
No one reacted. No one really noticed.

The music kept playing. Even Jenni laughed it off as she walked away, dazed.

But Aitana didn’t. Not really.

Something burned in her stomach like she’d swallowed something poisonous. She knew there was something wrong, when it was her turn and he’d gotten too close, hands dropping dangerously low.

She said nothing. She moved on. She told herself it was nerves, just bad timing. Everyone was overwhelmed. Things like that didn’t happen here.
Did they?

The Bus. After the lockeroom where staff had celebrated alongside them, even Rubiales, why would a federation’s president, who worked against them be celebrating in their locker rooms?

Dancing alongside them like he wasn’t the reason for their fights, and the brutality of it all. He was all over Jenni, and the girls were laughing, Jenni was trying to brush it off. Telling herself to just celebrate and drink her beer.

It wasn’t until they were thirty minutes into the ride that Jenni said it out loud. Her phone in her hand, someone was recording them.

“He kissed me. I didn’t want it. I didn’t even see it coming.” She said it laughing but her eyes said it all.

“Are you guys going to get married?”

Irene realised something they hadn’t yet, “Stop, everyone quiet down.”

The entire front of the bus went still.

Teresa turned in her seat. Mariona dropped her phone. Alexia’s smile vanished.

The cameras cut.

“I thought he was just going to hug me,” Jenni said, voice wobbling. “I—I didn’t know what to do. I just let it happen.”

Silence.

And then another player, “I thought you were laughing,” someone muttered.

“We were,” Alexia whispered. “We thought…we didn’t know.”

Jenni nodded slowly. “I know. I didn’t say anything. I just—we just won everything?”

She shook her head. Aitana hadn’t moved. She was staring out the window, medal still clutched in one hand like it might disappear.

They’d won.

They were champions of the world.

And still—
This. The long awaited fight was here now, and no one could deny it.

Laia didn’t say anything.

Two Days Later, Social Media erupts, the footage from the bus also has somehow been intercepted. Taken out of context as well. As always.

Clips. Screenshots. Outrage.

#SeAcabó.

Jenni’s statement. Then Alexia’s. Then Irene’s. Then Aitana’s. “This is not what we fought for. We stand with Jenni. This ends here.”

Alessia reposted it without a caption.
Then added one. “With you. With all of you. Always.”Then the media turned.
Hard.

Spanish newspapers flooded with vitriol. Talk shows calling them “hysterical.” Rubiales painting himself as the real victim. Calling for a meeting for the federation, telling them he’d never resign and he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was applauded by everyone except female staff.

It was disgusting.

Jenni was getting the brute of everything malicious, as was Alexia in a different way, then Aitana’s name was everywhere.

They called her arrogant. Overrated. A liar. A traitor. Even slandered her Catalan background.

It was supposed to be a quiet morning.
Recovery day.

A few Lionesses sat scattered around the lounge: Ella flipping through her phone, Keira stretching, Lucy half-asleep with an ice pack on her shoulder. Georgia had turned the telly on low something about transfer news. No one was really watching.

Until the anchor’s voice shifted.

“—this just in, video emerging from Madrid this morning, where the Spanish women’s national team faced a hostile reception outside their training facility…”

Georgia leaned up from the couch.

“What the hell?”

The camera feed cut in, it was grainy at first showing a crowd of mostly young men surrounding the entrance to a gated training ground. Holding signs. Phones. Flags.

Yelling. Not cheering. Not even protesting for their own women.
Mocking.

One man cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: “¡Un poquitooo! Just a little kiss, eh?”

Laughter. Another: “Come on, Bonmatí, let Rubi give you one too!”

Then, “Puta traidora—go cry to Hermoso!” The feed jumped. The camera caught the team bus pulling in.

You could see them through the windows: faces turned away, headphones on, some visibly tensing. When they stepped off, the shouts grew louder.

Olga kept her head down.
Irene looked furious. Alexia walked faster, and Misa had to be held back from lunging at a few young men. If you could even call them that.

“It’s not worth it!” Cata whispered, arm slung around what appeared to be the other goalkeeper.

Then—Aitana. Just a hoodie. No makeup. Shoulders tight. Step careful.

She got maybe five feet from the door before someone stuck a phone in her face and shouted: “Where’s your kiss, Aitana? Don’t you want a little kiss too?” She flinched. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t respond. But her face gave her away—for half a second—her jaw locked so hard her whole neck went stiff.

The clip cut there. Silence filled the room. No one in the lounge moved.

Georgia let out a slow exhale. “Fucking hell, what a warm welcome for World Cup champs.”

Ella looked sick. “They really think that’s funny?”

Lucy rubbed a hand down her face. “You could hear them laughing.”

The volume dropped again. No one touched the remote. And Alessia?
Alessia hadn’t said a word.

She was standing, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, frozen. Like she was watching something she wasn’t allowed to look away from.

“Did you see that bloke?” Ella said, voice shaking. “The one with the sign? It said ‘Let it be a tradition.’ What the fuck does that even mean?”

“What a backwards country.”

“We aren’t exactly ahead of them.” Another lioness dared to whisper.

Alessia swallowed.

“Are there subtitles?” she asked quietly.

Keira looked over. “What?” As equally shaken, it was her teammates for goodness sake’s, but now she was curious.

“The first guy… he said something about ‘un poquito’—was that…?” Alessia felt her blood boiling.

Georgia blinked.
“That was about the kiss on Hermoso.”

“Jesus,” Leah muttered.

They all knew the phrase now. It had been burned into the internet.

“¿Un beso? ¿Un poquito?”

That fucking excuse. And now they were chanting it at them. Like it was funny. Like it was sport.

Alessia sat down, finally. Didn’t lean back. Just stared at the blank TV screen. No one asked her what she was thinking. But Keira caught the way her knee bounced. The way her mouth kept twitching like she was chewing something bitter.

And she knew. Because they’d all seen it. She wasn’t watching Spain.
She was watching Aitana. And this time, Aitana had looked like she was about to cry.

Weeks later in England, Aitana
was supposed to be flying back to Barcelona. She had landed in London for a brief media obligation, something she hadn’t agreed to herself, her agent had arranged it.

They’d meet her at the airport. Take her to the hotel.

Easy. Only it wasn’t.

When she stepped out into the terminal, the press were already there. Not the ones who asked about the match.
Not the ones who cared about football.

The vultures.

“Bonmatí! Did you lie about the kiss?”
“Were you in a relationship with Hermoso?”
“Is this a power grab against your own coach?”
“Are you scared of losing your spot on the national team?”

Aitana couldn’t find her agent. Her calls weren’t going through.

The crowd got tighter. Flashes harsher. Some laughter. Some venom.
Spanish. English. Cameras in her face.
She backed into a wall.

Her chest started to heave.

It had already started when Alessia noticed her.

She wasn’t supposed to. She was moving quickly, her hoodie up, headphones in, and boarding pass already tucked between her fingers.

But then came the sudden shift in sound. Raised voices. Cameras clicking. Something too aggressive for a Monday.

She turned her head. And it was her.

Aitana.

Stuck in the middle of it.

Hair pulled into a loose knot, sleeves rolled down over her palms, eyes wide—not like she was scared. Like she couldn’t believe it was happening. Again.

The flashbulbs went off too fast. The voices came too loud.

“Aitana—do you stand by Hermoso?”“Are you taking it back or not?”“Fucking traitor, it was just a kiss.”

The last one made Alessia stop walking. She froze. Just long enough to see Aitana take one step backward.
Then another.

Her eyes locked with someone’s camera. Her chest was heaving now, like she was breathing through smoke.

She didn’t cry. She just looked lost. Alessia didn’t remember making the decision. She was already moving. Like Aitana had in that bar, even when she didn’t want to. Right?

Aitana didn’t see her at first.

She heard footsteps, but she was already blinking through flashes. Her heart hadn’t stopped pounding since they called her name—since they screamed “traidora” and “un poquito” like they were joking. Like the kiss, the medal, the month that followed hadn’t already hollowed her out.

Even in England people disrespected them. Her agent was inaccessible at the moment for some reason, she probably should yell at him later. Her voice was gone. She could feel her knees getting soft. This was how she broke. Like this.

Until someone was beside her.
A whisper—cut low through the press:
“Come with me.”

And a hand wrapped around her wrist.

Warm. Firm. Just tight enough to say I mean it.

Aitana could barely process it. Her first instinct was to yank away.
But she didn’t, for some reason.

Because the hand stayed steady.

And then came the voice. That voice. Rough. Too familiar. “Head down. Now.”

Her heart stuttered.

“What—what are you—?” she barely managed.

Why did it always have to be her?
Why Alessia? “Just head down.”

There was no room for argument. Even though Aitana had always made room with the striker.

And maybe, for once, she didn’t want to fight.

They cut through a service hallway.

The noise faded behind them, swallowed by concrete and dull white lights. Alessia didn’t let go, not right away. Her fingers slipped from wrist to palm, and Aitana hated that it felt like something. Like trust. Like the way it used to feel under hotel sheets when they touched without asking.

Aitana’s head swam.

She focused on the floor. The breath between their steps. The sound of Alessia’s trainers scuffing beside her.

It was Alessia’s hand that made her feel safe.

It was Alessia’s presence that made her feel like she couldn’t breathe.

The hallway was cold. Somewhere behind a freight door. Grey and echoey, forgotten by the rest of the world.

Alessia let go, finally. Aitana staggered once. Only slightly.

Even the air between them felt charged.

She turned to face the wall, lifting her hand to her mouth like it might stop whatever was happening in her throat. Not crying. Not yet. But something was cracking.

“Are you okay?” Alessia asked finally, voice lower now. Might as well say something.

Aitana didn’t answer. Her breath caught. She turned her face away.

“Do I look okay?” she whispered, not meaning to sound that defeated.

Alessia leaned against the wall. Long arms crossed.

Tall. Broad. That same impossibly defined jaw Aitana remembered tracing with her lips once, beneath flickering hotel lights. Blonde hair pulled into a loose bun now, a few strands sticking to her cheek. Still annoyingly beautiful. Still standing like she had the upper hand. And for once, she did.

“Honestly?”

Aitana looked up. “Please don’t.” She couldn’t do this right now.

That word. Please. She said it too gently as if it had been in her vocabulary before. Alessia should’ve torn her apart for it.

But she didn’t.

She just tilted her head a little. A single muscle in her cheek twitching like she was trying not to smirk.

“I wasn’t going to say anything clever.”

Aitana gave a breathy, bitter laugh. Her hands were shaking slightly now, and she tucked them under her arms.

“Since when?”

Alessia didn’t smile. “I’m not ignorant to what your team’s going through.”

Aitana stiffened. There it was. The real thing. That ended the conversation.

Or it should’ve.

She sank down onto a storage crate. Arms still crossed, shoulders hunched, knees slightly parted like she was trying to take up less space.

Alessia stayed standing. The light from above made her look sharper somehow. Aitana hated that it made her breath hitch.

“You shouldn’t be alone,” Alessia said, voice like gravel.

“I’m not your problem.” Aitana’s voice cracked around it, like she hadn’t spoken in days. She was slamming her phone on the edge of the crate, like it’d get her a tangible response from anyone *else* who could help her.

“You’re right.”

There was no bite in it. But Alessia still didn’t leave. Aitana leaned back against the wall.

Closed her eyes.

She had to say something, “I saw the photos,” she said. Awesome job Aitana, horrible brain.

Voice quiet. Scared. Like admitting it might make the air shatter. Alessia didn’t move. Trying not to assume anything rash, they were in a space, alone.

“After the final,” Aitana went on. “You were crying.”

Alessia exhaled slowly, rubbing her face. “Is that really what you want to talk about?”

“I just…I want you to know I saw it.”

Another pause. Alessia almost clicked her tongue, didn’t know what Aitana was getting at. But she sounded different.

“And I felt something.”

Alessia’s throat shifted. “Pity?” The only rational explanation. “No.” Great.

Aitana looked at her. Her lips trembling a little now. “Guilt.”

That hit. Aitana looked down. Couldn’t meet her eyes. What?

She waited for the snapback. For the venom Alessia had always kept locked behind her teeth. It didn’t come.

Instead—Alessia moved. Breathing in.
Dropped slowly to one knee.

Palms to her thighs. The way she did when she was focused. Serious. Game-ready. But this wasn’t the pitch. This was her. Her.

Aitana felt her heart punch into her ribs.

“I’m not here because you’re falling apart,” Alessia said. She knew very well the dynamic between them but she couldn’t help but make things clear here.

“I’m not,” Alessia chose to ignore her.

She was close now. Too close. Looking up at her like she could see the pulse in her throat. Her eyes too blue, too easy to get lost in.

“I’m here because I know what it feels like to be watched while it happens.”

Aitana’s mouth parted. She should say something. Should push back. Should pull herself together. But all she did was twitch, her hand barely brushing Alessia’s knee.

Alessia didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.

So Aitana leaned forward. Not much. Just enough that their foreheads touched. Gently. Alessia flinched unconsciously, surprised by the action and the closeness.

She smelled like salt and something warm. Still citrusy under her hoodie. Still Alessia.

Aitana’s voice trembled.
“Thank you, Alessia.”

Alessia froze.

Because her name: her full name, had never sounded like that before. Aitana hadn’t said it like a threat.

She said it like a confession.

Aitana shifted slightly where she sat. Alessia’s body blocked the light, the noise, the world.

Her scent was dizzying: clean, citrus, and familiar. The kind that stuck to your clothes after nights you pretended to forget. Her jaw was sharper now. Eyes bolder. Mouth dangerously close.

She didn’t flinch.
“You always find me when I’m like this.”

Alessia tilted her head, saying nothing. Letting Aitana fill the silence.

“And you don’t just show up,” she went on, voice too calm. Too even. “You put your hands on me. You talk like you know what I need before I do.”

So do you, Alessia kept to herself. Too much maybe.

Alessia’s jaw ticked.
“Is that a complaint?”

“No,” Aitana said too fast. Then again, softer. “No.”

Their eyes locked.

Long. Loaded.

“Then what is it?” Alessia asked, lower now.

“I don’t know.” Aitana crossed her arms not defensively. Just to keep from reaching. “Maybe I’m trying to figure out if it’s coincidence.”

Alessia inched forward. The soft scrape of her trainer echoed. The crate beneath Aitana’s legs creaked.

“You think it is?” she asked, voice rough.

“I don’t know what I think when..you’re this close to me.” Aitana conceded the last part quietly, like she had that night she came on her stomach, and then looked away like it hadn’t meant anything. That stopped everything.

Alessia reached out—not for effect.
Just her hand, deliberate, grazing Aitana’s elbow, ghosting down her forearm. She didn’t take. Didn’t pull.
Just touched.

Intentional.

Aitana’s muscles tensed beneath her fingers. She was always like this: composed, precise.

But now? Now she was barely holding.

“You’ve never asked me to go away,” Alessia murmured. Aitana’s throat moved. “I don’t know if I wanted you to.”

God. Hair tucked behind her ear. That precise, pointed nose she’d once traced with her fingers in the dark. The way Aitana’s mouth held still, tight with control, even as her eyes betrayed everything.

She was always so composed. So contained.

But right now?

Right now, she was barely holding.

Alessia leaned in slightly. Enough that Aitana could smell her, still that same warm citrus scent from years ago, like something burnt into memory.

“Just say something cruel,” she whispered. “You’re usually good at that.”

It’d be easier, for them both.
Aitana’s lips twitched.
“I don’t feel like it.” “Why not?”

“Because I’d rather stay here.” Aitana didn’t know why she felt so comfortable now. Too dangerous.

It wasn’t fragile.
It was chosen.
Alessia exhaled slowly.

Then, without warning, without permission, without apology—she stepped between Aitana’s legs.

Aitana tried not to think about holding her shoulders.

Didn’t touch her.

Just there. Close enough that Aitana’s breath hitched against her neck.
Their foreheads brushed again. Light. Barely.

“You know this doesn’t change anything,” Alessia said, eyes narrow now.

“I know.” Aitana whispered.

“I still don’t trust you.”

“I don’t trust me either.”
That got a breath of a laugh.
But it didn’t fix anything.

Alessia’s hand dropped to her knee. Not possessive. Just present. Aitana looked up, she was wide-eyed. Unflinching.

“Don’t want you to go.” So small, so there, Alessia exhaled, looked down at her. Lashes heavy. Mouth parted.
She looked younger. And older. Both.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. This was so unbelievably unlike everything she had lived by.

Not now. Now Aitana was breathless. Frustrated. Holding her own composure like it might split open.

“Why do you always do this?” Aitana asked, not biting. Just..wrecked. Confused?

Alessia tilted her head. “Do what?”
“This.” Aitana gestured between them.

When she was so unable to pounce but managed to at the end.

Alessia didn’t flinch. Her voice was steady.

“Maybe I don’t like seeing you fall.”
This was hard to stomach. Well that just couldn’t be true, Alessia reveled in her misery. She had to.

Aitana blinked. She hated how it sat in her chest.

“You always hold me,” she whispered.
Alessia stayed silent. “In the stairwell. After Japan. After the Euros. The final. You keep showing up.”

She was shaking now. Slight. Just enough for Alessia to notice.

“I used to think it was a game.”

“And now?” Alessia asked.

“I’m not sure it is,”

They didn’t breathe didn’t even know what each other had meant.

“You’re there,” Aitana said again. “Even when I don’t want you [there]. Even when I don’t deserve it.”

Alessia stepped forward, slower this time. “I don’t think it’s ever been about what you deserve.”

Aitana stared at her utterly invigorated, even when she was so exhausted. There was no noise anymore. No press. No shouting.

Just Alessia Russo, inches away.
Too tall. Too gentle. Too familiar. Everything she hated. Supposedly.

“Then what is it about?”

Alessia didn’t say anything right away.
She looked at Aitana the way someone looks at something too dangerous to touch, but too beautiful to walk away from.

Then, just above a whisper—“I think I just…can’t help it.”

And that that, was what finally made Aitana lean forward again.

Not to kiss her. Not even to speak.
Just to rest her head, quietly, against Alessia’s shoulder. And Alessia didn’t flinch. Her fingers brushed Aitana’s hand, not fully taking. There.
Aitana stared at her. There was no noise right now. No shouting. No cameras.

Aitana turned. Slow.

Like she wasn’t sure what she was asking for until their lips hovered.

Her eyes fluttered closed. Her nose grazed Alessia’s bridge, that pointed edge of bone catching against the soft of her cheek, just enough to make Alessia’s breath catch in her throat.

Alessia tilted her head instinctively. Unthinking. Like muscle memory.

Like her body knew this, knew her.

Aitana’s hand rose without meaning to. Hovered at Alessia’s collar. Not gripping. Not pulling this time.

But her thumb, god, her thumb brushed just beneath Alessia’s throat, featherlight, enough to make them both freeze.

Too close and fucking dangerous.

“If I kiss you right now…” Aitana said, voice hoarse, wrecked, barely there unlike herself.

Alessia’s breath hitched.

“You’d regret it.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s always true.” Biting. Sharp. Russo’s voice carved the air like a blade.

Aitana’s lashes dropped, mouth twitching like she might spit something cruel. Instead, it came out soft. Bitter. Loaded.

“Then why haven’t you left?”
Their lips brushed. Barely. Not a kiss.
Just the threat of one. Alessia stepped back. Only just. Her hand still warm on Aitana’s knee.

“Because if I kiss you,” she said low, brutal, “I know I’m not going to stop.”

Aitana’s grip on her hoodie tightened. Her stomach did something horrible. Aching.

“Then don’t.”
‘Aitana, control yourself.’
‘I can’t,’ she answered back not out loud, but close. She needed a psychiatrist and quick.

And for one long, aching breath, they didn’t move.

The ache between them was louder than the press. Louder than the world.
But Alessia didn’t cross the line. Didn’t kiss her. She let the silence stretch—let Aitana feel it, the absence of it, the cruelty of wanting.

And then—she stepped back. Let go.

Aitana blinked, slow. “You didn’t.” Unyielding. Alessia didn’t flinch. Her hand hovered where it had been. Her jaw tight.

“No,” she said.

Then softer. Deeper.

“Not yet.”

Aitana’s breath caught, sharp in her chest. “Not yet?” she repeated, like the words tasted wrong in her mouth. Like they’d betrayed her. Burned her.

Her voice cracked just slightly. Just enough to make her hate herself more.

She sat back hard, as if the crate burned beneath her. Legs still parted from when Alessia had stood there, all tall and devastating and far too calm for someone who’d just scorched the earth.

Aitana’s hands twitched at her sides, unsure what to do. Where to land. Who to hit.

“You can’t just…” she bit out. “Say that. Walk away.”

Oh, but she could. Didn’t you?
Multiple times? She needed to shut that voice up.

Alessia tilted her head, eyes darker than they’d been in hours.

“I didn’t kiss you, did I?”

“No,” Aitana said, too fast. Too sharp. “But you wanted to.”

God, she needed an appointment.
Alessia’s mouth curved. Not kind. Not smug.

Worse—tender. For fuck sakes.

“I always want to.” That stunned her.
Fully. Her mouth parted like she might say something. Anything. But nothing came.

Alessia leaned in again, not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel.

“You don’t even know what you do to me,” she murmured. “And maybe that’s the problem.” Aitana’s skin prickled. Legs trembling now.

“And maybe you’re scared,” Alessia added, glancing at her mouth, then her eyes. “Because you want me to do it.”

“I didn’t say that.” Croaked. Embarrassing.

“You didn’t have to.”
And fuck her! Alessia sounded good saying it. It was true. All of it. Every horrible, sweet, confusing bit of it.

Aitana looked away. For the first time.

Her jaw clenched. She could still feel Alessia’s thumbprint on the inside of her thigh. Could still taste the kiss that didn’t happen.

And then Alessia stepped back.

Again. Slower this time. Measured. Controlled. The same way she’d controlled everything else.

Her voice, when it came, was soft. Cruel in its calm.

“I’ve got a plane to catch.” Didn’t have to explain. But did.

“But I’m not gone.”

That? That was unforgivable.
Aitana watched her turn, tall and loose and maddeningly untouchable. Her back straight, shoulders relaxed.
Like she hadn’t just ruined her.

Like she hadn’t just carved her out and left her humming with want. Even in these circumstances.

She let out a breath. Finally. It shook.

And all she could manage, under it, barely audible, was: “Fuck you.”

But it didn’t sound angry.

It sounded like a promise. Like history.
Like the beginning of something they wouldn’t come back from.

Alessia was halfway to the terminal.
Her jaw locked so tight she thought her teeth might crack. “Not yet.”
What the fuck had she meant by that?
What did Aitana think she meant?

She could still smell her—that shampoo she hated, that skin she’d tasted more times than she could admit. She shouldn’t have gone near her.

She shouldn’t have pulled her from the press, or touched her, or breathed her in like that.

But God, when Aitana looked at her with those eye—wide, raw, daring her—

She couldn’t walk away. Not when they were both woman footballers who’d been dealt the same cards. Right?
Not really.

Even now, she could still feel her breath against her mouth. Her hands fisted at her sides. Her boarding pass crumpled in one of them. No one said her name. No one looked at her. But all she could see was Aitana. Still sitting on that crate. Still burning. Still waiting.

Not yet, she thought again. And then:
But soon. She’d be fine.

Aitana didn’t move. Couldn’t. Still perched on that crate like the hallway itself had wrapped around her and refused to let her go.

Everything in her body ached. Her legs still trembled where they’d parted instinctively, her mouth still burned from proximity. The warmth between her thighs hadn’t faded.

And that—that was what made her want to scream.

Because her team was under siege.
Because Jenni had been assaulted.
Because the whole world had watched and then turned away. Because their federation had started a war.

And still—the only thing she could feel was this. Not the chants. Not the press. Not the threats. Not the posts.
Not the shame. Just Alessia Russo’s thumb on the inside of her knee.
Just her hoodie between Aitana’s fingers. Just that voice: Not yet.

What the fuck did that even mean?

Her body was furious with her. Her mind worse. Her chest felt split. Like she’d let herself fracture too many times in too many directions and now there was nothing left holding her together.

She should be thinking about the meeting they had coming.
About how Jenni was being blackmailed by their own Federation. About how her own name had been dragged through every Spanish headline as if she were the traitor.

But all she could think about was the way Alessia hadn’t kissed her.
How she almost did. How she wanted to. And how Aitana had let her. Had wanted her to.

Had let that almost replace the entire war she’d just come from.

You always find me like this.

The words haunted her now. She wanted to take them back.
But they were true.

She hated that Alessia had heard them.
Hated more that she hadn’t disagreed.

She clenched her jaw, breathing shallow. Her hoodie still smelled like her. That citrus-sharp, clean scent Alessia always wore without trying.

She pressed her hands to her face and dragged them down hard. Her skin felt too tight.

And underneath the heat, underneath the memory, underneath everything Alessia left behind—a crueler truth sat in her chest. She wasn’t grieving her country. She wasn’t screaming for Jenni, not right now.

Not yet. Not enough. Because this had taken up all the space first.

And Aitana couldn’t decide what was worse—that she let it, or that it had felt like relief.

That, even in the collapse of everything, Alessia Russo had made her feel something else. That was the real betrayal. And it was her own.

Her phone buzzed from the crate beside her.

She didn’t reach for it. Didn’t want an agent. Or a teammate. Or her flight info.

She wanted—

She didn’t know what she wanted.
No—she did.

But Alessia Russo had just walked away with it. And Aitana? Aitana was going to be furious about this for a long, long time.

London. September 2023.

The shirt didn’t feel real.
Not yet. Alessia joined Arsenal on a free transfer.

Arsenal red, clinging tight around her shoulders. She’d played her first minutes, those being the most anxiety ridden. Applause. Chants.
Some of them even cheered for her.

But the hate still echoed louder.
United rat. No loyalty. Traitor. She’d seen the comments. Heard the shouts at the away gate when the team arrived. Heard it when she’d almost scored against her former team in October, she’d almost done it but didn’t play as well as she should’ve.

Before October, they’d played in the Champions League qualifying rounds and beat Linköpings with ease then came the kicker, of course Alessia was thrilled to have been there but not when Paris FC had been the ones to crush their chances.

Not when she’d scored a goal and her penalty, and Arsenal managed to reach the semis the last season. They were eliminated in the first qualifying round…Alessia couldn’t believe it. Neither could the squad.

Ella hadn’t said much when she left Manchester. Had hugged her, then gone cold for two weeks. They were fine now.
But not the same, it’d be okay soon.

And Alessia hadn’t stopped thinking about what she’d given up.
Her best friend’s club. Her city. Her comfort.

For this. She’d expected resentment.
She hadn’t expected Laia Codina.

They’d announced her transfer in late August, barely a month after Aitana had ignored Alessia’s gaze on that stage in Sydney. Laia had arrived with no fanfare, just a bag slung over one shoulder and headphones around her neck.

Alessia had nodded when they first passed in the tunnel. Laia nodded back.
Nothing else.

But there was something in her eyes.
Something that knew exactly what had happened in that hotel.
Knew what it meant that Alessia had pulled Aitana into her arms—again.

She didn’t say anything. Not out loud.
But her silence wasn’t neutral.
And maybe that’s what made Alessia spiral most. Because this was supposed to be a fresh start. A new badge. A new city.

Instead? It felt like another chapter she didn’t get to write.

Every time her boots struck the grass at London Colney, all she could think about was the sound of Aitana’s breath against her cheek.

You always hold me. The things she’d said in that hallway—soft, crumbling, dangerous—had stayed with her like bruises under her shirt.

And now, Laia was here. Part of the squad. A silent witness to something Alessia didn’t even understand yet.

Something that wasn’t over.

Not really.

Because every time her name popped up on social—Bonmatí wins UEFA Player of the Year—her chest tightened.

Because every time she laced her boots at Arsenal, she knew Aitana would see. Would feel it. Because even now, after all the silence, all the damage, all the goddamn “not yets”—
Alessia still wasn’t done.

Not with her.
Not with any of it. And the worst part?
Laia knew that too.

It happened in passing, a late training, nearly cleared out.

Alessia stayed behind to retape her wrist. That was the excuse anyway.
Laia was still there too. Stretching. Not talking. Just close enough to notice.
They’d never spoken before, not properly. But they’d been around each other’s names long enough for it to feel heavier than it should.

Laia was the one to break the silence.
“Messy, that airport video.”

Alessia’s breath caught. She didn’t look up right away. “Didn’t think you were the saving-type,” Laia added, tone light. Trying your sound unbothered.

Alessia peeled the tape too fast.
“I wasn’t trying to save anyone.”

“Right.”

She finally glanced up. Laia’s face didn’t match her tone, not playful. Not cruel. Just…blank. It made her harder to read.

“I didn’t ask for a lecture,” Alessia said.
“Wasn’t giving one,” Laia replied. “Just figured you’d be more subtle about it.”

Alessia clenched her jaw, she felt younger with Laia’s presence, like she had at nineteen. “About what?”

Laia looked her right in the eye then for the first time. “Whatever it is you’re doing.” The silence that followed felt like a dare.

Alessia didn’t take it, knew she had to be rational . She just stood, slower than she needed to, grabbed her water, kept her face still.

Maybe:
She never talked about you.
Or worse—
She only moaned my name.

But Alessia bit it back. Let it sit on her tongue like venom she chose not to spit.

Laia didn’t deserve that power.
Didn’t deserve Aitana’s name in her mouth. Because the truth was: Laia didn’t know her. Not like Alessia did.
Not the way she moved when she wanted to hurt you. Not the way her body folded, desperate and stubborn, in the dark. Not the way yearned to be taken again and again—only to pretend none of it happened the next morning.

So Alessia just smiled. Tight. Controlled. Because the silence hurt more. And Aitana wasn’t hers. But she sure as hell wasn’t Laia’s either.

Instead: “We’re teammates now. You might want to get used to that.”

Laia’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.
“Oh, I’m used to it.”

She turned, paused just before the door.

“And for what it’s worth?” she added, not looking back, voice clipped. “She used to hate girls like you.”

Then she left.

And Alessia stood there, pulse roaring in her throat, wrist still untaped, trying not to wonder what Aitana had said. And who she’d said it to.

Aitana heard about it through silence conversations during trainings—Laia talking to Alessia.

She didn’t need context. She knew the shape of it. Knew what it meant when Laia got quiet, when Alessia got that clipped edge to her voice. She’d seen it before. In mirrors. In hotel rooms. In locker rooms after too many finals.

Back in Barcelona, things were quieter. Not better. Just…less loud. The fight with the federation hadn’t ended, but it had blurred at the edges. Jonatan was still just as strong and normal.
Alexia and her were speaking again—tentative, steady. A soft kind of truce.
And Keira? She was still there. Still hers. That hadn’t changed.

But Laia? No. Laia had chosen her moment in 2022, and Aitana still hadn’t forgiven her for it. Not when she’d smiled through the silence. Not when she walked into that Arsenal dressing room knowing exactly who else would be there.

It should’ve been simple. Alessia was there. Gone to North London. Gone to Arsenal. Just as far.

But even now—even with a continent between them—Aitana could feel her.

Every press photo. Every whisper. Every inch of space Laia moved through now felt like it had Russo’s fingerprints on it.
She didn’t ask. Didn’t text. Didn’t say anything out loud.

But something in her stomach tightened. Low. Ugly. Familiar.

Because if she couldn’t get her stomach to stop this aching when she’d thought about her? Then this thing between them?

It wasn’t over. And some bitter, burning part of her didn’t want it to be.

Chapter Text

Barcelona–October 2023

The television was muted.

Aitana hadn’t meant to watch the match. She told herself it was background noise. That she was only waiting for Ingrid to get back with coffee. That she wasn’t…watching.

But Alessia had just hit the post. Again. Her fourth shot. No goal. No smile. Not even a shake of the head. Just that clenched jaw. That twitch in her cheek when things didn’t go right.

Aitana leaned forward, elbow on her knee. Laia was there too. Sliding into tackles, moving sharp, clean. Playing well. Like the last year hadn’t happened.

Like she wasn’t the reason Aitana had learned how to stay quiet with her teeth clenched. Cloé Lacasse saved the match in the 88th minute with a ridiculous goal—left-footed, curling, ruthless. Aitana should’ve appreciated it. She barely blinked.

The final whistle blew. A draw. Arsenal’s first WSL points of the season, and it still felt like a loss.

Alessia looked like it too.
Hands on her hips. Head bowed. Mouth tight. Aitana knew that posture. She knew every version of it.
The crowd cheered anyway.

Ingrid came in through the side door, iced coffee in each hand.
“Still watching her?” she asked without looking at the screen.

“I’m not watching her,” Aitana lied.

“Sureee.” Ingrid singsonged.

Aitana didn’t argue. She just adjusted her hoodie, eyes still on the screen.
One camera caught Russo walking off. Alone. The others had gone to the fans. Laia was already mid-conversation with Lotte. And Alessia? She looked like she wanted to disappear.

Aitana clicked the TV off.

“Match that bad?” Ingrid asked.

“Fine.”
Then, because that sounded too fast—“Eyes hurt.”

Ingrid didn’t push. That was her gift.
But Aitana knew that she knew. Just like Alexia knew. Just like Keira probably did. And worse—just like Laia must’ve.

Aitana stood and grabbed her coffee.
“Ballon d’Or ceremony is next week,” she said, more to herself.

Ingrid gave a soft laugh. “And you’re going to win it.” Aitana didn’t respond.

She just stared out the window.
And thought about the girl who’d told her “not yet.” The one now standing on a different pitch. In the wrong kit. With the wrong person beside her.

London–October 2023

The boos started the moment her name was announced.

Not just scattered ones. Not just away fans. It was the kind of sound you feel in your teeth—thick, ugly, and sustained.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just rolled her shoulders, jogged toward the center circle, and ignored the heat creeping up her neck.

Even the commentators mentioned it.

“That’s…quite a reaction for Russo. Returning to face her old club.”

“Can’t say we didn’t expect it. Some supporters haven’t quite forgiven the move to Arsenal.”

Some? Try every single one.
She’d taken four shots by the time the second half started. One clipped the bar. One skidded wide. The other two? Forgettable. Heavy-legged. Uninspired.
Jonas didn’t take her off. Should’ve.

By minute 83, the crowd was hissing every time she touched the ball. United fans shouted things about betrayal. Arsenal fans shouted things about doing her job.

And somewhere in the middle of it all: Laia Codina, intercepting every cross, tracking every run, clearing everything like her career depended on it.

She wasn’t smiling. But she looked comfortable. Like she’d always been meant to play in North London. Like this was hers now too. Cloé Lacasse, their new Canadian equalized late. Beautiful goal. Top corner. One of those “fuck it, I’ll do it myself” moments.

Everyone roared. Russo didn’t even lift her arms.

After the match, the dressing room was a blur of tension disguised as analysis.

Jonas pointed at tactics on the board. Lotte tapped her studs against the floor. Steph Catley muttered something about spacing and shrugged. No one said Russo’s name out loud. Laia peeled her socks off in silence. She didn’t look Alessia’s way once.

But Alessia looked at her. And she knew.
She knew Laia hadn’t forgotten that hallway. That moment in the airport.
The fact that Alessia had wrapped her hand around Aitana’s wrist like she had a right to. Laia had seen the photo, probably. Had seen the press twist it into a story.

Had seen Aitana’s face in it too—wide-eyed, cornered, and wrecked.

And now they were here. Teammates. Pretending. Except Alessia didn’t know how to pretend anymore.

She didn’t take off her boots right away.

She sat in the corner, replaying the match in her head. Her jaw ached from clenching. Her knees were stiff. Her pride? That was shot before kickoff.

And still, beneath all of it, she was checking her phone.
Again.

Nothing.
Not from Aitana. Not since that message she’d sent two weeks ago.

“You didn’t deserve that. Not from them. Not ever. If you need a way out, I’ll come find you again.”

No response. Not even a read receipt.
She’d typed it outside the airport. Still high on adrenaline. Still tasting the words not yet in her mouth. Still feeling Aitana’s breath against her collarbone like she hadn’t meant to give it away.
And Aitana? She went silent.

Disappeared back into Barcelona like the hallway never happened. No kiss. No closure. No reply.

Just that same unread message and a couple of Instagram stories: a blurred sunset, a blurry café cup, a photo with Alexia of all people—smiling. Light.

Alessia stared at the screen like it might punch her back. She scrolled again. Nothing. She opened Twitter.

Her name was trending again.

“And you guys told us ‘Prusso’ would carry Assna🤣!”
“Zero goals. Zero presence.”
“Where’s the 250k striker???”

Prusso? The fuck did that even mean?? She locked the phone and set it face-down. Then stood. Finally peeled off her shirt. Her kit stuck to her like regret.
She was supposed to be here for a reason. To win. To reinvent. To lead.

Instead?
She’d become a walking headline and a silent war no one saw.

They sat across from each other like old friends who hadn’t yet decided if they were still old friends.

It was a small café in the Eixample, tucked behind a bookstore, with wobbly chairs and chipped mugs and the kind of stale indoor air that felt like a secret. Aitana had picked it. She knew Alexia liked places where no one asked for photos.

The table was sticky. Their sunglasses were still on.

Alexia stirred her iced coffee slowly, watching Aitana over the rim of her cup.

“So,” she said. “You’ve stopped hating me, then?”

Aitana winced. “I never—”

“You did,” Alexia said, but not unkindly. “You had every right to.”

Aitana looked down, dragging her fingernail through a ring of condensation. “You weren’t there.”

“I know.” Alexia started.

“I needed you.” Aitana admitted solemnly. Alexia was quiet for a long time. The kind of silence only people who’ve known each other through real grief can survive.

Then she said, softly, “I know.”
Aitana’s mouth pressed tight. Her eyes flicked upward. “I didn’t mean what I said to you in Australia. Not all of it.”

“I know that too.”

“You’re not—” Aitana hesitated. “I didn’t mean to say you weren’t helping. You’ve done more for this team than—”

“Aitana.” Alexia leaned in, her voice low, her palm settling lightly on the table between them. “I forgive you.”

Just like that. Aitana blinked. Her throat clenched. “You do?”

Alexia gave a small, crooked smile, her gummy smile was something Aitana always adored. “I know what love does. What it turns us into. Especially when we think it’s slipping away.”

Aitana froze hands up now. “What—?”

Alexia smirked. “Don’t pretend I didn’t see the disaster you turned into every time Russo’s name came up.”

Aitana flushed, waving her hands like she could literally swat the implication out of the air. “It’s not like that—”

“Oh, come on.”

“It’s not,” she insisted. “It was—it is—complicated.”

Alexia tilted her head, now really intrigued. “Did something happen?”

Fuck.

Aitana stared at her, then looked away too quickly. Alexia’s eyes narrowed. She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Wait.”

Aitana rubbed her temple. “No.”

“Oh my God Aita.” Alexia gasped, suddenly everything made sense.

“Stop.”

“Did you sleep with her?”

“Can we not do this here?” Aitana hissed, cheeks flaming. Alexia nearly choked on her coffee, jaw slacked. “You did.”

“I didn’t say that.” Aitana gulped, Alexia folded her arms.

“You didn’t have to.”

Aitana buried her face in her hands. “I hate you.”

Alexia was beaming now, delighted and horrified all at once. “That’s soooo,”

“I know.” Aitana waved a hand, she couldn’t believe she’d done it either time either.

“You hate her!”

“I know.”

“You let her—?”

“I know.”

“Oh my god, how many times?”

“Alexia!” Aitana squealed, eyes looking anywhere else, “Okay, okay, so more than once.” Aitana threw a crumbled napkin at her. That’s all she needed.

Alexia sat back, still staring at her like she was trying to reconcile Aitana Bonmatí, Barcelona’s darling and midfield metronome, with the woman across from her now—flushed, fidgeting, and slowly dissolving into her own coffee cup.

After a long moment, Aitana murmured, “She texted me.”

That sobered Alexia. “When?”

“After the airport.”

Alexia’s smile faded. She nodded once. “What’d she say?”

Aitana hesitated. Then, quietly: “That I [we] didn’t deserve the press. The shouting. That if I needed a way out, she’d find me again.”

Alexia’s brows lifted. She didn’t speak right away. “And?” she asked softly.

“I didn’t answer.”

Alexia studied her, slower this time. “Why not?” Rolfö probably would’ve just shouted at her, but Alexia was different.

Aitana shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t want it to mean something.”

“But it did?”

Aitana didn’t respond. Her silence did it for her. Alexia exhaled. “You really thought no one noticed?”

Aitana blinked. “Noticed what?”

Alexia tilted her head. “That you flinch every time someone says her name. That you get mean when you’re scared. That you stop looking at the pitch when she’s on it.”

Aitana swallowed hard.

“I thought I was subtle.”

“You were not,” Alexia said, laughing now. “You’re a terrible liar. You always have been.”

“I hate this.”

“I don’t think you do.”

Aitana went quiet. She tapped the edge of her glass and didn’t look up. “Do you think I ruin everything?”

Alexia took a sip of her coffee. “I think you’re human.”

Aitana blinked quickly.

“I think you made a choice in the middle of a war,” Alexia continued. “And maybe it wasn’t smart. Maybe it wasn’t even safe. But it wasn’t the wrong one.”

Aitana finally met her gaze. “You believe that?”

“I believe you’re allowed to feel things,” Alexia said gently. “Even if they’re messy. Even if they look like her.”

Aitana smiled, broken and small.
Alexia tapped the table once, then softened her voice. “Do you still think about her?”

Aitana let out a long breath. It was time to be honest.
“I don’t stop.”

Paris–October 30, 2023
Ballon d’Or Ceremony

The gold stage lights made her eyes ache.

She’d worn the suit Ella said looked sharp. Simple black with a clean silhouette. Her hair pulled back, sleek. Minimal makeup. Nothing too loud. Not the moment to distract. Just enough polish to look like she belonged.

She didn’t feel like she did.

One of her brothers had come with her. Luca. He looked good in a tux, stood beside her with quiet support, half-amused by the whole thing.

“You nervous?” he’d asked before they entered the theater. “No,” Alessia had said. Lying. “Not my night.”

And it wasn’t. It was hers.

The moment Aitana stepped out onto the red carpet, Alessia stopped breathing.

She wore black, a white cady and a silk dress with grey rhinestone embroidery, minimal and sculpted. The kind of dress that let her collarbones speak, that framed her hips like they were carved, precise and impossible to look away from. Her hair was up, soft tendrils left free, and her face—Jesus.

Alessia looked down at her shoes.

Laia stood a few feet away, talking to an Arsenal staffer. She didn’t approach Aitana. Didn’t even make eye contact. Alessia caught that. Weird.

They used to be inseparable. Now it was like a polite avoidance dance. And somehow, that made her chest tight.
Not my business, she reminded herself. Even though it was.

Aitana was laughing with someone maybe her cousin, maybe her agent—smiling in that easy, radiant way Alessia hadn’t seen in months. Like none of it was heavy. Like none of it had ever touched her.

She looked…happy. Genuinely.

And Alessia? She felt like she was watching a past version of her. One she couldn’t quite reach anymore.

She didn’t expect to win by that many points.

That was the part that made her dizzy. Not the cameras. Not the walk to the podium. Not even the sudden weight of the Ballon d’Or in her hands, gold and unreal.

It was the number.
The gap. They announced it mid-way through the broadcast. Aitana Bonmatí, 2023 Ballon d’Or winner. 117 points ahead of Sam Kerr. Over 150 ahead of Olga Carmona. She shouldn’t be that shocked, people were saying she ‘completed football’, and it was the truth.

She heard cheers. Claps. Casual murmurs from rows behind her.

She blinked.

Her mother was crying. Her father clapped slowly, jaw trembling. Fridolina was cheering from two rows back, Salma beside her, practically shaking with joy. Even Alexia was beaming at her.

Aitana stood. Her legs worked, somehow. The cameras followed. The announcer beamed.

And in the corner of her vision—

Alessia. Front row. Next to a man she didn’t recognize, but that oddly looked like her. Gross. Laughing softly at something he said. In an elegant suit that fit her shoulders too perfectly. She’s wearing a suit? Fuck, Aitana swallowed to herself.

Aitana’s stomach twisted.

It wasn’t her night, she reminded herself. It was football’s.

She delivered her speech in three languages. Her voice trembling at some points. Thanked her parents. Friends. Thanked the fans. The staff. Barça. Jenni. The girls. The fight. She tried to make it perfect. Tried not to shake.

And when she looked out into the audience, she didn’t mean to find her.

But Alessia was there. Hands folded in her lap. Watching her like she was a stranger on TV. Blank face. Controlled. Beautiful.

Next to her, the man leaned in again. Said something close to her ear.
Alessia smiled. Aitana’s chest went tight enough to bruise.

Alessia didn’t clap right away.
She should’ve. Everyone else had. The ovation was deafening.

But Alessia just sat there for a beat too long, watching Aitana beam in black hair tied back perfectly, mouth parted in real shock, the gold glinting under her fingers like it belonged to her skin.

She looked ethereal. Sharp and soft all at once.

Alessia’s brother nudged her.

“Mate, clap.”
She did. Later, Luca leaned over again. “Is that her?”

Alessia didn’t answer. Didn’t even understand how he could’ve possibly gotten whatever it was on his radar.

But the truth was: it was always her.

Aitana should’ve been able to focus.
On the win. On the applause. On the history.

But she was too busy staring at the photos afterward. Alessia next to that man. The way their heads tilted just slightly toward each other. Like something natural. Something familiar.

He helped her with her jacket at one point. Put his hand on the small of her back. Aitana looked away.

Laia never got within three meters of her the whole night. Which was…obvious. But somehow reassuring. Alessia had barely spoken to Laia either, at least not where Aitana could see it.

But the man—whoever he was—was everywhere. And Aitana hated how often she noticed him. Hated more that Alessia let him stay close.

She held the Ballon d’Or in her lap on the ride back to the hotel and didn’t look at it once. The only thing she saw in her head was Alessia’s suit. Her mouth. The way she didn’t look at her the entire night.

London–January 2024
FIFPRO World XI Ceremony

It was the kind of night that wrapped around your skin. Soft lighting. Velvet tables. Music humming through crystal glass. No press urgency, no federation scandals. Just winners glistening in designer dresses and custom heels, standing under lights that made them look like they belonged in constellations.

Aitana hadn’t expected to enjoy it.

She wore black, sleeveless, hair pinned delicately back. The neckline cut sharp across her collarbones, clean and quiet, but it was her arms that did the damage, golden and defined, glinting with confidence she didn’t fully feel. She looked…radiant.

Everyone said it.
Even Keira, who laughed over her wine and whispered, “You planned this.”
Even Lucy Bronze, who raised her eyebrows and let out a low, impressed whistle.

But it was Alessia who saw her first. And stopped talking mid-sentence.

Alessia wore a sheer, glitzy dress that clung in all the places Aitana remembered pressing her body against. The neckline swooped, the sleeves barely there, fabric glittering under the chandeliers. Russo looked…dangerous. Like she didn’t chase anymore. Like you had to come to her.

And Aitana? She was already walking toward her when Ella intercepted.

“Ai-ta-naaaaa,” Ella sing-songed, practically dragging her aside.

“Toone?” Aitana laughed, still looking past her.

“Photo,” Ella said. “You’re my favorite tonight.”

Alessia blinked from across the room, jaw not as tense as usual.

“Since when?”

“Since she walked in looking like that,” Ella said, deadpan, already handing her phone to Keira. “Smile, queen.”

Aitana did laughing, stunned, caught. Ella’s arm went around her waist without hesitation.

Alessia could only watch as Ella snapped three photos and kissed Aitana’s cheek in the last one. Alessia was hot now.

“She’s mine for the night,” Ella declared.

Aitana flushed. Alessia raised an eyebrow. Something burned behind her eyes, but it wasn’t sharp. It was warm. She wasn’t walking away. Why won’t she walk away?

And when Aitana turned back to her?
It was like gravity flicked back on.

Before when names were announced, Aitana and Alessia had players in between them but that didn’t stop them from borderline smiling at one another, across the fucking stage. Real subtle. They didn’t even notice it.

They didn’t say much when they stood next to each other for the World XI photo. Didn’t need to.

The photographer’s voice buzzed:

“Bonmatí, Russo: closer, please.”
Aitana moved first. Alessia didn’t flinch. They stood shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath. A flash went off, catching the outline of their silhouettes too close to pretend it wasn’t something.

Aitana’s perfume wrapped around Alessia’s throat. Alessia’s sleek shoulder brushed her arm. And they both felt it.

Later, when the music softened and most players settled into laughter and champagne haze, Alessia found herself alone by the bar. Sort of. Lucy was nearby, talking to Keira. Alexia was saying something to Olga. But Alessia?

Alessia was watching her again.

Aitana stood by a tall table, laughing with someone. Hair loose now, wine glass in hand. Her lipstick hadn’t smudged. Her cheeks were a little pink. Her smile was real. She looked younger. Calmer.

Free.

And fuck—she looked happy. Even that was sexy.

Alessia couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her like this. And she’d been watching. All year.

“You’re staring,” Alexia said, sliding in beside her like smoke. Alessia was a little stunned, Alexia’s English had gotten good and she’d never talked to her like this before.

“Pardon?” Alessia’s back straight as a board.

“She smiles more when you’re not the one running.” ‘I’m not the one doing the running’, Alsssia thought to herself.

Alessia blinked. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No,” Alexia said easily. “I’m telling you that I know.”

Then she walked away, leaving Alessia with a full glass and a chest too tight to breathe properly.

Aitana caught her alone a few minutes later. She didn’t say anything at first.

She just walked over. Stood too close.

Russo didn’t move. “You look good tonight,” Aitana said. Humble as ever, annoying.

“You look like a problem,” Alessia replied.

Aitana smiled. “Your mate thinks I’m a gift.”

“She also thinks Ona and Lucy are a thing.”

“She’s not wrong.”

Alessia laughed, small and quiet—and Aitana looked right at her. She found her absolutely tantalizing, she was laughing beside her. When had she ever done that?

“That dress,” Alessia murmured. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it.”

“My arms?” Aitana bit back a grin.

“Everything.”

A beat.

“You didn’t message me back,” Alessia said, voice lower now. Aitana darted her eyes away for a moment, didn’t know she’d bring it up.

Alessia wouldn’t allow her to escape. “You didn’t kiss me.”

Now Alessia tilted her head, was that why? “Would it have changed anything?”

Aitana’s mouth quirked. “Why don’t you come and see?” It didn’t help that it felt like they were the only ones in the room, didn’t help when Alessia looked at Aitana like she was a sin.

Neither of them touched. Not yet. But when the night was almost at its end, and Alessia turned to leave, Aitana finally followed her with her eyes.

And Russo for the first time, looked back.

No smirk. No words. Just that look.
Like this wasn’t over. Like it never had been.

No. No. She couldn’t help it.

Aitana watched her walk away and felt her heart tighten in a way that had nothing to do with pride.

It wasn’t fair—not how Alessia looked over her shoulder with that calm, unreadable expression. Not how she moved like nothing had just happened. Like the air between them hadn’t cracked wide open.

No one was paying attention. No one needed to. They always knew how to move around each other quietly.

But this time, Aitana didn’t want to stay still. This time, she let the pride melt off her bones.

She stepped forward. Past the velvet curtain. Past the murmured voices. Into a quieter corridor near the elevators, where Alessia stood half-turned, scrolling through her phone, tied hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain.

She looked up when she heard her.

And blinked. “Aitana?” Aitana didn’t speak right away.

She just walked closer. Slowly. Deliberately. No wine in her hand. No lipstick on her teeth. No hesitation in her step.

Alessia’s brows lifted, unsure—like she hadn’t practically started this. “Are you—did you forget something?”

Aitana shook her head.

“I just…” she paused. Her voice was soft. Clear in a way it never was when she was holding back. “I don’t want to regret leaving [you] tonight.”

There was regret? When was there ever that? Alessia felt something in her go still.

She stared. This wasn’t the Aitana she knew. Not the sharp-tongued, impossibly composed Aitana who glided through rooms like nothing touched her. This one was warmer. Braver. And terrifying in the most beautiful way. It was a little unnerving.

“I didn’t think you’d— you didn’t even message me back,” Alessia murmured, stumbling over the words. Not biting, just utterly blown away.

“I know,” Aitana managed. Her voice barely above a breath.
Were her eyes always that color?

She stepped in. Close enough to feel the heat of Alessia’s skin through the sheer fabric of that impossible dress. Her hand rose gently, brushing along Russo’s jaw, a small touch. Careful. Asking.

And then finally—she pressed her mouth against hers. She was the one to do it this time.

Soft. Barely there at first.

Alessia froze not in resistance. Just in surprise. Like something holy had touched her. Because Aitana kissed her like she meant it. No chaos. No games. No angles.

Just intention.
Just want.

Alessia’s hand lifted slowly, curling around Aitana’s tense waist, like she didn’t trust herself to pull her closer.

The kiss deepened it was slow, searching. Aitana’s fingers slid behind her neck, grounding them both. Alessia’s mouth parted on instinct, their rhythm unhurried. Intimate. The kind of kiss you remembered when you were under the shower.

Some—but not all—of the questions from before were answered in how Aitana tilted her head just slightly. In the soft, involuntary sound she made when their teeth gently knocked and she didn’t care.

She pulled back barely an inch, just enough to see her.

Alessia’s pupils were blown. Her voice low, uneven. “Since when do you do that?”

Aitana smiled. Just slightly.
“I’m the Ballon d’Or winner. I can do what I want.”
A pause. “With who I want.”

Alessia felt the last line somewhere low. She let out a laugh a little shaky, stunned.

“You didn’t even hesitate.”

“I’ve been hesitating for months.”

A beat. “I couldn’t do it tonight.”

Alessia breathed out, heart already roaring, and leaned into her again. Their foreheads touched.

She didn’t say anything.
She didn’t need to. Because this time everything felt different. And Aitana? She wasn’t letting her walk away again.

“I’ll drive,” Alessia had said, voice thin, trying to anchor herself in something.

Aitana only nodded, as if she’d planned it that way.

Now the city passed them by in fragment, red lights bleeding onto the windshield, buildings tilting against the glass. The quiet in the car wasn’t empty. It buzzed. It swelled. Alessia kept her hands on the wheel like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She shouldn’t be this breathless. Not from silence. Not from a single look. Not from a woman in the passenger seat who hadn’t said more than six words since they got in but had somehow unraveled every rule Alessia thought she knew. Aitana sat with her body turned slightly toward her, seatbelt flush against that sleeveless dress. She didn’t speak. Didn’t fidget. Just watched her.

Alessia swallowed.

“You’ve barely said anything.”

“I didn’t think I needed to,” Aitana said softly. Alessia clicked her tongue, fhere was that tone again—unbothered, measured. Like she wasn’t the one who’d kissed her like a secret in a hallway. Like she wasn’t sitting there looking at Alessia like she could eat her alive and thank her after.

“I just—” Alessia let out a small, sharp exhale. “You don’t usually act like this.”

Aitana didn’t flinch, she was practically vibrating and it didn’t help that Alessia looked so good driving. “No. I don’t.”

Silence. Alessia turned onto her lane.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, barely able to keep her voice steady.

Aitana’s gaze didn’t move, she was turned to Alessia now. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

A pause. “Are you scared I’ll beat you in the entry or something?”

Alessia didn’t laugh, she just could glance at her. The streetlight hit Aitana’s face just right—all shadow and sharp jawline, soft mouth and too-clear eyes.

“I’m not scared,” Alessia lied.
Aitana smirked faintly. “You’ve been trembling since I touched you.”

The car eased into her pavement. Alessia didn’t move, her face tighter now. Didn’t turn the engine off. She stared ahead like the wheel might offer answers.

“I don’t get you,” she whispered. “You disappear for months. Then you look at me like—like this.”

“Like what?” Aitana seemed too sure for someone who never would’ve hopped in her car before this. Always this question somehow.

“Like I’m yours.”

Aitana didn’t blink. “Maybe you are.” Aitana couldn’t mean that but it still
broke something in Alessia’s throat. She shut the car off. The silence roared.

She got out without a word.
Aitana wondered if she pissed her off now, “Mierda.”, she followed the striker.

Alessia’s flat was dim and quiet. A coat half-thrown over a chair. A pair of boots by the door but no one else’s. No music. No movement. Just the two of them, standing still like neither quite knew where to go next.

Alessia dropped her keys onto the counter. Turned around. Aitana was still by the door, jacket off now, arms bare again in the low light. She hadn’t stopped looking at her.

“You have a beautiful home—“

Alessia shook her head, all the atmosphere from the ballroom suddenly sobering her up.
“What is this?”

Aitana stepped in out of the foyer now.

“You tell me,” she said. “You’re the one who told me ‘not yet.’”

Alessia blinked. “That wasn’t—I didn’t mean, don’t put this on me—”

“I know what you meant.”
Silence again. Thick now. Warm.
Aitana kept moving. Slow. Measured. Like the distance between them was a choice. Like she could close it at any moment.

And she did. Her hand found Alessia’s back. Soft. Grounding.
“I didn’t come here to make you spiral,” she said, voice low. Well that just couldn’t be true, why else would you be here? Alessia bit in her thoughts.

Alessia stared at her. Her back tensed under Aitana’s nimble fingers.
And finally, quietly: “I can’t think when you’re like this.”

Aitana’s smile was barely there. “Then don’t think.”

She leaned in—close enough that Alessia felt her breath, the space between them shrinking like it wanted to disappear. Her fingers brushed Alessia’s jaw again, slower this time. With reverence.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Alessia whispered. Aitana’s mouth hovered just over hers. “You can’t hurt me,” she breathed. A lie.

And suddenly, with some rationale, Aitana contradicted herself now, “I can leave.” Alessia clicked her tongue again, took down her hair, parts still completely still from their hairspray, Aitana swallowed, too beautiful.

“You won’t do that though. You rode in my car, to my flat,” Aitana’s mouth was dry.

“You’re here for something,” Alessia said, voice low, eyes dark. “So just take it. You’re a winner, are you not?”

Aitana’s breath caught. The words hit sharper than they should’ve—not because they were almost cruel, but because they were true. She’d pushed her way into this, into Alessia’s space, into her life again with all the quiet certainty of someone used to control. But now?

Now she was standing there, blinking, unsure of how to move. The striker’s words lingered between them like a challenge. And for the first time tonight, Aitana wasn’t sure how to answer.

Alessia watched her—arms crossed, shoulders tense, mouth parted just slightly. But the heat behind her eyes didn’t waver.

Aitana stepped forward anyway. Not confident. Not rehearsed. Just honest.

“I didn’t come here to win,” she said, voice soft, cracked at the edge. “I came because I couldn’t stay away.”

Alessia didn’t move. She let the silence settle again. Then, slowly deliberately she turned and walked toward the couch.

She didn’t ask Aitana to follow. She didn’t have to.

Aitana did.

She sat beside her, hands curled in her lap, legs brushing Alessia’s. The light was low and gold and tender across her bare arms. Alessia leaned back against the couch, one arm draped behind her. Not quite touching, but close enough that Aitana could feel the proximity.

“I’m still here,” Aitana offered, quieter now.

Alessia turned her head, looking at her fully. “So am I.”

Their eyes locked.

The tension didn’t crack open this time—it melted. Alessia leaned forward and kissed her, slow and sure, and this time she was the one asking, taking. Aitana kissed her back without hesitation.

It was slow. Hot. Reverent. All the words they hadn’t said burned behind it.

Aitana’s hands found Alessia’s thigh, still over the fabric of that glitzy dress. Alessia’s palm settled over the back of Aitana’s neck, holding her there, deepening the kiss. Her lips parted slightly, inviting. A sigh from Aitana’s mouth spilled into hers.

They didn’t say a word.
They didn’t need to. When they pulled apart, Aitana rested her forehead against Alessia’s, eyes fluttering shut.
“I wasn’t trying to make you upset.” Her accent got heavier when she was nervous.

“I know,” Alessia said, her voice barely there.

“But I’m not leaving if you don’t want me to.” Alessia exhaled. A laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Aitana, you’re already in my house.” Aitana smiled, all teeth.

They didn’t move to the bedroom yet. They didn’t rush. They stayed there, tangled together on the couch—mouths brushing, fingers trailing over exposed arms and soft fabric, heat building slow and deliberate.

Behind them, a photo frame tilted slightly on the side table. Alessia’s brother, captured in some forgotten summer. Alessia caught her staring.

Oh. Alessia smirked.

She got her attention back with strong arms, Alessia let herself hold Aitana close—not like a mistake, not like a secret, but like something she wasn’t ready to let go of. Not tonight. Not now.
Aitana let herself relax, licked into Alessia mouth like she was starving.

“Aitana,” Alessia murmured against her lips, breath already uneven.

Aitana’s teeth grazed her lower lip, deliberate. Her hands were already sliding up the back of Alessia’s dress, fingertips dragging along her spine, testing the limits of restraint.

Alessia groaned softly, low in her throat. Then she pulled back, just enough to look at her.

“Come with me.”

There was no question in it.
Aitana didn’t ask where.
She just nodded, eyes still hazy, lips red from kissing, and let Alessia take her hand.

The hallway was quiet. Her heels clicked softly on the wood floors as Alessia tugged her along, steady and sure. Aitana followed without hesitation. She’d never followed anyone like this before. But Alessia’s grip was firm, almost reverent, like she was leading her into something sacred.

The bedroom was dim when they entered, moonlight slanting through half-drawn curtains. It smelled like linen and something familiar—like her.

Aitana stood still for a moment, taking it all in. The quiet. The heat. The fact that she was here.

Then Alessia turned toward her—gaze unreadable, jaw clenched with the kind of restraint that made Aitana’s mouth go dry.

She didn’t think. She just moved.
Dropped to her knees.

Her fingers reached for Alessia’s heels with practiced delicacy, but her hands trembled slightly.

“Hey—” Alessia breathed. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” Aitana said, low and immediate.
And then she leaned in and kissed her calf, lips warm against bare skin. When she looked up, her eyes were wide and dazed, glassy with something between reverence and hunger.

Alessia’s breath stuttered. She couldn’t move.

She felt feral. Wrecked.

Aitana stood, and kicked off her own heels. Her hair was a little mussed now. Her chest rose and fell faster. She wasn’t drunk. She wasn’t unsure.

She just wanted her.

Who could’ve imagined?

Aitana Bonmatí—in her bedroom. Barefoot. Wearing that half-zipped dress with its sloping neckline and delicate silk, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded with longing. She looked like every fantasy Alessia had ever shoved down so deep it hurt.

Alessia swallowed hard. Her chest ached.

She stepped closer, gently pulling Aitana into her. Her hands settled like reverent things—tracing her hips, then up, over ribs, until her thumbs brushed the underswell of her breasts through the silk. Aitana couldn’t breathe then the backs of her knees hit the mattress.

But Alessia didn’t push. Not yet.
She just touched her. Slowly. Thoroughly. Like she was making sure Aitana was real.

“You’re alright?” Alessia asked, breathless but composed, her accent curling softer around the edges now.

It made Aitana weak.
She nodded. “Yes.” It came out small, like the air had thinned. But nothing about this was frantic. Not this time.

Alessia didn’t just unzip her.

First, she traced the line of fabric down her back, knuckles grazing exposed skin like a secret. She followed the shape of her—down her spine, over the curve of her shoulder blades—before easing the zipper down with a slowness that felt almost cruel.

The dress slipped from Aitana’s shoulders like it had been waiting to fall. And it did—into a quiet puddle at her feet. She was left in black lace and sheer tights and nothing else but trembling restraint.

Alessia stared.

She could’ve fallen to her knees right there. Could’ve begged. Could’ve broken. But instead, she leaned forward—kissed her, once. Deep. Certain. A kiss that didn’t ask, only promised.
Then, without a word, she undid the tie in Aitana’s hair, letting it fall around her shoulders. Aitana flushed, felt it all the way down her neck.

And then—

“Unzip me,” Alessia said.

Aitana blinked up at her, startled. Frozen for a second. Alessia just stood there—tall, sure, soft in that devastating way she always was when she wasn’t trying. Her eyes never left her.

Aitana’s fingers twitched at her sides. She moved closer—slow, deliberate, her chest rising fast. She reached for the zipper at Alessia’s back, and the sound as it slid down felt deafening in the quiet. The dress loosened. Slid.

It fell from Alessia’s shoulders like it had been waiting for this moment. And maybe it had.

Aitana didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Her eyes raked down her spine, the warmth of golden skin, the curve of her waist, the strength of her back. Alessia was all tension and beauty, standing there like temptation itself.

Then she turned. Without a word, she crossed the room, calm in a way that made Aitana dizzy. She opened a drawer. Pulled something out—black straps, glinting under the low light. Deliberate.

When she turned, Aitana’s stomach flipped.

The strap. Thick. Solid. Intentional. Alessia didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. She held it like she meant it.

Aitana felt her whole body pulse. Her thighs pressed together, her breath shallow. But she kept looking. Didn’t flinch.

Alessia met her gaze and raised a brow. Her voice velvet-rough, knowing: “Don’t look so innocent.” using those same words against her now.

“I’m not,” Aitana whispered.
She watched as Alessia stepped into the harness. The way her hands worked, fast and confident—she’d done this before. She buckled it tight. Adjusted the fit. Made it hers.

Snap.

Aitana’s mouth parted. Her cheeks flushed red. Her heart thudded in her throat. “Do you want to do this?” Alessia asked—low, serious, stunning.

Aitana didn’t speak. She simply sat on the edge of the bed, slowly, letting her dress fall away, leaving nothing but lace and skin. She opened her legs slightly. The message was clear.

Alessia’s mouth went dry.

She climbed onto the bed, slow like a hunter, eyes on her the whole time. Her palms slid up Aitana’s thighs, firm and certain, then her mouth followed—teeth grazing, tongue teasing. Aitana gasped.

Alessia peeled her tights down with her mouth. Dragged them off, kissing her ankles on the way. “This what you came for?” she murmured against her skin.

Yes.

Aitana’s breath caught. Her legs trembled. She didn’t look away.
She just nodded. And Alessia lost it.
She kissed her inner thigh, up and up, open-mouthed and claiming. She licked over her hipbone, her stomach, her ribs, her collarbone, until Aitana was gasping, clutching at the duvet, her body arching under every touch. Every kiss. Every lick.

“Lie back,” Alessia murmured, voice all gravel and want. Aitana did. Her hair a mess around her face, eyes glassy and dark. Alessia hovered over her, harness brushing against Aitana’s thigh, and kissed her deep, messy, and consuming. Their tongues met like they hadn’t before, like they needed this to survive it. Aitana’s fingers curled around Alessia’s neck. She moaned into her mouth.

Alessia lined up and paused.
“Last chance.” But Aitana wasn’t blinking. Wasn’t shaking. She shivered
“Please,” she whispered. “I need you.” Didn’t she? She was telling Alessia anyways, Alessia pushed in—slow and brutal. Stretching her in a way no one ever had.

Aitana cried out, back arching, arms tight around her shoulders. Alessia stilled, kissed her again, bit gently at her lip. “You let me go,” she whispered, voice wrecked, “in that fucking hotel.”

Aitana whimpered, eyes fluttering shut. But Alessia thrust forward—deep, controlled, anchoring her. Her hands cradled Aitana’s thighs. Her mouth didn’t leave her neck.

“You’re desperate,” Alessia growled softly, between licks and kisses. “Say it.” Aitana gasped, thighs shaking. Aitana tried to breathe. Alessia wouldn’t move, and Aitana had her head almost thrown back. “I’m..desperate, Aless—” And Alessia's eyes were darker than she’d ever seen, she started to move.
Hard, slow, so deep. Her rhythm was filthy. Her mouth everywhere—licking, sucking, biting the soft parts of Aitana’s chest and neck and jaw. She wanted to mark her. Wanted her to feel this tomorrow. To feel her.

And Aitana? She held on for dear life. Moaning, sobbing, nails scraping down Alessia’s back, whispering her name like a prayer. “Alessia,” Aitana begged.
Alessia didn’t. Couldn’t.
She fucked her like she wanted to ruin her. Loved her like she wanted to save her.

And in between, she kissed her like she was hers.

“You didn’t even look back,” Alessia murmured, voice ragged as her strap pressed deep again, dragging a gasp from Aitana’s throat. “You just went straight to her.”

It wasn’t true. But Aitana couldn’t explain, not when Alessia’s mouth was hot and open against her collarbone, when her hands were everywhere: circling her clit, groping her breasts like she needed to memorize their shape.

“Laia—” she managed, barely. “Don’t.” Alessia’s voice was dark, wrecked. Her thrusts deepened, sharp and punishing. “Don’t say her name.”

It wasn’t jealousy. It was old grief. Sharp-edged and seething. Aitana moaned loud, cried out, the rhythm relentless. Her hands fisted in the sheets, then up to Alessia’s back, nails dragging, pulling.

“Didn’t mean anything,” she whispered like a confession, lips brushing Alessia’s cheek. “It was always—”

But Alessia didn’t let her finish. She took her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing the words and the moan that followed. She tugged at Aitana’s nipple with a hand that had no patience, then licked across her chest, biting just enough to leave her gasping. Marking her.

“You came here for this, didn’t you?” Alessia growled. Her hips slammed forward again, the sound echoing in the room. Aitana was crying out now, nearly incoherent. “Yes—fuck, Alessia—yes.” And then, her hand reached down, found Alessia’s blindly, and threaded their fingers together. Tight. Unyielding.

It shattered something in Alessia. She melted into her for a beat—but never stopped moving. Her mouth kissed a trail across Aitana’s breast, her tongue circling, teeth grazing sensitive skin before she bit down gently and sucked. Aitana bucked. Shivered.

Their bodies crashed and tangled, heat slick between them. And it wasn’t just need anymore, it was something brutal and intimate. Alessia’s hand didn’t leave Aitana’s chest, didn’t stop teasing, stroking, pressing, while the other held tight to her hand like an anchor.

“You’re gonna feel me tomorrow,” Alessia breathed, lips dragging against Aitana’s throat.
“You’ll see me on your body. You’ll remember.” Aitana sobbed, overwhelmed, grinding up to meet her thrusts. “I already do.”

It destroyed Alessia. She kissed her again, deep and endless, tongues tangled. She fucked her through it, no pause, no mercy—until Aitana was shaking, gasping, unraveling beneath her. “You’re mine,” Alessia whispered hoarsely, hips pounding as her hand circled faster at Aitana’s clit.

Aitana whimpered so loud she didn’t care who heard. “Don’t…stop.” And Alessia didn’t. Not until Aitana came apart completely, moaning her name like a prayer, legs wrapped around her hips, chest flushed and marked with every place Alessia’s mouth had claimed.

When it ended, Alessia stayed inside her, body trembling. Their hands still clasped. Other hand trailing off Aitana’s ass, Aitana opened her mouth, tried to speak—but all she said was, “Alessia.”

And that was everything.

“I’ve got you,” came the hoarse reply. She pressed their foreheads together. “I’ve got you.”

And Aitana just nodded. “I know.”
Alessia pulled out carefully, undoing the harness with slow fingers. She kissed Aitana’s knuckles, one by one, before she let go.

Neither of them moved much after that. “Relax,” Alessia murmured, brushing sweat-damp hair from Aitana’s forehead. The sheets were warm and tangled, the air heavy with them. Alessia laid back against the pillow, chest rising slowly. Aitana sat there for a moment, bare and quiet, like she hadn’t decided if she was staying or not.

But she was. She already had.

She looked at Alessia—at the flush still on her cheeks, her smudged makeup and perfect blue eyes, at the marks left on her skin, at the way her hand was still open beside her on the mattress like she was waiting. Not demanding. Just waiting.

Aitana’s throat tightened. Her body still throbbed, her skin buzzed from everything Alessia had done to her she could still feel her inside. And yet, there was a stillness now. One she hadn’t known she was craving.

She didn’t say anything as she lay down. Just curled toward her slowly, carefully like she wasn’t sure how this part worked. Like she’d never done this after before.

Alessia turned slightly, met her halfway. No teasing, no bite. Just a hand that found Aitana’s waist under the sheets. Gentle fingers that traced the dip of her back. A quiet kind of claim.

Aitana’s eyes fluttered shut. Her muscles slowly uncoiled. This couldn’t be love could it? But it was something.
Something that let her press her forehead to Alessia’s bare shoulder, let her breathe in the scent of her skin she secretly memorised and finally rest came.

For once, she didn’t feel like she had to win. Or run. And when Alessia’s hand slid up her spine, warm and unthinking, Aitana didn’t flinch. She leaned into it. Let her legs tangle with Alessia’s.

Neither of them spoke. But the silence wasn’t empty. Not anymore.

The morning came too gently for what had happened the night before.
Alessia woke slow, muscles sore, sheets still twisted around her thighs. Her arm reached out automatically. But there was nothing. Just space. Just cold. It couldn’t be.

Her eyes opened. The space beside her was empty. She sat up fast, head pounding, breath catching in her throat like maybe she’d find Aitana in the kitchen. Maybe in the bathroom, towel-wrapped, coffee half-poured.

But the flat was quiet. Too quiet.
The dress Aitana had worn was gone from the floor. Her heels too.
And—Alessia blinked.

One of her drawers was open. Not wide, not obvious. Just enough to look used. One of her old shirts was missing from the top of the pile. Her jaw clenched.

So Aitana had taken something. More than something. That should’ve meant something, right?

Only she hadn’t said a word. No note. No text. No door creaking closed loud enough to wake her. Just the ghost of last night and a drawer left half-cracked like a joke Alessia didn’t understand.

Was she sad?
She didn’t think so.
She was too tired. Too raw.

But bitterness bloomed low in her chest.
Because if Aitana had needed to go, fine. If she had something to do, fine. But then why not say it? Why come here at all? Why beg with her body, then vanish like it was nothing?

Alessia exhaled, loud this time. Her hand dragged through her messy hair, her other curled into the bedsheets like maybe she’d find some explanation there.

But all she found was scent. And silence. And an open drawer.

Fuck. Her eyes burned, she shook her head. She let herself get played again.
She could still feel her. Still smell her.
Still taste the fucking lie of it all.

Maybe Aitana had her reasons. Maybe she panicked. Maybe it wasn’t personal. But if that was true—
Then why had she taken the shirt?
Why had she touched her like that? Why had she let her take her so completely, or so she thought. Why the handholding? Why? Why? Why?

Alessia scoffed, low under her breath. She let her body fall back into the pillows, staring at the ceiling now like it might offer an answer. But it didn’t.

Just the same damn silence.
Just that drawer.
Just the empty space on her pillow.

“Fuck you.”

Aitana hadn’t meant to leave like that. Really. Alessia probably wouldn’t believe that, didn’t have to after everything.

She stood there in the dim morning light, dressed again, hair still a little wild from Alessia’s fingers, a faint ache between her legs that she wasn’t ready to let go of.

The apartment was quiet.
Alessia lay fast asleep, turned slightly on her side, the duvet pushed low across her waist and her breasts with her marks. She looked soft like this. Unguarded. Real. More beautiful than Aitana could’ve imagined or admit.

And Aitana?

She stood at the edge of the bed, fighting every instinct not to stay.
She crouched down, slowly, barely breathing. Reached out. Let her lips press to the crown of Alessia’s head. Alessia grumbled something, and Aitana stood there. Just for a second. Just enough to burn it into memory.

This was another thing Aitana didn’t deserve. That’s what she told herself.
She could wake her. She could tell her what she wanted. That she didn’t just come for the sex, that she’d meant everything—every moan, every whisper, every trembling part of her that said “I want you.”

But her courage had always come late.
So she slipped out. Took a shirt without thinking. Something stupid, instinctive. Something that maybe meant she wanted to be remembered.

She didn’t cry.
Didn’t text. Just boarded the jet back to Barcelona like nothing had happened.

Keira sat beside her, earbuds in, hair tied up, dressed in her usual “I don’t want to be bothered” airport look. But she glanced sideways once.

And she didn’t have to ask. Not really.
She just wrinkled her nose slightly, smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You smell like someone else’s soap, a good hookup it seems.”

Aitana blinked, her lip trembling slightly. Stared out the window.
Keira waited a beat, then said softly, “Aita, are you alright?” Aitana didn’t answer right away. She reached up, brushed her knuckles under her eyes even though nothing had fallen. Then she swallowed, voice quiet:
“Yeah. I just—I couldn’t stay.”

Keira didn’t push. She just nodded once, almost like she’d expected it. Then looked forward again. But Aitana didn’t stop looking out the window.
Because that wasn’t just soap on her skin. That was Alessia.
And she could still feel her.

Rain slicked the pitch.

Jonas’s voice rang through the air in his clipped Swedish, barking out lines and corrections like he was trying to force precision through sheer volume.

“Quicker, Russo!”

Alessia didn’t respond.

She was cold. Shoulders tight. Timing slightly off. Everything about her looked a step behind—like she was still chasing a shadow no one else could see.

Her shots lacked bite. Her passes cut too wide. Her breath came short, clipped through her nose.

They were preparing for the FA Cup. A match against Watford. Nothing serious. But Jonas wanted sharpness. Urgency.

And Alessia didn’t have it.

Lotte noticed first. Her eyes lingered longer after a mistimed run, a slow press. She didn’t say anything, but her glance said enough. You alright?

Leah noticed too—just too late.

She clapped Alessia’s back after a passing drill, offered a weak grin. “We’ll smash ’em this weekend, yeah?”

Alessia gave her a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure.”

But Laia? Laia saw something else.

Something smug in how Alessia looked ruined and quiet. Something in her that recognized the ghost of Aitana still clinging to her skin. And she hated it.

So when the ball rolled between them during a small-sided game, and Alessia reached it first and Laia didn’t back off. She didn’t pull her studs. She didn’t check her shoulder.

She stepped in hard. The contact wasn’t dangerous, but it was unnecessary. A shove. A warning.

Alessia stumbled, yelped and barely stayed on her feet. The ball rolled off. Whistle blew. Jonas shouted something unintelligible from the sideline.

“Careful!” Leah shouted, utterly confused.

But Alessia didn’t hear it. She turned. Met Laia’s eyes. And for the first time that morning, she looked awake.
The tension cracked like lightning—brief but blinding. Laia didn’t apologize. Just stared. Daring.

And Alessia?
She took a step closer. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just near enough for her voice to carry.

“Next time you do that,” Alessia said, low and cold, “make sure I don’t get back up.”

Laia didn’t flinch. “Next time,” she said, “maybe you won’t.”

That was it. Alessia shoved her—two hands, no hesitation. Laia went down hard, boots slipping, palms scraping the grass. Laia was surprised, then she was smiling.

Gasps. Boots skidding. Everything stopped. And then—

“She never mentioned you,” Alessia said. Voice calm. Surgical.
Laia’s breath caught, face dropping, Alessia wasn’t done.

“She talks in her sleep.” That landed like a punch.

Laia’s jaw clenched. Her eyes narrowed. She pushed herself off the ground like she might go for her.
Katie was already between them, shouting, “Are you two fucking MAD?!”

Alessia didn’t even blink. She turned to walk. But Laia lunged—half a step forward before someone caught her arm.

“Enough,” It was Lia Wälti now, stepping in, sharp and commanding. Her Swiss accent cutting through the noise. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing,” Alessia snapped, without looking back. Laia didn’t answer either. Just stood there, vibrating, breathing hard. Shaken. Leah looked between them, confused. Lotte glanced at Katie, who shook her head slowly.

No one knew what had just happened.
But everyone knew it wasn’t over.

Leah caught up with her outside the physio room, storm still in her voice.
“Alessia, what the fuck was that?”

No response. Just footsteps quickening. Alessia didn’t even look back.

“Alessia—”

But by the time Leah rounded the corner, she found her sitting on the bench, hunched over, elbows on her knees.

Her head was in her hands. And she was sobbing. Not loud. Not attention-seeking. Just wrecked. Shaking. Shoulders hitching with every quiet breath, like her whole body was betraying her.

Leah froze. The anger left her chest all at once. She stepped forward slowly, cautiously. “Hey,” she murmured, crouching down. “Hey, Less…”

Alessia didn’t lift her head. Didn’t say a word. Just kept crying—like something had finally broken loose inside her, and she couldn’t stop it now. Her palms pressed hard against her eyes, like she could push it all back in.

Leah reached out, gently touched her leg. And stayed there, silent, as her teammate—the one who never snapped, never broke, never let them see—came undone in the physio room.

The car door shut harder than she meant to. The keys trembled in her hand.

Alessia sat in the driver’s seat, still in her training kit, mud on her socks, heart lodged somewhere between her throat and her ribcage. Jonas had sent her home. Told her to cool off. Didn’t say much else. Not after Leah had pulled him aside with that look.

She hadn’t apologized to Laia. Hadn’t even looked at her. She couldn’t.
Now the silence in the car felt deafening. The kind that echoed.

Alessia gripped the steering wheel like it might hold her together. Her knuckles went white. Her jaw clenched. She didn’t start the car. She couldn’t stop crying.

Not loud sobs this time—just tears, constant and unrelenting, slipping down her cheeks while her breath came in short, uneven bursts. Her head dropped forward, hitting the steering wheel softly.

What the fuck was wrong with her?
How had she let it get this far? Why did she get to do this to her—again?
She didn’t know what this even was. She just knew that Aitana had been in her bed, had touched her like she meant it, had kissed her like she belonged there. And now she was gone again.

No note. No text. No fucking goodbye.
Alessia felt used. Not just physically. Something deeper. Like Aitana had reached into her chest, plucked out everything soft and stupid, and walked off with it.

She’d been discarded. Again.
And worst of all—worst—was that even now, with her cheeks wet and her pride shattered on the floor, she still wanted her.

Still wanted the way she looked when she smiled for real. Still wanted her laugh, her mouth, her fucking sharp little Catalan accent whispering into her neck like it meant something.

She was angry. So bitter she could taste it. But none of it made it stop hurting.
Alessia slammed the heel of her palm against the wheel. “Fucking hell.”
Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to force it all down.

But the tears didn’t stop.

And neither did the ache in her chest.

Chapter Text

It happened fast, but not loud.

Keira grabbed her arm just as training ended, when the others were beginning to drift toward the water bottles and recovery bands, when the air was still thick with instructions from staff and cleats dragging across turf. Her grip wasn’t rough, but it was unmistakable. Urgent.

“Walk with me.”

Aitana blinked. “Kei—?”

“Now.”

She didn’t think—just followed, Keira’s hand still wrapped tight around her wrist, steering them off the pitch until they were hidden behind the dugout. Out of sight. Out of earshot. The sudden quiet swallowed them.

Aitana felt it in her chest.

Keira was never like this. Not with her. Their friendship didn’t look like this. Keira was shy. Gentle. Careful. The type to check in with her twice during ice baths and quietly hand her an energy gel when no one was watching. This wasn’t her.

“Keira?” she tried again, voice dipping low, confused. This wasn’t them.

But Keira turned. Really turned.

And the look on her face it was sharp, cold, devastated (?), and it made Aitana stop short like someone had punched the breath out of her lungs.

“What have you fucking done?”

Aitana’s stomach dropped. The words were so loud in her head she almost missed how quiet Keira had said them. Her heart raced. Was this about something tactical? Something she’d said? God, had she been too harsh to the younger girls again?

But then Keira’s eyes narrowed, like she could see her trying to reason it out.

And that’s when it clicked.

“If you don’t know what you’re doing,” Keira said, quiet but cutting, “or if you do—I don’t fucking know anymore—just leave her out of it.”

Her. Not even a name. Just that one syllable, weighted and final. And Aitana knew. Of course she knew.

The space between them snapped shut like a trap.

Aitana’s mouth opened, but the words didn’t come. Not even a denial.

Keira’s jaw ticked. “You’re hurting people.”

It hit like a slap. Aitana flinched. Her chest tightened, head spinning.

“You think it doesn’t spread?” Keira went on. “You think just because we’re not in the same league, no one notices? That I don’t notice?” Her voice cracked then, not with emotion but something worse, restraint even.

“You don’t even know what you’re capable of.”

The words didn’t rush—they dropped. One by one. Measured. Controlled. Lethal.

“Whatever’s happened,” Keira said, “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even when she left United.”

Aitana looked away—sharp, shameful. She tried to fix her face. Tried not to let the twitch in her lip show, or how her throat had closed so fast she thought she’d choke.

“You don’t owe me anything,” Keira said. “I’m not her. I’m not you. But if you’re going to treat people like they’re disposable like they don’t bleed when you’re done—then just say it. Say it aloud. Own it for fuck sakes.”

Was it even worth defending herself? How could she? Most importantly, why would she? It was the first time in her life Aitana Bonmatí had been accused of being cruel.

And it wasn’t by a rival. It wasn’t the press.

It was Keira.

Her teammate. Her friend. Her softest constant since the Euros.

And maybe the worst part was she didn’t even have the words to fight it.

She bit the inside of her cheek, tasted blood. The sting grounded her.

Keira’s voice dropped lower. Just above a whisper now. “This isn’t just about Laia. Or your pride. Or whatever the hell it is between you and her. This is about everyone else who gets caught in the crossfire. Everyone else who gets used to fill the silence after you vanish.”

It wasn’t even about Laia, never like this. It was about her. About how she felt, what she’d done—Aitana closed her eyes, tightly.

Used.

Is that what she’d done?

She thought about that night. That goddamn night. The way she followed her home like a lovesick puppy, the way Alessia had kissed her like it meant something. The way she held her down and told her she was hers, how she didn’t even know she’d said it aloud. The way Aitana hadn’t said a word after. The way Aitana had watched her sleep, traced shapes into her back, had dressed without looking back, had taken her silence with her like it was another title.

The bruises. The ring of sweat on the pillow. The breathless thing in her chest she’d ignored.

Suddenly her eyes stung. Her hands shook. She held her wrists like that might steady them.

Keira didn’t wait. She just looked at her once more: broken and furious and left. Across the pitch, Alexia was still watching. Ingrid too. Rolfö had already turned her back.

But Aitana felt it now. All of it.

The unraveling wasn’t something happening around her. It was coming from her. She was the storm she thought she could weather.

And this time she couldn’t. Because everything she truly, deeply, believed about herself was: true.

So she gathered her things slowly. The towel, her boots, the band she hadn’t used. She couldn’t face anyone’s eyes. Not even Alexia’s. Not even her own reflection in the glass doors of the facility as she slipped out early, like a coward. Pathetic.

The worst part wasn’t being told she was the issue.

The worst part was knowing it was true.

The locker room was mostly dark by the time Alexia caught up with her. She had a responsibility and she wouldn’t let anything affect the team, affect her girls, this had to be dealt with.

“Keira.”

She said it once, sharp and clear. Keira stopped, her fingers brushing the exit door, but she didn’t turn around right away.

Alexia was beginning to really hate the way things felt, and the way people were acting. She didn’t understand how to navigate without a constant, that was just her. But she remembered it was Keira, the same Keira Walsh that ducked her head in embarrassment when she didn’t know a word in Catalan. Her teammate. Her friend.

Alexia stepped closer, arms folded and voice steady, eyes scanning her like she already knew half the answer. “What was that?” she asked. Keira wouldn’t even look at her, a pet peeve of hers.
She tried to take a breath maybe regulate the feelings she had tucked away these past weeks, as the captain of this team.

Failed.

“Keira—what the fuck was that?” Her restraint, her professionalism—out the window. Good job, Capitana.

Keira sighed, barely audible. She looked over her shoulder but didn’t face her fully. Her face was unreadable in the low light.

“I needed to chat with her, nothing rotten,” she said finally. Quiet. Not defensive just tired. Of course it was nothing rotten, Keira adored the midfielder, but that was nothing close to adoration.

Alexia’s brow pinched. “Chat?” She scoffed, stepping closer. Her protective past over Aitana clearly still alive. “You dragged her off the pitch like you were about to slap her, Kei.”

Keira didn’t respond. Just stared almost nodding in what she might think is agreement.

“At first I thought…” Alexia hesitated. “I thought maybe it was about Ona. Or Lucy. But you’re past that. You’ve been past that.” Now the English midfielders jaw was clenched, Alexia crossed something.

Keira was tense, trying not to make it personal. But now, it felt pretty damn personal. “I am,” Keira said. She meant it. “It’s not about them.”

“Then what?” Alexia’s voice rose, not out of anger but frustration. Concern. “What the hell is going on with you, now?”

Keira turned then, finally, eyes tired and worried but burning at the edges. “You’ve seen her lately, haven’t you?”

Alexia blinked. Keira shook her head like she couldn’t believe she had to say it aloud. “She’s not okay. And I don’t think it’s about football.” Even though it usually was, which is why this was so concerning. Even though, usually, Aitana came out on the other side and reflected such through her abilities.

Alexia didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her silence was confirmation enough.

“I love her, and you know that and I don’t know what’s going on with her and—” Keira paused, jaw tightening, “and certain people.” Alexia suddenly thought of the cafe she visited with Aitana, her eyebrows furrowing a bit.

Certain people?

“But I know this: if she keeps going like this, she’s going to burn the whole place down. And not just her own.”

Alexia watched her closely, puzzle pieces pulling themselves together. “You think she’s that far gone?”

Keira shrugged, helpless. “I think she’s hurting people and hurting herself.”

There was a beat of silence between them. Neither of them quite willing to say the name that sat between them like a matchstick in a room soaked in kerosene.

Keira looked like she wanted to say more—needed to—but instead, she just nodded once and walked out.

Alexia stayed behind. Still. Frowning. And she didn’t notice quick enough, just like the last time.

Aitana sat on the physio table, still in her hoodie, hair damp from the shower, her fingers gripping the edge of the seat like it might keep her tethered to something real.

She hadn’t even made it out of the tunnel before she was intercepted.

She hadn’t planned to end up in the psychologist’s office.

Actually, she hadn’t planned anything at all that morning. Just gone through the motions tight ponytail, boots, tape, drills—until Clara had quietly touched her shoulder and said, “You have ten minutes?” with that look that meant it wasn’t a question.

So here she was. Sitting stiff in a chair that squeaked every time she shifted. She didn’t even have it in her to make a joke about Barça being ‘broke’. Arms crossed. Face blank. She didn’t even take off her boots. Let the dirt fall where it wanted. Unlike her.

Across from her, Clara waited. Clipboard untouched. Legs crossed, eyes soft but sharp. Not pitying—just focused. Waiting her out.

Aitana stayed silent. Not because she was playing games. Just because she didn’t trust her voice not to betray something she didn’t want said out loud.

Usually she would’ve smiled and made small talk, just like she’d been taught since she was a kid by her parents. But now she could only stare at the floor.

“You know you don’t have to say anything,” Clara offered gently.

Aitana looked up. “Great,” she muttered. “Because I don’t have much to say.”

She sounded like a sulking child and she knew it. Her jaw twitched. This was humiliating. Her, of all people. In here. Looking like she’d barely slept, like she hadn’t eaten a real meal in days. Like the girl everyone swore was “so composed,” “so focused,” “so humble”—the sweetheart, the golden girl was unraveling in real time.

What a show.

A fucking Ballon d’Or winner losing her mind because she couldn’t stop thinking about a woman she left behind like a coward. A woman she hadn’t even spoken to in weeks, unless you count that night where she kissed her and broke her in the same breath.

Clara was still quiet. Watching.

Aitana clenched her jaw. “Do you think I’m a prick?”

Clara blinked once. “Is that what you think you are?”

“I don’t know.” Aitana leaned back, arms tightening. “I think I look like one. To everyone.”

Clara tilted her head. “That seems harsh.”

“Maybe.” Aitana dragged a hand through her hair. “But it’s probably true.”

She exhaled, frustrated with herself. “Everyone here used to like me.” Used to. People still loved her, unbeknownst to Aitana. The word hung there.

“I was a good teammate. I was—” her voice caught. She reset. “I had my shit, but I kept it off the pitch.”

“And now?”

“I can’t,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “I can’t turn it off.”

She looked away, blinking hard. “It’s like she’s in my f—fucking bloodstream or something. Everything tastes like her.”

There it was. Slipped out before she could reel it back in. Clara didn’t flinch.

Aitana swallowed. “I sometime….sleep in her shirt,” she said quietly. “After matches. Just…put it on.
Pretend she is—” she stopped herself. Bit the inside of her cheek. God, she was a nutcase. And now everyone knew.

She was the one who left. On her own fucking terms. After chasing Alessia down like she needed her breath to breathe. Then waking up and deciding…what? That it didn’t mean anything? That Alessia didn’t?

That wasn’t the truth. She knew it the moment she saw her walk away.
“You don’t have to keep punishing yourself,” Clara said softly.

Aitana laughed once. Sharp. “I’m not.”
But she was. And the worst part?
It wasn’t because of guilt.
It was because all she wanted—even now—was to crawl back into Alessia’s arms and say nothing. Just press her face to her neck and pretend that stolen shirt of hers still smelled like her.

What kind of person does that? What kind of monster breaks someone open and still wants to be held by them?

The kind sitting in this office.
Aitana blinked hard. Sat up straighter. “I should go.”

Clara didn’t stop her. Just nodded.

Aitana stood slowly, boots heavy, muscles tight. She grabbed her jacket. Her water bottle. Every bit of gear like it might make her feel in control again.

It didn’t.

And as she walked out, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, the only thing she could think was—

She probably thinks I never cared.

And maybe that was what destroyed her most of all.

For the first time in months, Arsenal felt like home. December 10th. WSL Round 9. A sold-out Emirates. Chelsea.

The match was chaos—high tempo, relentless, fouls flying, whistles swallowed. The kind of night you didn’t forget. Alessia Russo scored twice: one scrappy finish in open play, another from the spot. It wasn’t clean football. It wasn’t elegant. But it felt like hers. Like she belonged.

She didn’t celebrate the goals wildly. Well not both. She threw her fist in the air, sharp exhales, the smallest glances toward the crowd as they roared her name. She didn’t need to prove anything to anyone but God, it still felt good to shut them up.

Chelsea. After everything.

Laia didn’t play that night, which made it easier in a way. Less eyes, less confusion. No awkward shared glances in the tunnel or silence on the bench. That tension still existed, especially at training, but Alessia had learned to live with it, to stop expecting an apology that would never come. Jonas knew not to touch ground between them.

The press jumped on the 4–1 result like it was a resurrection. Arsenal Women, maybe not the title favorites, but alive again. They went on to lift the League Cup weeks later, a high Alessia clung to not because of silverware, but because it meant she was part of something building, something real.

Still, disappointment lingered. They lost the FA Cup final to Manchester City. A frustrating, fractured performance. Alessia was shut out. No goals, no space. Just bruises and media noise.

She didn’t search up Aitana’s name, didn’t answer Keira’s texts, and certainly didn’t watch Barça Femini. At least not on her own accord.

February brought a different kind of test—Manchester United.

This time, Arsenal won. Not a draw a win.

It wasn’t her goal. She didn’t even start. Came on as a sub, held her position, played smart, sort of. But something in her settled afterward. It felt full circle. Like she’d made peace with that part of her story.

After the match, Ella came back to her flat.

She made some offhand comment about the tea being “proper shite,” then wandered into the kitchen like it was routine. Like she hadn’t just seen Alessia playing like a ghost again. Like nothing was wrong.

They didn’t talk about it straight away.

It took two glasses of wine, some half-watched rerun flickering in the background, and the kind of silence only best friends could sit in without tension. Until Alessia broke.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

Ella didn’t move. Her body stiffened almost imperceptibly—something was off. But she didn’t look away from the screen.

“About Spain. The summer. After.”

Ella muted the TV.

Alessia could barely get her throat to work. “I—” she tried again, eyes down, thumbnail already torn at the edge. “I wasn’t honest. About what happened. Any of it.”

A beat.

Then Ella gave the gentlest tease she could manage. “What, you join Real Madrid on your week off?”

Alessia didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. Her jaw clenched, and that was enough. Ella turned to face her properly.

“What is it? Less?”

Alessia’s voice broke on the name.
“It’s about Bonmatí.”

Silence. Ella blinked hard.

And then it all came out.

Not everything, never everything. She didn’t say how some nights she’d slept in a shirt that wasn’t hers, Aitana probably knew and that’s why she’d stolen hers. She didn’t say how she still watched old Barça matches just to see her face, or how she caught herself replaying post-match interviews like a lunatic. She didn’t say how sick it made her feel.

But the rest.

Ona’s party. The elevator. The hotel. The fucking airport. Her couch. Her body. The way Aitana had looked at her like she meant something—and then left again like she didn’t.

Ella sat there, frozen.

And when Alessia finally stopped talking, finally fell quiet again, Ella let the silence sit. Let it ache.

“You slept with her.” Her voice was quiet. Not judgemental. Just wrecked.

Alessia pressed her knuckles to her lips.

“More than once,” Ella said, slower now. “You…you both have something…?”

God. What could either of them even call it; a scheme? A joke? A sick fucking joke.

Alessia nodded faintly. Her eyes were full and she hated herself. “I didn’t know how to stop it.” What a lie.

Ella blinked. “I should’ve known.”

“I should’ve told you,” Alessia croaked.

“Yeah,” Ella said. Not angry. Just heartbroken and paralyzed with what she’d just been told. “Yeah, Less. You should’ve.”

Alessia let out a pitiful, broken laugh. The tears were already falling. “She came to my house, Tooney. Said she couldn’t stay away from me. That maybe I was hers. And I..I fucking believed her.”

Ella’s stomach twisted.

Alessia took the hand off of her trembling mouth.

“I helped her get home from the airport. Like a fucking idiot.” Alessia was sobbing now, fists clenched. “I don’t even recognize myself.” Or was it that she couldn’t face herself?

Ella was still, but the way her fingers tightened around her wine glass said enough. She wanted to break something for her.

“Did she hurt you?” she asked. Not softly. Not harshly. Just directly.

Alessia didn’t answer. Not with words. Her whole body did the talking—shoulders trembling, chin dipped low, eyes shining with something too complicated to name.

Ella exhaled.

“Did you let her?”

Alessia swallowed. “I wanted to see her. Even when I knew it would ruin me. Even when I knew she’d leave again.”

She paused, hands shaking in her lap. “Ella, I let her ruin me.”

And she meant it.

Ella didn’t speak. She just reached over, laid a hand gently on Alessia’s knee.

Alessia’s voice cracked. “I feel like I’m losing it. Like I’m walking around pretending I’m not the punchline and everyone’s too polite to say it. And I don’t even blame them. I feel like a fucking joke.”

Could she even blame Codina for whatever she held against her? She’d probably be right for what she hated her for. And Alessia would probably agree.

Ella sighed, guilt gnawing at her too. She’d known something had been wrong for months, years maybe—but this? She hadn’t been ready for this.

“You think I didn’t notice, babe?”

Alessia bit the inside of her cheek. Her voice was barely there. “Tooney, I feel pathetic.”

“You’re not.”

“I let her back in.”

“You’re still not.”

“But she didn’t stay.” Alessia couldn’t stop shaking.

That was the one that made Ella’s throat tighten. Alessia stared at nothing. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I could be normal about it. I can’t. She fucking won.”

Because she was the one, the one who told Aitana she didn’t want to hurt her and the fucking woman told her she couldn’t. She was right, it was her who was doing the hurting. It was her who had been untouchable.

Ella tried to speak. Couldn’t. There was nothing left to say.

“I think about her all the time,” Alessia whispered. “And I hate that. I hate that I let her do this to me.”

“Do you still want her?” Ella asked.

Alessia didn’t speak. But the silence said it all.

Ella didn’t push. She didn’t try to rationalize it. She just let her cry.

Not loud. Not messy. Just tears Alessia tried to blink away while her hands stayed clasped tight like if she let go of herself, she might fall apart completely.

She didn’t say she loved her.

But Ella knew.

And it made everything hurt worse.
Because even after the silence, the bruises, the wreckage..she still wasn’t done.

Not even close.

They’d gone quiet again. Alessia’s wine glass was nearly empty. Her sleeve was damp from where she’d wiped her face. Ella hadn’t moved from the other end of the couch, just watching her like she was still trying to piece together a puzzle she never wanted to see clearly.

Then after a stretch of silence, like the weight was finally too much
Ella blurted:

“So how’s she? In the sheets I mean,”

Alessia’s head snapped toward her. “Tooney, come on,”

Ella raised both hands like she was challenging an officiating decision. “What! You’re sat here crying, least you can do is tell me if it was worth it.”

Alessia let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh my word, she must be phenomenal,” Ella said, eyes wide like she was genuinely marveling. “You let her in more than once, on purpose! I mean, Less. That’s gotta be some Olympic-level shagging.”

Alessia groaned and pressed her palms to her face, body on fire. “Please stop talking.” It wasn’t even just shagging to her, that was the problem.

Ella ignored her. “I always knew the Spanish had secrets. Shy ones are the worst, aren’t they?”

“She wasn’t—” Alessia stopped herself. Bit down on her cheek. “It wasn’t just that.”

Ella tilted her head. “No?”

Alessia blinked down at her lap. “It was like…” She exhaled sharply, fingers tightening around her knee. “Like I didn’t exist until she touched me. And then I didn’t know how to stop—”
—needing it, she finished in her head.

That quieted Ella for real. Fuck this, Alessia quieted the other words roaring in her head, about the time they shared, the clothes, secret kisses, all of it.

Alessia finally met her eyes. “So yeah. I guess that doesn’t even scratch the surface.”

Ella’s smile faded. “Fucking hell.”

Alessia nodded. “Yeah.”

They both stared at the dark TV screen for a while after that. The air between them tasted like regret. And still..Alessia couldn’t bring herself to say she wouldn’t do it again.

The first leg was a disaster. Aitana and Feminí knew Chelsea were definitely not looking to succumb to their Spanish rivals this match, but they hadn’t been expecting this.

It wasn’t just a loss, it was a reckoning. Barcelona hadn’t been beaten at home in five years, but Chelsea had come to Montjuïc like they’d been waiting. Like they’d remembered 2021. Like they wanted blood.

And they got it.

0-1. Enough to gut them. Enough to humiliate them. Aitana almost lost her head, even seeing Mariona casual with Cuthbert after the loss almost brought the old her to the surface. Nonetheless, she bit her tongue, only in front of her teammates though.

The press went wild. English media foamed at the mouth and capitalized. The WSL was declared superior to Liga F in headline after headline, social media was buzzing.

“A wake-up call for Spanish football,” some called it. “Cuthbert masterclass,” others said. But the worst were the ones about her.

“Aitana Bonmatí: Arrogant, Overrated, Outplayed.”
“Barcelona’s Ballon d’Or sweetheart gets dethroned.”
“Cuthbert eats Bonmatí alive.” As if.

She said one thing. One line about Chelsea time-wasting. About how they’d make sure to do the same at Stamford Bridge. And that’s all it took. It was everywhere—twisted, blown out of proportion. Painted as bitter, ungracious, childish. And maybe, maybe Aitana was childish. But she didn’t care, this was Chelsea.

She stopped reading the articles after three days.

Clara told her that was progress.

By the time the second leg arrived, she could walk through the team tunnel without feeling like her ribs would cave in. Ingrid made her laugh that morning. Keira braided part of her hair. Alexia gave her a quiet nod during warmups, like they were okay again.

Things weren’t good, but they were okay. And for Aitana Bonmatí, that counted.

England still sucked, and pieces of her heart were somehow scattered around here. Somehow? She knew exactly how.

What she didn’t expect, what she couldn’t quite stomach was the sight of Alessia Russo standing in the stands, tucked behind the bench in a thick black coat, pretending like she wasn’t watching.

But she was. She was beside presumably, one of her Arsenal mates, Pelova? She played for the Netherlands, and on her other side…an Australian she couldn’t remember the name of. Irrelevant.

Alessia Russo didn’t cheer. Didn’t move much. Just watched. Didn’t even catch Russo’s eyes wander over her when both teams had been warming up, that was a bit of a pain.

Aitana tried not to look. Failed miserably. Her eyes found her every time the ball went out of play. When Rolfö buried the penalty to make it 1–0, she looked again even when she found Rolfö’s arms. When Chelsea tried to rally, she looked. When she won a foul just outside the box in the 71st, she looked. Tripped up Cuthbert because she just had to.

And then she scored.

A rocket. A clean, perfect, world-class strike that kissed the inside of the post and dropped into the net. She didn’t hear the whistle. She didn’t hear the crowd. She only heard herself, screaming.

It was rage. It was defiance. It was desperation to matter again. Effectively ousting the English ‘giants’ out of the Champions league once again, perfect.

She ran, arms flailing, straight to the touchline. Didn’t care how she looked. Let them call her arrogant again.

And then, after a few minutes like a switch, she stumbled near the managerial box.

Clutching the back of her thigh. Hamstring. Sharp, awful pain. She couldn’t walk. Her face twisted, and the bench scrambled. A certain English striker clutched at her seat. The physios flew over. The cameras zoomed in.

Aitana Bonmatí was injured.

Or so it seemed.

She got subbed off for Alexia in the 79th. The commentators in England immediately speculated.

“Seems like she’s bought herself a breather,” one of them said, skeptically.
“Looks fine to me,” another chimed. “Running on adrenaline, maybe.”

As Alexia passed her, she tapped her on the shoulder. A quiet gesture, but telling.

Aitana didn’t limp after that. Not really.
And when the final whistle blew, she was back on the pitch. Running. Jumping. Shouting. Not even a hint of a strain.

Barcelona were through. Again. And it was her goal that sealed it.

But Alessia didn’t clap. Didn’t flinch. Just turned, made her way toward the tunnel with her hands deep in her pockets.

Aitana saw it. And for a second, just for a second, she forgot everything. Forgot the goal. Forgot the media.

She chased. She was chasing someone.

“Russo.”

It was soft. Not quite breathless, but low enough that Alessia almost didn’t turn.

Pelova had just tugged at her sleeve, her fingers still curled around Alessia’s arm like they were anchored to one another. Eyes on Alessia like she knew everything about her and more, everything Aitana couldn’t.

Aitana’s eyes caught on it instantly—how natural it looked, how easy. She hated it. Hated how much it burned to see someone else reach for her.

Alessia peeled Pelova’s hand off gently, voice clipped. “Go ahead with Kyra.”

She didn’t look back.

Aitana didn’t raise her voice. Just stood there in the other tunnel, the floodlights behind her casting shadows across her face.

“I just wanted to say hi.” That’s the best she could some up with.

Alessia stopped mid-step.

They were mostly alone now, the crowd still filtering out, a few scattered chants echoing through the concrete. A couple photographers lingered behind a barricade, uninterested. But none of them mattered.

Only her.

Alessia turned slowly. Aitana was still sweat riddled, had her Barça scarf tied around her hips, she didn’t care.

Her eyes were darker than Aitana remembered. Sharper. Emptier. Face even slimmer. Aitana had never felt this nervous, not even with the atmosphere here at the Bridge.

“I’m not here to fight,” Aitana said quickly, hands half-raised like she might be searched. Like a coward.

Alessia let out a laugh—jagged, cold. It sounded like it physically hurt. “Okay, here to do what then? Gloat?” At least she was talking back.

“No,” Aitana said again, frantic this time. “No, not that.”

Alessia tilted her head, almost amused. “Then what? What do you want now, Aitana?”

Aitana flinched at the sound of her name the way it dropped from Alessia’s mouth like something spoiled, because it wasn’t even her surname. It was her name. There was no warmth in it. No softness. Just a tired, scorched memory.

“I just—” she tried, stepping forward. “I saw you and—” Nothing. Her words dried up. She had no speech prepared, no half-lie that could pass as tenderness. Not this time.

Alessia’s jaw twitched, eyes opening and closing. “You don’t get to do this. Win your match. Celebrate with your friends. And then come find me when everyone’s gone.”

“I didn’t come to celebrate.”

“Right,” Alessia scoffed, towering over the midfielder who had her headband in her hand. “You came to scratch the itch. See if I’d still break when you talk.”

“I’m happy for you,” Alessia added, quieter. Slightly bitter. “I really am. I hope your goal helps you sleep tonight.”

Aitana’s breath caught in her throat. That voice was flat, bitter, done—it tore something open inside her. That same wound, this time a deep gash. She wanted to argue. Wanted to say it doesn’t. Wanted to tell her she hadn’t slept properly in months. That the second her head hit the pillow, all she saw was a fucking United crest on a sweat-damped shirt and a pair of tired, blue eyes that wouldn’t let her go.

But Alessia was turning again.

“It doesn’t,” Aitana called out. Pathetically, she couldn’t bring herself to care this time.

Alessia stopped hands tight around her jacket.

“I thought it would,” Aitana said. “I thought if I played well, if I scored that it would fix it. That I’d feel okay again.”

“And?” Alessia inquired unceremoniously, like whatever she had to say wouldn’t change anything.

“I don’t,” she said, voice small.

Alessia turned back to her, but the look on her face wasn’t sympathy. It wasn’t anything close. Maybe for the best.

“I’ve been seeing Clara,” Aitana offered, desperately, didn’t know why she was sharing something she once hated to come to terms with.
“The psychiatrist. I’m trying….I’m—uh..” Aitana’s lip was quivering now, god she couldn’t even properly tell her.

Alessia bit back the old version of herself that probably would’ve enveloped Aitana in her arms, she didn’t blink. Her stare was razor-sharp.

“So that undoes it?” Her voice cracked with disbelief. “What do you want me to say, that I’m proud of you? That I’m glad you’re trying? That you’re finally catching up on all the bare emotional shite the rest of us learned at sixteen?”

Aitana’s lips parted but nothing came out.

“I let you in,” Alessia said raising a finger now. “Again. And you left. Again. So now what? You feel guilty? You want absolution? I don’t have it to give, I won’t. Not to you.” It was like lashings. Lashings she probably, well, most definitely: deserved.

Aitana’s voice cracked. “I know you’re done. I do. But I can’t stay away from you, even though I left. Alessia—”

She stepped forward again. Alessia stepped back, fuck her heart hurt.
“I..I don’t know what I want. I just know it’s you.”

That landed like a stabbing.

Alessia’s shoulders lifted once, stiff, and then fell. She stared hard.
“You don’t know what you want. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it?”

She took another step back. “I know what I wanted. I wanted you. I always did. And you knew it. You fucking knew it. And you used it from the beginning, didn’t you? Fuck,”

Alessia shook her head, pupils dilated and lips painted red. Like she was remembering everything Aitana had done and putting together a bulletin board.

Aitana’s mouth fell open. She shook her head, the panic rising fast now.
“I didn’t—”

“You did.” Alessia was shaking, whether from rage or restraint, she didn’t know. “You can’t even deny it. You say you’re not okay. You say you’re what..hurting? But you don’t get to keep breaking me just because you’re lost. Just because you aren’t able to properly lay at night, because you’re a fucking fraud.”

She was, wasn’t she? Aitana wiped at her face. There was a pause. Heavy. Devastating. Then Alessia’s voice softened, like it hurt her to say it.
“You made me think I mattered to you. Why?”

Aitana’s eyes filled, her voice barely audible. “You do.”

“No,” Alessia said, pursing her lips. “If I did, you wouldn’t have left like that. Twice.” She put up two fingers, mockingly.

Aitana reached for her—instinctually, habitually, desperately.

But Alessia flinched, stepping back like her skin burned at the thought of being touched by her. Oh god, oh god, her chest was starting to tighten in the way it did in Clara’s office.

“Don’t.”

“Ales—”

“I said don’t.” Her voice was full now, sharp and trembling with grief. “I can’t keep being your casualty. I won’t.”

Aitana froze, mouth parted, eyes stinging.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You did. And to think I was the one who thought I’d be the one to do it? Fuck you.”

Aitana took it, she just wanted her.
“I think I—”

“Enough,” Alessia snapped, her voice cracking open at the edges. “If you’re about to say something you’re not even brave enough to mean, just—don’t.”

There was a pause. A break in the oxygen.

Then Alessia laughed, once, bitter and low, like she hated herself for what she was about to say. But she said it anyway with a hand on her face.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. Aitana was almost hugging herself now.

“I used to think you were selfish. Just in the way people who are brilliant sometimes are. Tunnel-visioned. Cold when they had to be.”

Aitana blinked. “Alessia—”

“But that’s not it,” Alessia continued tilting her head a bit, eyes shining now. “It’s worse. You’re a user. That’s all you are.”

The word dropped like a fucking bomb.
Aitana looked like she’d been slapped. Her whole body stiffened. Alessia couldn’t stop herself.

“You come to me when it suits you. When it’s convenient. When you’re crumbling and need someone to pick up the pieces and fuck away the panic,” She spat those words.

“Don’t,” Aitana said quietly, her voice strained.

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Alessia’s voice rose. “You used me. Not once. Not twice. Every single time you wanted comfort and couldn’t face your own reflection. Jesus Christ,”

“I didn’t—” Aitana was tearing up now and Alessia wouldn’t leave her eyes, couldn’t cut the distance between them.

“You did,” Alessia cut in. “You knew I loved you.” There it was. Aitana felt like she couldn’t breathe. Alessia’s voice hitched, and she bit it back like a curse. “You knew, Aitana.”

The silence between them swelled, huge and cruel.

“And I let you,” Alessia whispered. “Because I wanted you.”
—Because I still do, how pathetic is that? Alessia kept that part for herself.

That landed harder than anything else.

Aitana’s eyes brimmed tears beginning to threaten to fall. She wanted her? Her throat moved like she wanted to speak, but nothing came.

Alessia stepped back again, shoulders trembling, but her face was set like steel.

“I don’t want pieces of you. Not anymore. Go on, keep my fucking shirt, too.”

And with that, she turned.
She didn’t look back. And Aitana bruised, breathless, and blinking hard against the tears and against a truth she never thought she’d hear from Alessia’s mouth, didn’t stop her. Couldn’t. She couldn’t even get air into her lungs.

Because for once, she didn’t know how to fix it.

Because maybe she had used her. And maybe, now, it was already too late.

Aitana had scored again, this time in the final.

Not just scored, curled it, clean and merciless, into the top corner way past Lyon’s keeper like it was personal. It wasn’t supposed to be. She told herself it wasn’t. But her heart had gone off-script long ago.

San Mamés was flooded in blue and claret. Alexia had wrapped her in a hug so tight it bruised, and Frido had kissed the top of her head like she always did when something mattered more than usual. Aitana barely heard the final whistle after Alexia had scored. The roar in her ears wasn’t the crowd. It was blood, memory, her own voice cracking in some hotel room months ago.

She’d smiled for the cameras. Bit her tongue when the photographers yelled for “another one with Alexia!” and “one with the trophy, Aitana—just you!” She lifted it like it didn’t weigh the world. Smiled like she hadn’t watched Alessia Russo walk away from her under the floodlights of Stamford Bridge.

It was a lie. All of it. Except maybe the champagne.

Back inside the locker room, Alexia passed her a bottle and grinned. “Finally got Lyon.”

Aitana swallowed, throat sore from nothing. “Yeah,” she said. “We did.”

But her phone buzzed once in her bag, and when she checked it, it wasn’t Alessia. Of course it wasn’t.

Her last message still sat unread.

You were right. I don’t care about the shirt. I just want to see you.

She hadn’t even finished reading the rest when she first sent it. Couldn’t bring herself to go back. Not when silence was the only answer she kept getting. Deservingly.

Across the Channel, Alessia didn’t turn off the final. That would’ve been dramatic. Immature. She just…muted it.

Watched Aitana lift yet another Champions League trophy. Watched Alexia wrap herself around her like they’d survived something unspeakable. Watched Keira grin off to the side. Watched her mates dance, boots still on.

She didn’t cry. Why would she? Aitana didn’t mean anything to her anymore. Right?

She just leaned back into her couch and rubbed at the seam in her joggers until her knuckles turned red. Thought about that message she still hadn’t read. The one from Aitana. The one that felt like a hallucination.

You were right…

Right about what? Alessia had thought about it every night since it came in. Right that she was a coward? A fraud? Right that she couldn’t keep away? Right that she’d ruined them both?

She wanted to smash her phone against the wall. Instead, she put it face-down and didn’t look at it for the rest of the week.

The Arsenal locker room wasn’t toxic. It just wasn’t home. Not yet. Not in the way Manchester had once been.

Still, Alessia was feeling more like herself. That was something. She’d started talking more in training. Teased Beth a few times. Kept Lotte close. High-fived Pelova after a one-two finish in the League Cup final. Scored twice against Chelsea at the Emirates, a match so scrappy it nearly broke her ankle, and still she walked off grinning wide.

The crowd had been wild. The air thick with fog and beer and something like belief. Jonas had praised her. Lotte had clapped her on the back so hard it knocked her forward. For a second, she almost forgot the weight in her chest.

Even after the FA Cup loss to City. And then came that match against United, where she came on late and no one really noticed. No goal. No game-winner. Just silence.

Laia didn’t start that match either. But she was there. They were finally…okay. Or something resembling it. Their friends were friends. It was easier that way. Alessia still didn’t trust her, not fully—but Laia had stopped treating her like an obstacle.

That was enough, for now.

After the United match, Ella came over.

They didn’t talk about Spain again. Not right away. Ella had held her hand through it once already. Now she just sat on the edge of Alessia’s sofa and asked if she wanted tea, then complained about how the flat didn’t have oat milk.

Alessia was grateful for that. For not being asked what she wanted. She didn’t know the answer. Alessia didn’t tell her about what had happened between her and Aitana in that tunnel at Stamford bridge, she was afraid…well…didn’t know what she of exactly.

She had one unsent text in her drafts.

Did you mean it?

She’d written it after the Chelsea second leg. After Aitana had practically chased after her. After she’d said she was seeing a psychiatrist. After she’d looked like she meant it. After she teared up and let Alessia insult her over and over. She hadn’t sent it.

She didn’t know if she ever would.

Clara didn’t interrupt when Aitana sat down and stared at the floor for nearly a minute. She knew better by now. These sessions weren’t always linear. They weren’t always about healing. Sometimes they were just about saying something out loud for the first time.

Aitana had only just changed out of her training gear, her hair still damp, tied messily at the back. There were droplets at the base of her neck. She looked tired and not the kind of tired that sleep fixed. Not even after winning the Champions League again. Not even now.

“I know I look better lately,” Aitana said finally, her voice flat. “Everyone says it. That I’m more myself.”
She almost scoffed at the phrasing. Whatever that meant.

Clara tilted her head. “And are you?”

Aitana offered a thin smile, one that never touched her eyes under those wrinkles. “Sometimes I think so. Other times…I think I’ve just gotten better at hiding it. Avoiding it.”

Clara waited.

Aitana shifted in the chair, legs tense. “She said I was selfish. In London.”

Clara’s eyes sharpened, she had to stay on her toes when she heard that. “Russo?”

The name sounded strange coming from Clara, too clinical, too bare. But of course she knew. The way Aitana said it brittle, wounded—it could only have been her.

“She didn’t say it directly,” Aitana murmured. “But it was in everything. That I take and take. That I use people. That I broke her just because I could.”

Clara didn’t flinch.

“She’s not wrong,” Aitana whispered. “I left. After everything. After she helped me. After she—”
Her throat went tight.
—after she made me come and pressed her forehead against mine, after she held me like I was fragile but hers (?), after she kissed my cheek when she thought I was asleep, and made sure I had more of the duvet—

Her hands twisted together tightly in her lap.

“I wore her shirt,” she added, voice lower. “Not the England one. The white one. From her flat. She didn’t know I took it. Well…she does now.”

And God, the way Alessia looked at her like she could’ve spit on her. Like she wanted to. Like she might still have loved her anyway. Love?

Clara stayed quiet. Watching.

“I wore on the way to the plane. Told myself it was just because my dress was uncomfortable. But that was a lie. I slept in it for months. Until her scent started to fade. Like if I just kept it close…somehow I could keep whatever part of her I had too.”

She let out a soft laugh. Bitter. Small. “And I still left her.”

Clara’s voice was gentle. “Do you know why?”

“I thought I was protecting her,” Aitana said. “I thought if I made it ugly, she’d get over this…me…quicker?” She just hadn’t anticipated the regret, or hurting Alessia as bad as she did. Thought she could stomach it and wouldn’t care about any of it.

Clara tilted her head. “And did she?”

Aitana swallowed. “No.”

A long pause.

“I saw her after the second leg. I didn’t think she’d even look at me. But she did. She told me I don’t get to do this anymore. That I take and take and never give anything back.”
She hesitated.
“She wouldn’t even let me touch her.”

Her voice cracked. Not loud—just hollow.

“And she was right. I’ve spent years trying to prove I don’t feel things too deeply. That I’m focused. That I’m…above all that. That I’m not the kind of person who falls apart over someone.”

She drew in a breath.

“Because I didn’t think I could ever be someone who was wanted. Who was…loved.”

A pause.

“And Alessia—she made me feel that. And I ran. Because what if I ruined her too? What if I already had?”

Clara said nothing, just sat with her in it.

“I’m not a teenager anymore,” Aitana continued. “Neither of us are. This isn’t just some rivalry or obsession we’ll grow out of. It’s not a phase. It’s not a feeling you shake off after a win or a medal.”

She looked up then. Her eyes were rimmed red. Dry, that dangerous kind of dry where crying might never stop once it started.

“She basically told me I made her feel like nothing. And maybe I did. I thought if I just pushed through this season, got to the final, won everything…I could fix it later. But there is no later.”

Clara let the silence sit.

Aitana leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Voice almost inaudible:
“I think I love her.” She couldn’t believe the words on her lips.

It landed softly. No drama. No shock.

Just truth.

“And I don’t deserve her. Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Clara’s gaze didn’t waver. “But you still want her?”

Aitana’s voice was hoarse. “I think more than I’ve ever wanted any trophy.” This was truly terrifying for her. How could this even be possible? God must hate her.

She let that linger. Then softer, more honest: “I’m chasing her now. Even after what she said to me. Even though I think she hates me. I know she thinks I’m a user. And maybe I am. But not with her. I can’t.”

She blinked hard. “She’s not [just] a prize. She’s…she’s the person. The one I—”
She cut herself off, mouth trembling.

“I didn’t mean to break her. I had before but I just didn’t know how to stay. I didn’t know I was allowed to be…wanted like that. I didn’t think I could be.”

She rubbed at her face with both hands, the words spilling now, raw and unravelled.

“She gave me everything and I left her in her own bed. After she’d driven me to her home. After she—God, she was so sweet, so fucking beautiful, I can’t even put it into words. And I—”

Her throat caught again.

“I thought it would be easier to live with myself if I didn’t let her see how much I felt it too. But now I live with this ache. And I think I ruined the only thing that ever made me feel like I could be good. Like I wasn’t…too much or too selfish or too cold. Like maybe I could be loved back.”

Clara didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

Because Aitana’s voice broke entirely then. “I think I did love her back. From the start. But I didn’t think I deserved it.”

The room was quiet again.

Clara gave the faintest nod. “Then maybe now’s the time to stop running.”

Aitana exhaled, eyes shut tight.

Even if Alessia never forgave her, even if this hurt forever; she couldn’t pretend anymore.

She didn’t want to.

She loved Alessia Russo.

And finally, she knew that.