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The noise in the crowd was deafening. The first half had been a complete blur. We had not been able to set the rhythm or play our way, the Barça way. I had been watching from the side, jumping impatiently from foot to foot while keeping my eyes glued to Pere, hoping a substitution was coming. I knew I was going to go on.
Substitutions were rarely a surprise, in spite of what the fans thought. We were all aware when we were expected to take the pitch. Sometimes something might go wrong, forcing us on a bit earlier, but it was rare to be completely unaware of the plan.
We had suffered. All through the first half, we had truly suffered. Lyon had come close, too close, so many times. But finally, Eva managed it. A tap-in from Salma was all it took for the dam to break, and suddenly, there she was, running straight towards me.
Alexia.
It had been months. Months of stolen glances, of careful touches that felt like they meant everything and yet were always held back. Suddenly, her hands grabbed either side of my face. For a single, fleeting second, I genuinely thought, Oh my god, is she actually going to kiss me?
Then I saw her eyes widen slightly, as though she suddenly realised what she was doing. She smoothly turned her cheek, pulling me into a bone-crushing hug instead.
Typical Alexia.
Flashback
It was happening. I was joining Barcelona. The news had been officially announced, and it was my first day at the training ground. I was beyond nervous. My rise had been fast, too fast, some might say, but the World Cup had changed everything for me. I had gone from being an upcoming player at Benfica to the next star in the making: the next midfielder to join the giants of Barcelona and be turned into a legend.
I was always outgoing, and I already knew some of the girls through the youth camps. As I sat there joking around, I felt her presence rather than saw it. Alexia entered the changing room. She cast an eye across the new recruits, as though sizing them up in her head. When her gaze reached me, our eyes met. I saw her eyebrow quirk slightly before she went to sit with Irene at the other end of the room.
The weight of the badge felt heavy enough to crush me back then. The transition from my old club to the training pitches of Joan Gamper had been a dizzying blur of speed and precision, culminating in my very first rondo drill with the first team.
The circle of players had felt like a cage. I stood in the center, my lungs burning, chasing a ball that moved with terrifying, telepathic speed between Mapi, Aitana, and Alexia. Every pass was too crisp, every touch too perfect. When the ball finally zipped toward me, I anticipated the trajectory a second too late. I lunged, my boot catching nothing but air, and my momentum sent me stumbling awkwardly onto the grass.
"Pace, Kika! Keep the shape!" Pere’s voice barked from the sidelines, loud and impatient. "In this team, we do not chase the ball, we dictate it!"
The reprimand sent a hot flush of embarrassment creeping up my neck. I scrambled back to my feet, wiping a smear of mud from my palms, my chest heaving as I prepared for the next wave of humiliation. The anxiety was a tight knot in my throat, making my limbs feel heavy and clumsy.
Before the drill could resume, Alexia stepped out of the circle, raising a hand to pause the play. The rest of the squad instantly went quiet, respect for the captain keeping everyone in place.
Alexia did not look angry. Instead, she walked directly over to me, her movements measured and deliberate. On the pitch, she possessed a fierce, almost terrifying aura, a competitive fire that demanded absolute perfection from everyone around her. But as she stopped just a foot away from me, that grand persona seemed to shrink, narrowing down into a sharp, quiet focus meant only for the two of us.
"You are trying to match their speed by running faster," she said, her voice low and surprisingly calm amidst the wind on the pitch. "Do not do that. The ball does the running."
She nudged the ball with the inside of her boot, demonstrating a micro-adjustment in her body positioning. "Look at my hips. If you position your body to cut off the lane before the pass is even made, you force them into a mistake. You do not need to be faster than the ball, Kika. You just need to be smarter."
I stared at her, utterly captivated. Up close, the intimidating captain of Barcelona was a revelation of intense, undivided attention. Alexia was looking at her not as a rookie mistake to be corrected, but as a puzzle to be solved, her dark eyes completely locked onto mine.
It was in that exact moment, watching the sweat glisten on her forehead and hearing the steady, unbothered rhythm of her breathing, that the shift occurred. The anxiety in my chest dissolved, replaced by a sudden, intoxicating rush of infatuation. I did not just want to survive in this team anymore. I wanted to earn the right to keep that intense focus directed entirely at me.
Present day
When the final whistle blew, the first person I looked for was Alexia. We had been through so much this season. With our main midfielders dropping like flies to injury, Alexia had been forced to shoulder the heavy burden alone. I jumped onto her, pulling her close as if I would never let her go. At that moment, I didn’t care if the cameras caught everything; all that mattered was that we had done it. After the cruelty of last year, there had been moments in this game where I genuinely feared history was repeating itself.
"Careful now," she whispered as she placed me back on the ground. "We don't want another injury."
She patted me on the back and ran towards the rest of the team to celebrate. As I ran after her, I couldn't help but feel a tiny twinge of disappointment, instantly replaced by a fresh dose of reality. Alexia doesn't see me like that. Get a grip, Kika.
The celebration inside the dressing room was a sensory assault of stinging cava, deafening reggaeton, and the rhythmic drumming of palms against metal lockers. Wrapped in the frantic adrenaline of a Champions League victory, the players danced in circles, completely unbothered by the wet floor or the heavy, humid air.
I joined the chaos, jumping with my arms slung over Aitana’s shoulders, shouting the lyrics to a song I could barely hear over the ringing in my ears. My smile stretched wide, reflecting the unadulterated ecstasy of my teammates.
Alexia stood near the tactical board, already wearing her fresh champions t-shirt. She was surrounded by a swarm of photographers and club media staff, navigating the flashbulbs with the practiced, effortless grace of someone born for the spotlight. She laughed, posed with the trophy, and pointed at teammate after teammate, celebrating everyone else's success.
But she never looked at me. Not once.
When the squad fractured into smaller groups for a massive team selfie, I used the distraction to slip away. The heat in the main room was suffocating. I walked toward the quieter, tiled corridor leading to the recovery area, hoping the cold air near the ice baths would ground me.
I leaned my back against the cool wall, closing my eyes as I let out a long, shaky breath. The ghost of Alexia’s hands against my waist on the pitch still felt real, a phantom pressure that made my skin prickle.
"You played a brilliant match, Kika."
My eyes snapped open. Alexia was standing at the entrance of the corridor, holding two folded championship shirts. The noise from the main dressing room felt miles away now, muted by the heavy concrete walls.
"Thank you," I said, my voice sounding tighter than I intended. I cleared her throat, trying to regain my composure. "We all did. It still doesn't feel real."
Alexia stepped closer, her expression completely unreadable. The raw, vulnerable intensity from our near miss on the pitch was entirely gone, replaced by the calm, authoritative composure of the captain.
"Your positioning in the second half was exactly what we needed," she continued, her tone strictly professional, as if she were delivering a post match analysis to the press. "When they shifted to a back three, you opened up the passing lanes beautifully. Pere was thrilled."
I stared at her, feeling a sudden, sharp prickle of frustration. I didn't want to talk about tactics. I wanted to ask why she had held me so tightly, why her eyes had dropped to my lips, and why she was now acting as if we were nothing more than colleagues analysing tape.
"Is that all it was?" I asked quietly, stepping away from the wall. "Just good positioning?"
Alexia closed the distance between us, stopping just a few inches away. For a second, the professional facade flickered, and I saw a flash of that same heavy, suffocating tension from the pitch. But she just held out one of the shirts.
"Put this on," she whispered, her voice dropping to a low, quiet command. "The president is coming down in five minutes. We need to look like a team."
As I reached out to take the fabric, Alexia’s fingers brushed against mine. It wasn't an accident. She let her hand linger for a fraction of a second too long, her thumb pressing lightly against the back of my knuckles before she turned on her heel and walked back toward the roar of the celebration, leaving me alone in the cold.
The Grand Hall of Oslo City Hall was a blur of gilded architecture, clinking champagne flutes, and the low, collective hum of celebration. The heavy silver trophy sat beneath the soft glow of the chandeliers, a static anchor in a room full of movement. For hours, Alexia had moved through the crowd with the practiced grace of a statesman, nodding at board members, offering polite smiles to dignitaries, and shaking the hands of sponsors whose investment depended on the flawless image of the club.
I watched her from a distance, leaning against the marble edge of the bar. The initial adrenaline of the whistle had long faded, replaced by the heavy, pleasant ache of ninety minutes on the pitch and the slow warmth of the gin and tonic in my hand. I watched the way she managed the room, her posture perfect, her responses measured, yet there was a tightness around her eyes that only someone who had spent years studying her would notice.
By midnight, the crowd had thinned, drifting toward the dance floor or the terrace overlooking the fjords. The bar was suddenly quiet. Alexia slid onto the stool next to me, exhaling a long, slow breath as she loosened the collar of her blazer.
"I thought they would never leave," she murmured, staring down at the condensation pooling around the base of her glass.
I smiled, the alcohol taking the sharp edge off my usual caution. I leaned in slightly, my shoulder brushing against hers. "You looked like royalty out there. Very professional. Much more composed than you were on the pitch at the final whistle."
The comment was meant to be light, a gentle tease about the breathless, suspended second before the podium was built, but the reaction was instantaneous. Alexia stiffened, her hand freezing on her glass. The effortless composure she had maintained all evening vanished, replaced by a raw, sudden tension.
"Don't," she said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. She didn't look up, but her knuckles turned white against the glass. "Not here, Kika. We talked about this. We agreed."
"Alexia, there is no one here," I said quietly, my smile fading as I realized the depth of the shift. "It was a joke."
"It is never just a joke," she snapped, finally turning her head. Her eyes were bright with a mixture of exhaustion and a fierce, defensive panic.
She stopped, her breath hitching as she looked at me, the weight of the silence between us suddenly louder than the music echoing from the main hall.
The tension at the bar hung heavily between us, the festive echo of the music from the main hall fading into a distant, mocking hum. Alexia stared at me, her chest rising and falling with a shallow, agitated rhythm. The immaculate facade she had maintained all evening had cracked, revealing a deep well of exhaustion that had nothing to do with football.
I looked down at the marble counter, the cool stone offering no comfort. The realization that my casual comment had struck such a raw nerve brought a sudden, sober clarity. We had drawn these boundaries ourselves, etched them into the very fabric of our lives to survive the scrutiny of the club, the press, and the fans, yet the walls felt narrower than ever.
"I know," I said softly, keeping my voice low enough that it barely carried across the polished surface of the bar. "I am sorry. I forgot where we were for a second."
Alexia closed her eyes, the rigid line of her shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch. She didn't pull away, but the distance between us felt immense, a vast expanse of unsaid words and public expectations. When she opened her eyes again, the anger had drained out of them, leaving only a hollow, quiet resignation.
"I cannot afford to forget," she whispered, her gaze drifting back to her glass. "Not even for a second."
Flashback
The hotel room in Lisbon felt more like a concrete cell than a refuge. Outside, the rain was a relentless tap against the glass, matching the dull, rhythmic throb in my knee. We had lost. The Champions League trophy was in Arsenal's hands, and the devastating weight of that reality hung heavy over the entire city.
But the worst part was the uselessness. I had not even touched the grass. I had spent ninety suffocating minutes confined to the bench, wrapped in a tracksuit, watching our midfield crumble while my useless, injured ankle kept me completely pinned to the spot. Even though we were in my home I had never felt further away.
By the time I reached my room, the tears were already tracking through the dried sweat and grime on my face. I had not bothered to turn on the lights. I just sat on the edge of the mattress in the dark, my face buried in my hands, letting the quiet, heavy sobs tear through my chest. The crushing disappointment of the defeat, paired with the agonizing frustration of my own helplessness, felt like an anchor dragging me under.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door.
I did not move. I did not want to see management, or the medical staff, or any of the girls trying to offer empty platitudes. "Go away," I choked out, my voice thick and broken.
The door clicked open anyway. A sliver of warm light from the corridor cut across the carpet, casting a long silhouette before the door clicked shut again, plunging us back into the shadows.
"It is me," a voice whispered.
Alexia.
She did not wait for an invitation. She crossed the room with quiet, heavy steps and sat down on the mattress beside me. She looked completely spent, her shoulders slumped in a way I had never seen before, her own eyes rimmed with red. Without a word, she reached out and pulled me into her arms.
The moment her arms wrapped around me, the final barrier broke. I pressed my face into the crook of her neck, my shoulders shaking violently as I wept for the lost trophy, the ruined season, and the sheer terror of my injury. Alexia just held me tighter, her fingers tangling in my hair, her own breath hitching against my collarbone. She was sharing the grief, absorbing it with me.
When my tears finally began to slow, I pulled back just enough to look at her through the gloom. Her face was only inches from mine. The fierce, untouchable captain was entirely gone, replaced by someone raw, vulnerable, and utterly exhausted. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, and the air in the room suddenly turned to glass.
It was Alexia who closed the distance.
The kiss was not gentle or tentative. It was a desperate, bruising collision of teeth and lips, a sudden explosion of all the hidden tension, the unspoken longing, and the grief that had built up between us for months. It felt like a lifeline in the middle of a shipwreck. I tangled my hands in the fabric of her shirt, pulling her closer, tasting the salt of our shared tears as the world outside the room completely ceased to exist. For a few frantic, breathless minutes, the defeat did not matter. Nothing mattered but the heat of her mouth against mine.
The grey, muted light of dawn was filtering through the curtains when my eyes fluttered open. The storm outside had cleared, leaving behind a cold, quiet morning.
My arms reached out instinctively, searching for the warmth that had filled the bed just hours before.
Nothing. The sheets beside me were cold, the pillows smoothed down as though no one had ever been there. I sat up quickly, my heart hammering against my ribs as I scanned the empty room. There was no note, no lingering scent, no sign that the captain of Barcelona had broken down in my arms. She was gone.
We never spoke of that night again.
When we returned to the training ground weeks later, she was the professional captain once more, giving directions and analyzing drills with her usual cold precision. But beneath the tactical instructions and the public distance, something fundamental had shifted. The affection remained, hidden in the extra second her eyes lingered on mine during a rondo, or the subtle, protective way she positioned herself near me on the pitch. It was an unspoken, permanent bond born from the wreckage of losing.
Present day
The heavy wooden door click-locked behind us, cutting off the distant, muffled thrum of the celebration downstairs. In the sudden quiet of the hotel room, the atmosphere changed instantly. The oppressive weight of the public eye lifted, leaving an empty space that felt almost too vast to fill.
Having followed me to my room, Alexia walked straight towards the window, her back to me. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, looking out over the dim, sprawling lights of Oslo. Her hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides, the fabric of her blazer straining across her shoulders.
I set my room key on the dresser, the sharp tap of plastic against wood echoing in the silence. I did not close the distance between us immediately. The anger from the bar had dissipated, replaced by a fragile, vibrating tension that felt as though it might shatter if approached too quickly.
"Alexia," I said softly.
She did not move for a long moment. Then, with a slow, shuddering exhale, her shoulders dropped. When she turned around, the composure she had worn like armour all evening was entirely gone. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, reflecting the distant city lights.
"It is getting harder," she admitted, her voice cracking slightly on the final word. "Every camera, every interview, every fan waiting outside the bus. I feel as though I am playing two matches at the same time, Kika. And I am terrified of losing both."
I closed the distance first, driven by a sudden, sharp impatience that swallowed the remaining space between us.
When our mouths met, it was less of a gentle transition and more of a collapse of resistance. Alexia reached out, her hands finding my waist, pulling me closer for a desperate, brief moment before the reality of what she was doing seemed to catch up with her. She pulled back, her breathing shallow, and stepped away until the small coffee table sat between us like a barricade.
"We cannot do this," Alexia said, her voice strained as she looked everywhere but at me. "I shouldn't have done that."
I crossed my arms, refusing to let the distance soften the confrontation. "Why? Because you are terrified of what people might think, or because you are terrified of how you actually feel about me?"
Alexia closed her eyes, shaking her head. "It is both, Kika. Look at us. You are too young, and I have a reputation, a life, and a career to consider. I worry about how this looks. I worry about what people will say when they see us together."
I watched her face, looking for any sign of cracking, but she remained perfectly composed behind her barricade. The sheer unfairness of it tightened like a knot in my chest, drawing out a bitter laugh that I did not bother to hide.
"Do not treat me like I am a child," I said, my voice dropping an octave, steady and sharp. "I am twenty-three years old. I am an adult, Alexia, and I am entirely capable of choosing who I want to be with. Stop using my age as an excuse to hide behind your own fears."
"It is not an excuse," she snapped, her composure finally slipping at the edges. "It is reality.”
"You are ignoring us," I said, stepping closer to the table, leaning my palms against the cool wood. "You have been ignoring this for months. Do you honestly think this is new? This has been brewing between us since we lost in Lisbon."
Alexia turned her head away, her jaw tight. "That was different..."
"It was exactly the same…" I insisted, the frustration bubbling over now, hot and sharp. "...and what did you do the moment the plane touched down back home? Nothing. We never even spoke about it. You just shut down and pretended it never happened."
She flinched slightly at the mention of the city, her eyes darting back to mine, filled with a sudden, defensive panic. "Because it was a mistake, Kika. Discussing it would have only made it more real."
"It was already real," I said, my voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "It was real to me, and it was real to you. You are just too much of a coward to admit that you want me as much as I want you."