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Seething. Fuming. Boiling over. Seeing red.
Whatever adjective or idiom or metaphor you wanted to use, that’s how you felt walking out of that meeting.
You were pissed.
Your entire life had just been uprooted in one meeting.
This was not how it was supposed to go.
Slamming the car door closed, you pulled out of the parking lot, destination set on one place: Alexia’s house.
Because this was all her fucking fault.
…
Every kid in La Masia had the same dream.
17, maybe 18 years old. Called up to train with the best in the world. Fighting tooth and nail through every brutal training session for a shot at making the roster for a match. Finally making your debut for the club of your life in the 80th minute of a useless league fixture that Barcelona was never going to lose. If you’re lucky, you’ll get to experience the magic of a Champions League night, and you’ll never shut up about it for the rest of your life. Some people are really lucky, being the right place at the right time when someone important picks up an injury.
That’s what happened to Clara. A solid midfielder that slotted in perfectly when Patri or Aitana or Alexia needed rest and Vicky was already out there. You were happy for her, of course you were. You had grown up together, even if she was two years younger than you.
You just couldn’t help but be a little envious, you know? Everything worked out for her. One day you were connecting for goals on Barca B and the next, she was gone. Perfectly accepted and welcomed into the daunting clique that was Barcelona Femeni.
Your envy never showed on your face, but everyone around you could tell you were getting antsy. A talented striker, no one doubted that, but in the age of Claudia Pina and Ewa Pajor? You weren’t really needed.
Every coaches meeting, every performance review, you asked the same question, “What can I do to get there?”
And every time, the answer given was, “Keep doing what you’re doing, you just need to mature a bit, your time will come.”
You didn’t like that answer.
But what else were you to do but exactly that? You couldn’t reach into the minds of the cogs in the Barca machine and tell them to promote you.
You spent your season doing what you did. You scored goals, a lot of them. You wore the armband for Barca B. You attended every first team match you could. You studied, no, obsessed over their film when you could convince Clara or Aicha to send it to you.
You clutched the plastic of your recovery drink tighter when Martine was subbed on. You two always played fairly well together. When she got her call, you were told that your leadership was more needed on the B team.
The anger building inside of you was never allowed to boil over. But it simmered.
…
Your knuckles wrapped on her stupidly nice, solid wooden front door to her annoyingly nice house. The attendant at the gate knew you by name now, although he still asked for your ID every time because Alexia never considered you permanent enough to get you a key card. You were always just a visitor.
It bothered you more than usual today.
Maybe she knew about this all along. Maybe this was always her plan.
You thought about parking on the grass, just to see her eyes bug out of her head. You thought about just running your car right into her garage door, maybe into her kitchen.
Give her something to remember you by, right?
You banged on the door again, even though you heard her footsteps coming towards the door.
“Dios mio, are you getting murdered?”
“Fuck you, Alexia.”
“Perdon?”
“You heard me. Fuck. You.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“With me? Are you kidding?!”
You could’ve laughed, and you did. You choked out a laugh because it was the only thing you could do at that point. This was your life now, laughably tragic.
“Jesus, Y/N. Get inside, would you? You’re making a racket.”
“Don’t fucking touch me,” you snapped your arm away from where she tried to physically pull you inside. God forbid one of her snippy neighbors catch sight of you. Of this.
Alexia raised an eyebrow, “That’s a new one,” she muttered under her breath, closing and locking the door.
You had to take a deep breath to calm yourself fractionally, atleast to the point that you trusted that you weren’t going to physically harm her.
This charged energy between you wasn’t foreign, not at all. And for a split second, you considered it. Your eyes darted to her lips, but immediately back up to her face. You shook your head, this was not the time.
You were angry. And she needed to know about it.
…
Things had always been…different…between you and Alexia.
She didn’t treat you like the other kids. She wasn’t motherly, she wasn’t doting, she wasn’t playful. Maybe she sensed the anger you carried with you.
You also didn’t treat her like she was used to.
You didn’t look at her with stars in your eyes, like she hung the moon. You looked up to her, sure, from a football standpoint. You watched her, a lot, for tactical purposes. You respected her as a player. As a person, though? That was a different story.
Everyone always gushed about how nice she is, how great of a leader she is, how she mothers the children of the team and makes sure everyone feels welcome in her space. That she’s a great person, caring, kind. Humble. Hates the spotlight. Hates the fame that comes along with being the best in the world.
You didn’t buy it.
There was no way someone could be so successful and not have been corrupted by the back-breaking work that it takes to get to the top, no way someone could still be even a little bit pure even after being put through the ringer by every facet of this world.
But you understand that more than anyone. She was flawed, so were you, so was everyone, but that wasn’t the problem.
You had the problem with the facade.
She didn’t deny it when people complimented her character. She acted the part in public. Like the perfect, flawless, model athlete she supposedly was.
That’s what pissed you off.
That she was flawed but pretended she wasn’t.
The awkward smiles, the stuttering at interviews, the nervous fidgeting with her sleeves. Come on. Have some dignity.
You never told anyone this. You would probably be executed and used at fertilizer for the pitches at La Masia.
But somehow Alexia figured it out. She knew you didn’t put her on the same pedestal as everyone else. And it intrigued her. She started watching you, too. Your match tape, when you would occasionally join them for training. She asked around about you.
“Why doesn’t she train with us more? She’s very good,” she asked a staff member during water break.
“The B team coaches aren’t sure she’s ready,”
“Physically?”
“More mentally? They say she has some trouble with authority and following orders.”
“I see,” Alexia hummed, watching you juggle with Vicky instead of taking a break. “Well, she doesn’t seem to be causing any kind of problems here. If you value my opinion, which I know you do, I say she should be joining us more often.”
“I’ll bring it up with the rest of the staff.”
Alexia nodded once. She didn’t really take her eyes off of you for the rest of the session.
And after that session, every time she saw you, in the halls or in the changing room, she made sure to make eye contact. You never spoke, but there was an understanding there.
You noticed you were getting called into first team training more often. But you didn’t let yourself get excited, you had made that mistake before. They were just low on players, needed some extra bodies to scrimmage against. It meant nothing when match day came.
Until it did.
Your name. On the team sheet. Right there, in the same list as Pina, Salma, Pajor…
You didn’t crack a smile, didn’t celebrate.
Okay. Here you are. You probably won’t get minutes, but this is the first step.
Alexia patted you on the shoulder on the way out of team meeting that day. You looked back and nodded, continuing on your way.
You were right, you didn’t get any minutes. It took a lot to not be angry at that.
You put that anger into PKs, one day after training. Deep into repetitions, drowning out the rest of the world, you heard a voice.
“Your planting foot completely gives away your placement.”
Snapped out of your haze, Alexia stood at the touchline. You couldn’t read any emotion on her face.
“Power over deception. Who cares if they know if they can’t get there on time?”
“Sure, there’s an argument for that. But the higher power, the harder to control placement at all.”
“Well, I guess there’s no right way to do it.”
“I like to think it means there’s no wrong way.”
“We think differently.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve been training with us more.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. I’m just a body.”
“Do you always have that attitude?”
“What attitude?”
“Like the world was created to spite specifically you.”
You didn’t say anything.
Alexia’s head cocked slightly to the side, studying you.
“Come get dinner with me, on Thursday.”
“You have a match on Thursday.”
“We have a match on Thursday.”
“You don’t know that.”
“After the match, we’ll have dinner at my place, vale?”
A single nod from her and she was gone, leaving you to your training. And if you spent another hour dissecting your form, your planting foot, making microscopic changes in your technique, no one needed to know about that.
…
“I’m in the middle of making dinner,” Alexia grumbled, walking back to the kitchen where there was a pot sizzling on the stove, vegetables half-chopped on a cutting board.
“Romantic dinner for your girlfriend?” you practically spat as you followed her.
She rolled her eyes, practically into the back of her head, sighing as she resumed her task of chopping an onion.
“No. She’s in Madrid this weekend,” she said with such steadiness, nothing in her tone suggesting that she was upset about that or missed her supposed lover at all.
“Right, I should’ve known. I wouldn’t be allowed in the house if she was home, right?”
The knife slammed on the counter. She looked up, having the audacity to look mad at you.
“What do you want? Why are you here?”
“Why am I here? I had a meeting today, Alexia. With the execs.”
You stopped there, watching her face contort as she processed what was really going on. Her eyes softened fractionally, her body deflating slightly with her deep sigh.
“It’s a good opportunity for you.”
Now you really wanted to punch her. She said it with the same tone she used to talk about the bitch that she claimed to love that was currently in Madrid, probably cheating on her.
Calm, steady, detatched.
“Oh fuck off Alexia! This is bullshit and you know it! There is no reason for the club to send me on loan. None. I was the top scorer in the league this season. I got us through the Champions League Semis and I assisted to you in the final. I am one of the best strikers in Europe right now. You know it and I know it.”
Your chest was heaving, and you took a second to compose yourself. In another context, Alexia might scold you for talking yourself up so much. Except she knew that everything you said was true. She had even said it herself, one night as you basked in post-sex intimacy, that you were becoming the best striker Barcelona had ever seen, putting you above Pina and Jenni and Ewa.
“So why? Why would any club willing give me away to a competitor right now? Why would I get sent to fucking England to a mid-tier team when? There’s no logical reason. Unless my fucking captain wanted me gone.”
…
The first it happened, you thought the whole thing was a dream.
Not a dream come true, just…a dream. Fake. Some nonsense your brain made up.
Dinner became a weekly thing. She was a good cook, you gave her that. You told yourself that was the only reason you kept showing up.
You sat at her kitchen table, brooding like you usually did, while Alexia talked. Sometimes she talked about football, sometimes she talked about her family. Sometimes she would put on a movie after dinner, settle on the couch with a clear spot carved out next to her.
The first time you eyed the couch suspiciously, then made up an excuse to leave.
You did that the second time too. And the third.
The fourth time, though, you sat down.
Gradually, you relaxed. Your shoulders dropped, you melted back into the couch a little more, your thigh pressed against hers.
That’s when the dream started.
“You’re very mature,” she said, half distracted by the movie.
“Thank you?”
“It’s a compliment. You aren’t like most of the girls your age.”
“I know.”
Her hand was on your thigh, higher than what could be considered appropriate.
“What are you doing, Alexia?”
“You can tell me to stop.”
You hesitated, and then, “don’t stop.”
In a blur of heat, racing hearts, and proximity that you didn’t anticipate, you ended up on Alexia’s lap, your knees bracketing her thighs that were even more sculpted and muscular than they looked. One of her hands was behind your neck, keeping you close as her lips conquered yours. The other hand rested on your waist, her manicured nails slightly digging into your side.
Fuck, she was great kisser.
You should’ve guessed. You had heard rumors that she was a bit of a prude, but you figured that was another part of the facade. And you were right. She kissed like she knew exactly what she wanted.
Subconsciously, your hips started to move, only slightly but of course she noticed it.
“Needy, hmm?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you rasped, rushing to reconnect your lips where they had broken to speak. You felt her smile against you and internally cursed yourself.
You didn’t act like this.
You weren’t needy.
You weren’t the one grinding down on her as she sat back, cocky and comfortable.
But now you were and it was messing with your head.
You felt drunk on her.
“Come on,” was all the warning you got before she stood up, her massive hands under your thighs to support you like you weighed nothing.
It was a hot rush to get eachother undressed. Once you were both bare, it was a blur of sweat and saliva and dripping arousal. You let Alexia take care of you, curling her fingers just right and making you scream into her pillow. You let Alexia put you on your knees, threading her fingers through your hair and guiding you exactly where she wanted you.
You even let Alexia gently clean you up, let her kiss your face and tuck your hair behind your ear.
You left before the sun was up the next morning.
In an ideal world, that was all it ever was. Sex. Occassionally.
That’s what you both wanted.
But what fun would that be, right?
You were cursed with a need for closeness. One morning, Alexia’s arm tightened around your waist when you tried to leave. You didn’t fight it.
Alexia still made dinner, now just with lit candles and fresh roses on the table. You wore her clothes around her house like it was second nature, even if it made your breath catch in your throat every time you passed a mirror and saw her name or number on you. Sometimes you would go over and you wouldn’t even have sex, talking late into the night about hopes and fears.
Alexia thanked god every day that she lived alone. It made it so much easier.
Even so, she didn’t allow you to show up unannounced, so she could make sure no one else was around. Actually, one evening her mother stopped by without letting her know ahead of time, and you were literally shoved into a closet until Alexia could get her to leave.
Maybe it shouldn’t have surprised you then when Alexia showed up to a team gala with a girl on her arm. Some model from Madrid named Olga that she introduced as her girlfriend.
You controlled your face and put on a polite smile, your insides feeling like they were being repeatedly stabbed. You were an idiot. You let yourself believe that maybe you and Alexia could be something more. That it was more than just sex, that you meant more to her than being her dirty little secret.
You tried to control your face, play nice. Alexia knew though, with the way she nervously glanced in your direction every few minutes, clearly worried that you were going to make a scene. Maybe you should’ve.
But you bit your tongue, because you knew that Alexia would text you later that night.
‘Olga went to her place for the night. Come over, please.’
…
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“Alexia, come on! Stop treating me like I’m stupid!”
“I’m not, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had nothing to do with your loan. You’re leaving because the staff wanted you too.”
“Does it make you feel good?”
“What?”
“Lying to my fucking face.”
Alexia rubbed her temples with her fingers, attempting to soothe the ever-present headache you had become in her life.
“What did you think was going to happen, Y/N, huh? Did you think we were just going to keep messing around for the rest of our lives?”
“I don’t know, but I didn’t think you would be this much of a pussy about it! I thought you would eventually man up and pick a goddamn side, whether that was me or her. But no, you’re so fucking weak that you need to remove me from the goddamn country instead of dealing with your feelings.”
“I am still your captain, do not speak me like that.”
“No, you aren’t. I play under fucking Maya Le Tissier now. Maybe she’ll actually act like a real captain, maybe she will treat me like I’m worth more than dirt on her shoe.”
“What did you want me to do? You know as well as me that this would never be anything outside of these walls. You know I love Olga.”
You ignored the pang in her chest as she said the words that you knew to be true. No matter how many times you had said them to yourself, it didn’t lessen the blow.
“Then fucking end it! If that’s your truth, end it with me! If it’s that simple, if you love Olga, if she’s your ‘one’, then tell me to fuck off! I would get over it, we could both get on with our lives. But that’s not the truth, is it? You don’t love Olga, and you want me, but you’re a goddamn coward. So you keep inviting me over, you cook for me, you fuck me until I’m a mess, you kiss me goodnight and keep me as your side bitch because you want me so bad but you’re too fucking scared to commit to me and face the consequences of making that choice!”
“You don’t-”
“I’m not fucking done. So you drag me along, you live your double life for however long, you think you can just own me like I’m your pet for the rest of your life, but something happened, didn’t it? Something that made you crack, made you feel like you needed to get rid of me. What did you do, Alexia? Did she see our texts? Did you say my name during sex?”
“I don’t-”
“Actually, I don’t even care. I don’t give a fuck. Do you understand what this means for me? Do you understand the chances that I never come back here? Did you even think about how this was going to effect me before you decided my future based on what’s best for you? My entire life has been dedicated to climbing this ladder, to doing exactly what I did this season! And now because you can’t fucking control yourself, I have to leave my home, I have to give up everything I’ve ever worked for! And you really are dumber than I thought you were if you think this is going to fix anything at all. You’re still going to see my face when you close your eyes. You’re still going to get yourself off to my Instagram while your girlfriend is sleeping next to you. You’re still going to itch to text me when you’re alone. Except now all you’ll have to think about how you ruined my life because you can’t control yourself.”
You caught your breath. Alexia was speechless, staring wide eyed at you.
“I knew you were a fucking snake, Alexia. I knew it was all a front and you really are a terrible person. God, I fucking hate you,” you spat, walking out to the door and slamming it behind you.
Alexia didn’t come running after you.
Fucking coward.