"I think we might have to engage in some unconventional negotiation." We're at a football match, Barcelona women against Atlético Madrid, and Madi has not stopped picking the skin on her fingers. It's an annoying nervous habit, but with her anxiety so clear in front of us, it is hard for Imara not to feel sympathetic.

"Are you pimping me out?" asks my sister with mock-offence. I watch my cousin drop her gaze from the presidential box to the heads of the substitutes in their seats. Although we are guests of the club at this match, there seems to be an underlying hostility. A tension. It's awful enough being dragged into her football politics – it's worse to have been forced to attend a match.

"Well, I'm married. I can't go around seducing footballers." She smirks. "But you do it for sport, so at least help me out."

Ima looks at me, a sharp elbow digging into my stomach. With my new coat and hoodie, I don't really feel it. My mother had clothes sent over for me that were chosen specifically by her personal stylist. "Anya really got on with Bonmatí."

"Don't involve me in this."

"Your aversion to staring at anything other than a certain number 11 tells me you wouldn't mind as much as you're pretending to."

I try not to react.

The match ends with a comfortable victory for Barcelona, with two goals to none. Madi lets out a shaky exhale at the result, but I don't understand it and decide not to have her explain herself. My sister, on the other hand, has been loving every second of the chaos – despite claiming to find the sport boring – and takes to whooping and cheering as though we are not amongst the section of the crowd in suits.

I'm relieved when it's over, happy to be free to return home, but our reprieve is short-lived. Xavi Puig approaches us as we are about to head out, smiling politely, exuding his usual air of quiet authority.

"Ladies," he says, gesturing for us to follow him. "On behalf of the club, I would like to extend an invitation to the dressing room. The players are excited to meet you, regardless of the circumstances." Madi bristles, feeling defeat, but she squares her shoulders nevertheless.

"I was not expecting this," she mutters, her tone clipped, though face stays perfectly neutral.

Xavi doesn't miss a beat. "It's a gesture of goodwill. The club values any potential partnership. We like to build bridges."

Imara is already on her feet. "Well, I've never been one to turn down goodwill." She grins, adjusting her coat. "Unconventional negotiation," she reminds our cousin, speaking gently in Bengali like a spy using code.

She takes my hand, hers like a burning furnace against my icy skin, and does not let me deviate from the path Xavi clears for us. I feel my stomach drop, but there's no way out. Madi's glare at Xavi suggests she'd rather chew glass than accept this invitation, but when he crosses the threshold of the box, she reluctantly allows us to follow him.

The changing room is alive with post-match adrenaline: players stretching, joking, cooling down. The sharp, clean scent of eucalyptus and mint from the physio tables mixes with the dampness of sweat. I linger by the door, arms crossed, trying to merge into the wall. This space is too personal, too raw. Too close to what I know is lurking behind the corner.

Madi and Xavi move to the centre of the room, exchanging pleasantries with the staff and players. Most are half-dressed but do not seem fazed by this interruption. Imara is pulled in a certain player's direction, naturally embedded in a huddle of people as they tell her about the game and she tells them about the times of her next big sets. I stay in my corner, a safe distance away.

Then, Xavi's voice rings out, louder than the rest of the chatter. "Alexia, over here!"

The sound of that name makes my chest tighten. My pulse quickens, the air suddenly feeling too thick. I force myself to look over, and there she is: fresh out of the shower, damp hair tucked behind her ears, a towel draped casually around her shoulders. She walks with purpose, confidence. And her gaze sweeps over our intrusion until it lands on me.

For a split second, her steps falter.

"This is Madina Whitmore-Madani, shareholder of the Chicago Red Stars," Xavi says, gesturing to my cousin, who extends a hand with slight smugness at the surprise poorly hidden on the captain's face. "Imara, who I'm told is a legend in Barcelona's nightlife."

Alexia smirks, shaking Imara's hand too. "Encantada otra vez."

"And this," Xavi says, turning to me, "is Anya Madani."

Something shifts in Alexia's expression – subtle, but unmistakable. Her polite smile wavers for just a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to piece together a puzzle.

"Anya," she repeats, her voice softer now. "Madani."

I hold her gaze. This is new information for her. This is something she hadn't known before.

I'm not sure how to feel, aware that it takes one glance at the Internet to find things out about me that weigh more than a headline. Then again, she must know how it feels already.

Xavi moves on, ushering Madi towards one of the coaches, but Alexia does not follow. She stays rooted in place, her eyes fixed on me, static in a sea of excited bustling.

"How are you?" she asks quietly, her tone low enough that only I can hear. I don't like that she speaks to me in English. It feels wrong. Exposing.

And it's such a simple question, but it hits me like a punch to the gut.

"I'm well." My reply is quick, sharp. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Her brow furrows, and I can tell two things: she doesn't believe me and she no longer thinks I'm from Colombia. She lets the latter go. "Because the last time I saw you, you..." She trails off, her voice catching.

I feel the memories creeping in, uninvited and unwelcome. The beach. The car. The warmth of her body against mine. The way she'd looked at me, touched me like she was putting me back together – the way she'd let me feel broken, let me feel like I needed it.

I'll admit that I should have expected it to go the way it had. Mónica had been emphatic about not suppressing the past, because the more it is hidden, the stronger its influence grows. It was suffocating, how easily I was no longer in that backseat but somewhere else entirely, and I had no mental escape. Maybe I ran from her because I could not run from it.

Alexia shifts closer, her voice gentle but insistent. "You left."

"I had to," I whisper, my throat tight.

There is the smallest flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, woven beneath determination and stoicism. "I'm sorry," she says, rather sincerely. "If I did anything–"

"You didn't," I cut her off, my voice sharper than intended. "It wasn't you."

She nods as though she understands but I am certain she doesn't. "Vale," she says, her tone careful. "Pero... are you okay now?"

That question is too vague, too open, for me to answer it. How does one manage to become 'okay'? What does it even look like?

Physically, I'm fine. Wounds will heal, nothing is broken. It's been a month since my examination in Aswan, meaning the more sensitive injuries – ones that did not need stories attached, but rather assumption and pity – are mostly fine. I'm fine.

I am being watched. Alexia's question hangs in the air still. Are you okay now?

It's not an answer I know how to give, but her patience unnerves me. She's quiet, deliberate in waiting for something real. I can't tell if it's curiosity or concern. I don't want to know. I don't want her to care.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally, voice even. It doesn't satisfy her, eyes searching mine, unreadable. She looks like she wants to push but is aware that it is not her place. "What about you?" I ask, tilting my head slightly. It shifts the tone forcefully, and we are set in something more casual. "You okay?"

She blinks, caught off guard, and for a split second, I think I see the faintest hint of a smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. "I think so," she says. Her voice is quiet but steady, laced with something she is not saying.

I let the silence linger, weighing my next move. There's a strange, tense familiarity between us now – a product of half-fucking someone and running away before anyone could orgasm. Her eyes seem dangerous, daring.

I take a breath and step a bit closer, allowing the small distance between us to disappear. Her brows lift slightly, surprised but not moving away.

"Give me your phone," I say, keeping my tone light, almost teasing.

Her eyes narrow. "Why?"

I shrug, sitting in my hip like this is the most normal interaction in the world. "Because this is awkward," I say, gesturing vaguely between us. "And if we're going to keep running into each other, we might as well make it less awkward."

Alexia studies me for a moment, then pulls her phone out of the pocket of her joggers without a word. The ease with which she does it is startling – no hesitation, no questioning look, just a calm acceptance. Maybe she has a lot of experience. Or maybe I'm just convincing.

She unlocks the device and hands it to me, her movements slow and precise, her expression not giving anything away.

The shift is her demeanour is peculiar and I am not quite expecting it. A moment ago, she was gentle, insistent, her voice layered with concern. Now, she's slipped into something cooler, more controlled, like a door has quietly been shut.

I take the phone from her, the faint heat of her palm lingering on the smooth surface. My fingers hover over the screen for a second too long as I glance at her, sort of awaiting a comment. She doesn't make one. Her arms fold over her chest, posture relaxed but gaze sharp.

"You're very trusting," I say, typing my name and new phone number into her contacts.

She arches an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Why would I not trust you? You don't sound like the type to steal phones."

I feign irritation. "That's a big assumption."

Her smirk deepens, eyes dropping briefly to the phone in my hand before returning to my face. "Maybe."

She sounds so unbothered that I can't help but feel slightly rattled. It's a deliberate switch, this aloofness of hers, and it throws me off balance. But it is not difficult to match, and it will cost me nothing to maintain.

"You know," I start, handing her phone back, "for someone who was so worried earlier, you're doing a brilliant job of pretending you don't care."

She's unwavering in her attitude but for a moment, something restrained flickers in her eyes. It seems she has stamped the fire of her curiosity out. For now. "Who says I'm pretending?"

I don't grant her a response. Instead, I watch as her thumb brushes over the screen of her phone. She doesn't say anything either, but the faint twitch of her lips tells me that whatever I've entered has satisfied her.

After a moment, she says, "I'll text you. Tonight."

It's not a question, not even a promise – it's a statement, and the simplicity of her nonchalance sends a jolt through me. I forgot that I could do stuff like this while I was in prison.

I nod.

Imara calls my name. I turn to leave.

Alexia looks smug, as though she has won a battle we hadn't even waged.

"Goodbye, Alexia," I say. Her eyes flicker, the faintest pause hanging between us, and I wonder if she's processing more than just me saying her name. It's thrown her, just for a moment, but she soon recovers.

"See you later, inglesa." 

notes: 

and so the casual relationship begins x 

now the story really starts