Talia sits next to me on the plane to London. Ingrid stands in the aisle looking rather offended, but sees the seat next to Frido and gladly takes it, glancing at me before she puts her headphones in. I can see the question in her eyes, but I do not answer.

Before we boarded, Jonatan pulled me aside for a bizarre conversation. He asked me whether I still disliked Alexia. I said yes, though I tried to seem mature about it in case he benches me again. He reacted like he was pleased to hear that, and then patted me on the back and told me to get on the plane.

Thinking about the strange interaction once more, I fall into a silence that the twenty-year-old next to me finds impossibly boring. I wonder how talkative she would be if she could speak English fluently, because she manages to keep a conversation going with her broken use of the language now. She starts quizzing me about London, to which I answer with as little words as possible.

"What is your favourite shop?" she asks for the fifth time, dissatisfied with my previous answers.

"I told you that it was IKEA," I say, growing frustrated. We haven't even taken off yet. "IKEA is great, Talia. You should go, I will take you."

She shakes her head. "I already have the furniture." We've been over this before, too. Her apartment consists of a sofa and a table with three chairs. Her roommate spends more time in other people's beds, and is too lazy to buy anything else. "I need a bed, yes? I will buy on Amazon."

"I will take you to IKEA." She's only young. She'll learn. "Why are you not sitting next to your friends?" Her, Salma, and Vicky all know each other from the national youth system.

Talia looks at where they are sitting and grimaces. Interesting. "I want to be the greatest, like you. So I am learning from you."

"Well, let me teach you something." I beckon her to lean in. "Go to IKEA and buy a bed," I whisper in her ear. She laughs, loudly.

We get a few looks, namely a glare from Alexia. "You are too funny, Fleur."

I shrug, smirking. Alexia is still staring, which makes it better. Now that I seem to be fine, she has returned to her usual bitchiness, probably because she doesn't have to feel guilty about ruining my mental health or whatever. I'm on the mend! I bet I can absolutely demolish the standard amount of therapy someone needs. I'm known for fast recoveries.

"Yeah, whatever. We'll see who's playing a minute and who's not," I tease her. She rolls her eyes, and we settle into a steady conversation for the rest of the flight.

While we are in the air, I text Jaimie to see whether she has landed safely. Leah ruptured her ACL yesterday and is distraught, and Jaimie was planning to watch both legs of the Chelsea match anyway ("in case you have another panic attack, Flootz"). My sister says that all is well with her girlfriend for the time being, and confirms she will be attending tomorrow.

Talia takes up the rest of the flight by boring me to sleep, and so she has to nudge me awake when we arrive in London. Lucy and Keira are happy to be back in the country, but everyone else groans at the possible horrific weather. We're lucky as we disembark, though, and I have to undo a few more buttons on my shirt because I get too hot.

We get to the hotel with an hour to spare before heading to Stamford Bridge for a light training; we will have one tomorrow as well.

Jonatan looks nervous as he reads out the room assignments.

When he says my name, followed by Alexia's, I understand why.

The team collectively hold their breath, with Mapi and Ingrid both making their way towards Jonatan to argue with him. He shakes his head once, a very firm gesture, and they deflate. I look over to Alexia, who clenches her jaw and accepts the keycard that is handed to her with a brief 'gracias' and a glance at me to see if I am coming with her. I nod at Ingrid, who doesn't seem at all happy with our manager, and wheel my suitcase over to the lift. It's fine because we're all on the same floor.

Alexia opens the door to the room on the second try after putting the key in the wrong way round the first time, though I vow to not provoke her and focus on the game tomorrow instead. She nods to the beds, and I point to the one furthest from the door. We stay in silence while we wait out the time we have before we leave.

"I'm going to change," I announce. Alexia looks up from her phone, sitting up on her bed. "Are you going to watch?" She rolls her eyes and takes her clothes to the bathroom, presumably to change too.

I stick with Ingrid and Frido for the light training we do, especially since Talia has gotten fed up with speaking English for today and has returned to her Spanish friends. I am told that they sometimes don't understand a word she says because she speaks too fast and with an accent that they aren't used to.

"You can swap rooms with Mapi, you know," Ingrid whispers as we get on the bus to take us to the hotel. "She's with Aitana. You're friends with Aitana." I'm not, but we aren't enemies. "Before an important match, as well." She shakes her head, sending a death glare to the back of Jonatan's head.

"It's fine," I say, leaning my head on her shoulder when we sit down. "I'm preoccupied with the thought of playing them. It will be nice to see Sam and Erin again."

"Guro told me that they are all excited to see you." It's a bit of a punch to the gut, but she means well by it.

We both avoid each other the next day, whittling down the time until we can be as far away as possible from each other.

The evening of the 21st, for me, is spent with Talia in her room, accompanied by Keira. Out of all of us in there, it is the Spanish girl who wants to watch English movies, saying that playing in England is a dream of hers. Her school taught her barely anything, and so she confesses to teaching herself. It's quite impressive, really. Keira and I put the subtitles on for her when she asks, for the third time, who Bridget Jones is. Scarlett used to love those movies.

Alexia and I happen to have the same idea to go to bed early in preparation for tomorrow. It's nine o'clock when I get to my room, walking into Alexia playing music as she showers. The sound of the water hisses to a halt and the door opens. She's in sweats, hair wet.

I hate her. I hate how she looks so good all the fucking time.

"Hola," she says, brows furrowing as she wonders why I'm here. "You sleep now?"

I nod, grabbing my own things so that I can shower too. She steps out of my way with a chuckle, saying something about hot and cold in Spanish. Maybe she is testing how much I'd understand if she spoke about me to someone on the phone. There is always Catalan for her, and, of course, Dutch for me. I'm so going to call Jaimie and talk about her.

Putting my sister on speaker while I wash my face is a bad idea, because she won't shut the fuck up. Her constant chatter is like a podcast to listen to while I pull on a matching pair of sweats to Alexia's – they're team-issued and not a choice.

I get into bed, turning off the light and saying goodbye to Jaimie all by half past nine. Alexia rolls over next to me, sighing.

I do the same.

She clicks her tongue, opening her phone. The blue light gives the room an unnatural glow.

I squeeze my eyes shut, holding my breath, conscious of the fact that there is a person in the next bed. It's uncomfortable and doesn't last long. I adjust my pillows.

She places her phone on the bedside table. The vibration of it being plugged into a charger breaks the silence. I sit up, annoyed, but see no reason in starting an argument.

I flop back down, hitting the mattress with a rustle that makes her sit up and glare at me.

"What?" I question, wondering why she is still looking. I check the time. An hour has passed and I still can't sleep. Neither can Alexia.

"I cannot sleep."

"I know."

"Tengo sed," she complains, suggesting something. It's not clear what just yet. "Do you?"

I run my tongue over my lips, feeling them start to crack. To be fair, there is a certain dryness to the back of my throat that my swallowing hasn't seemed to fix. The glass of water beside me is empty, too.

"Sí," I give in. "There is a bar. Shall we go?"

Obviously, we are not going to drink alcohol, but I could kill for one of the English J2Os right now. Scarlett introduced me to them for nights spent at pubs with games the next day. They are perfect.

"No alcohol," Alexia says firmly, but I can hear her move around in her bed, getting up. "And we come back soon."

I agree, tying my hair up into a bun, and rummaging through my open suitcase to find my sliders. She waits at the door, arms folded over her chest. Alexia Putellas lives to play well, but I suppose she has resigned to the idea of not getting any sleep in such a tense environment.

Once sorted, I walk past her, going out into the quiet hallway. I look back and tell her to hurry up, simply because I am curious to see how much more clenched her jaw can get. Answer: a lot.

The hotel bar is devoid of people. Why wouldn't it be? It's 10.45pm in a hotel full of a football team – most people are asleep or, at least, trying.

With Alexia and I in our matching Barcelona sweats, it does not take the sole bartender long to piece together who we are. She gasps in surprise, and I fear she will drop the glass she is drying with a white tea towel. I order us two of the raspberry J20s, though Alexia does not protest.

I pull out the bar stool, its legs screeching against the wooden floor, and take a seat. Alexia assesses her options; here, a table, or she could go back to the room. Her eyes are analytical, scanning her surroundings, evaluating me. I try to ignore her, pouring my drink into my glass.

"What is it?" She holds up the bottle, turning it around so she can read the label. I'm sure those words mean nothing to her. "J-2-O. Juice?"

"Más o menos," I reply. She sits next to me, legs brushing mine as she slides into the gap between our stools. I wait for her to say something else; criticise the drink, claim that I am ruining our chances of winning tomorrow. Anything other than the silence. It is unbearable.

The bottle pressed to her lips, she takes a swig. A smile turns up the corner of her mouth, but quickly disappears as she angles her body to face me, shoulders hunched over as if she is worried I will punch her. "Why did you leave Chelsea?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested. "You liked it there, no?"

"It's complicated." She shrugs. My answer does not satisfy her. "It was good for a while," I try again, "but–"

"You do not want 'good'. You want the best." Her smirk might as well be red and blue. "We are the best."

"We?"

"You are second, but to me. It is very good." Of course. Who is Alexia Putellas without the arrogance she reserves solely to taunt me? "You were not happy about the Balón de Oro. You thought you should win it?"

I think back to that night.

Paris hosted the best footballers in the game, all of us hoping to win. I have been nominated for a lot of awards, and the feeling of losing and winning are both very familiar. There are times when I look at my name on the list and know that I will need to be able to walk in my heels, and there are times when it is clear I am not going to get it.

The Ballon d'Or was like that. I knew I was not going to win it. That is when I knew I had to leave Chelsea. It was a compliment to come second, but it was also a reality check. I wasn't going to get any further at Chelsea. I would not become the best in the world at Chelsea. I had to leave the club.

"No, I realised I would never win it if I stayed." My honesty catches her off guard.

"And here? You are going to win it?"

I take a sip of my drink, the sharp tang sticking to the back of my throat. "Do you not think I can?" It is not entirely serious, but she does not hear the teasing in my tone.

"I think that it is yours already," she admits, pouring the remaining half of her bottle into the glass now. The sound of the liquid hitting the ice, knocking it against the glass, fills the silence until Alexia translates what she is going to say next. "You are nervous for tomorrow?"

"It will be weird that she isn't there." I don't mean to bring up Scarlett, but Alexia looks intrigued and sets her glass down, signalling for me to continue. "She loved Champions League nights. It was her dream to win it, but she wanted to do that with Chelsea."

"You do not care where you play?"

I shrug. "If Ajax were an actual option, I'd play there and never leave. It would be like you and Barcelona. Unfortunately, it's not, and so I make do with what I have. I play at clubs for my career, not my heart."

"I play for my heart."

"I play because it gives my legs something to do." She raises her eyebrows, asking whether I am joking. "I love football, Alexia. Recently, I have loved it less."

"What about the Balón de Oro?" It's almost as if she wants me to do well. "You are grieving, no?" My body stiffens. I don't like how Alexia knows. It feels wrong. "Soy tu capitana, Fleur," she offers in explanation. "They speak to me when a player does not come to training."

Mind in a frenzy at the thought of her reading a report on my mental health or being told that I'm struggling makes me feel uncomfortable. Embarrassed. "She wasn't my girlfriend," I blurt, panicking. "We broke up the morning of the game, but then she died so it was a bit redundant. And then I found out she was going to propose, so I had a moment. I thought I loved her; I thought she was my person. It feels like breaking up with her was the wrong decision if she had a ring–"

"Before a match is crazy." She puts a stop to my rambling. "Life is complicated."

"Is that a Spanish thing to say?" I question, remembering how Talia's response was exactly the same. "No matter how fucked up a situation is, you can fix it with a 'life is complicated'."

"No, but you can breathe." I take in a deep breath as she has another sip of her drink. "I like the J-2-O." She has moved closer. I can smell her shampoo, see the soft indents of her skin. Her eyes look greener in the light of the hotel bar, but the flecks of brown do their best to keep them dark. "Breathe, Fleur."

She looks at my lips.

I remember what it feels like for her to kiss me. I crave it.

My skin prickles as I lean in, though my body is anticipating being set alight. This won't mean anything. It cannot mean anything.

"Why do you care if I don't?" I whisper. It feels wrong to be loud. I don't want this moment to end. "What is it that makes you so invested in my life, Alexia?"

"I..." She falters. Her voice seems to hitch in her throat. Her eyes shut, face so close to mine that I can feel the heat radiating off her. I miss the brown and the green, willing her to look at me again. She pulls back suddenly. "I need to go."

She walks away, leaving me breathless and humiliated in an empty bar. I feel like an idiot.

notes: 

lol x

woohoo barca won the champions league 🎉🎉

the spanish translate ballon d'or (ltr no one else does) which is balón de oro 

tengo sed = i'm thirsty 

thanks for reading!!