I return to Barcelona feeling confused.

Leila's words have had time to sink in, and, though I genuinely find it impossible to agree with the majority of the things she said, I begin to see some truth in a minority.

Alexia is often watched like a hawk, and it gets to her. She stays after training most days to practise perfecting perfection, enlisting the help of the goalkeepers who must sometimes really just want to go home. In the gym, she maintains an intensity for every exercise that others lack, especially when the clock has ticked down to the final minutes of the session. For Alexia, there is a price to pay.

It's annoyingly relatable, I will admit. The world is still eager to see the full extent of what I have to offer, hoping to be given a master-class in the Champions League final just over a month from now. Moving to Barcelona was important for my own development, but also for those who are waiting to call me the best player in the world. It is hard to win a Ballon d'Or with no crowd behind you. And it is hard to become great without suffering from the pressure it brings.

My next conversation with Emma sheds some light onto why I have never crumbled under the weight of the world's expectations.

I guess I have Papa to both thank and hate for that.

Emma talks me into letting myself acknowledge it all. So, in the safety of a controlled environment, she sits with me and we read through articles I would usually pay no mind to. It isn't very hard to find harsh critiques of my recent performance or adamant predictions for how my World Cup will transpire, and, for a moment, when I take in a deep breath and type 'Fleur de Voss vs Alexia Putellas' into the search bar, I feel as though my lungs are made of lead.

It is easy to overcome it, though. I am fine by the time the session ends.

We're halfway through the second training session of the day, but most of the team aren't feeling the fatigue in their muscles because they aren't here. I don't particularly feel like going on holiday with Jaimie at the moment because she is set on cycling every inch of Barcelona by the time she leaves, and I don't think I could cope with that elsewhere. The players who are in attendance are mostly from Barcelona B, invited to the session due to low numbers. It's nice to train without social obligations, and Talia is happy to make me practise my Spanish by talking to me about Feria de Córdoba. It sounds quite fun.

With barely any first team players to challenge us, the rondo is easy for both Alexia and me. Jonatan decides to start our midfield session early, bringing us onto another pitch and setting up cones for fitness training.

Everything starts slowly, practically creeping up on me.

At first, there is only silence and the occasional shout from Jonatan to keep the intensity high or sprint faster.

We move onto long passes, repeating the same angle over and over with the same mark to hit. It improves accuracy. There is a point where I see something in Alexia's technique that is preventing her from keeping the speed of the ball consistent while aiming for an incredibly tiny target. Jonatan must have noticed it too.

"Plant your foot properly." It slips out. I don't mean to help her.

"This is the ACL leg," Alexia replies, though her tone isn't as biting as I'd expected. She sounds like she genuinely wants me to tell her what to do to get better.

I swallow my gag. "You wouldn't be allowed to train if you couldn't use it. Plant your foot properly."

She does. My advice works.

Jonatan nods at me with approval, as if he is proud of me. I shake it off, instantly disliking the way Alexia stands on the ground as though she owns the Earth. "Gracias," Alexia mumbles as she walks past me, getting a drink while I do the same drill.

Later on, as we get into a 1-v-1, she repays her debt. Jonatan is timing how long we each hold possession until the other makes a successful tackle. I struggle to recover from her failed attempts, meaning that she can simply wear me down. Alexia suggests that I move my feet quicker, even if what I am going now is enough to bypass most defenders. Reluctantly, I incorporate a faster movement that makes it more difficult for her to time her tackle correctly. She clips my ankle, but I am too stunned by the fact that she was right to feel the sting of her studs.

"Better," Alexia comments as Jonatan tells us to switch.

"Thanks." She flashes me a brief smile, and we continue training.

━━━━━━━

Our next match is away against Real Sociedad.

I end up sharing a room with Aitana, who I realise I have never really had a proper conversation with alone. Due to her closeness with Mapi and Ingrid, we spend time together, but never enough to have bonded.

She's kind and funny, and she makes sure that she never imposes. Her shower coincides with when Jaimie calls me, though we both know I could just go into the hallway. The gesture is appreciated.

Aitana appears once more when I have hung up, dressed in matching pyjamas and looking like she wants to ask me a question. I stretch out on my bed, waiting for her to speak.

"Did you want to wear the number fourteen when you came to Barcelona?" she asks eventually, taking a seat at the foot of her own bed to brush her hair. I have the TV on in the background, flicked to an English movie channel that has been dubbed with the most irritating Spanish voices they could find. "I am a bit of a football nerd, and a fan." She chuckles. "Yeah, I'm a fan."

"Of me?" It's not often someone on this team says these kinds of things.

Nodding her head with growing confidence, she continues. "You wear the number fourteen. For Holland, for Chelsea, for Lyon. Well, at Ajax you wore seven, but still. Is it because of Johan Cruyff?"

She isn't the first to think that. "I'm glad that it's the same number he wore, but it's because I used to wear the number seven. It's a special number for me. It's the age I started playing football for a team. Seven wasn't available at Lyon, so I just doubled my luck and made it fourteen. That's why I don't mind having twenty-eight."

"Four times the luck," Aitana says with a grin. "I wear fourteen because it was available when I joined. It means nothing, really."

"Are you offering?" I question, intrigued by her genuine niceness. She's tooth-rottingly sweet. "You know, it really isn't a big deal to me. I wear the fourteen for my country, and if I ever go back to Ajax, I'll get it put into my contract."

"I am embarrassed because I wear your iconic number and you are who I aspire to play like." She's only a year younger than me. She doesn't need to aspire.

The fourteen is hardly iconic for me, but Aitana seems like this has been gnawing away at her since January. She turns to me, crossing her legs, finished with her hairbrush. "How about... if we win the Champions League this time, I'll steal your number for next season. Although it feels like you're setting me up for failure by halving my luck."

"Well, you are my competition," she jokes light-heartedly. As a club, this place is competitive. Players that aren't regular starters often fight for minutes, though Aitana was the midfield's crutch in the first half of the season when Alexia was on... crutches. When I came, and Alexia had reached full fitness again, Jonatan sacrificed exceptionally talented players. The Barcelona bench is spoiled for choice quite often. "Do you like playing on the right?"

I shrug, getting comfortable, enjoying the way our conversation is about a topic that is safe to discuss. She's very friendly. "It's better than putting me in defence. Alexia is perfect on the left, and she has been her longer. Her injury probably meant it was easier to keep her on the left, too, and I have a certain amount of game time written into my contract that wouldn't work if we both played the same position."

"Do you?" Most players get decent contracts without arguing, but I was lucky that I could afford to negotiate. Barcelona came to Chelsea with a sack of money, but they convinced me with agreements.

"Yes, it's called the 'Alexia Putellas Clause'. I have to be given equal opportunity on the basis that we are at the same level." It's under the assumption that I will win the Ballon d'Or this year. My chances are good, provided I do well in the World Cup. Aitana herself is also a contender. "I also have a 'No Cupra' clause. I don't like them."

"You have that expensive Audi. It is always next to Talia's car."

"Talia wanted a motivator to carry on working hard." She laughs at that. "No, I'm not joking. Though it is funny when they're side by side."

"Pina and her are really cute," she begins, and the glint in her eye tells me that she wants me to reveal everything that is going on between them. I shake my head, miming having my lips sealed. In truth, Talia is keeping it quiet from me. Something about complicated family stuff. "Okay, I will have to interrogate Patri instead. She is so bad at keeping secrets. We saw you and Alexia get into a car together, and Mapi knew about it the day after. They are having fun, too. Leila is in on it, all the way in Manchester."

Her eyes widen, hand cupping her mouth to stop herself from spilling any other confidential information.

I scoff to myself, happy to know I wasn't going crazy the other day, and that Leila was being strange. Aitana is most-likely unaware of the fact that we know each other, meaning she has accidentally revealed a lot more than she thinks she has. "And you, Aitana? Are you good at keeping secrets?"

She turns bright red. "Hòstia," she mutters, hand still over her mouth. My quiet laughter eventually coaxes her to remove it. "I am, I promise it to you."

"I believe you," I giggle. She gets up and sorts the last of her things out before crawling into her bed, settling under the sheets. I do the same. "Okay, do you want to know a secret?"

Once I tell her, she is eager to continue the conversation.

Ingrid is ecstatic when we come down to breakfast together the next morning, dragging us both to sit next to her. I frown when I note the absence of Mapi, who usually hangs by her girlfriend's side in case anyone needs a reminder of who gets to date her. "She's with Alexia. They're having a bit of an argument about the national team," the Norwegian explains when she realises I have noticed.

"Everyone is arguing about that," Aitana dismisses somewhat nervously. "Mapi and I... Well, she will be supporting me. Not Spain."

"You're going?" Ingrid confirms it for me with a nod, sparing Aitana, who occupies her mouth with a forkful of her frittata. "Don't worry. Everyone's team seems to have gone to shit. I want Sarina Weigman back, but she is using her talents for England."

"My manager is awful," Ingrid agrees as we both try to comfort the Spaniard. I pick apart my own frittata, taking the mushrooms out of it with a grimace. I'm not a fan of those. "Look, Tana. Mapi is passionate, but she is going to respect everyone's decision. Same with Pina. And Patri."

"Paños as well," I add. "Don't worry about it." Then, I turn to Ingrid. "So why is she arguing with Alexia?"

She rolls her eyes and Aitana does the same. I tend to separate Mapi from being Alexia's best friend in my head, so it makes sense that I have no idea about their friendship. "That is just how they are."

When Alexia and I both get subbed out of the game having scored a goal each, I decide to tell her that Jorge Vilda sounds like a prick. She laughs and agrees, taking her seat on the bench on one side of Talia. Laia moves over so that I have space to sit down on the other side. "You two are hilarious," Talia whispers in my ear as she laughs to herself. The punch that lands on her arm shuts her up pretty quickly.

notes: 

i fucking love aitana bonmatí. 

the brief manager slander may or may not have been a vent from how terrible half the national team managers are. like it's weird how many teams are having issues. (not england tho because #insarinawetrust)

also terrified for tomorrow's game but it is what it is

hòstia is catalan for fuck (i hope)

thanks for reading!!!!