There's a grand piano in our hotel.

It sits unplayed as the days creep closer to our first match, stuck in the room used for our meetings. The shiny, black wood peeks out from underneath its quilted cover, and, if I were Jaimie, I'd have played it for hours on end already.

But, I'm not. Of course I was also forced to learn it, alongside the clarinet. Jaimie played the violin for a while, despite her protests. It's just that my sister was the chosen pianist for our annual performance with our cousins, and my skill in the instrument remained practised and taught, not felt and heard.

The notes stir in my fingers as I take a seat on the cushioned stool, nudging the heavy four legs backwards slightly to slide my feet onto the golden pedals. Initially, my instinct itches at me to tinkle out the scales and arpeggios of my childhood; rises and falls that I repeated over and over. Upon further thought, I recall the first few bars of the last piece I ever learnt. It was memorised hurriedly though incredibly well it seems, considering that I only had to perform it at one final recital before being allowed to never sit through a piano lesson again. I must have been about thirteen. I don't remember my mother being there.

With a timid uncertainty, I play the first line of Scarlatti's Sonata in D. The harmonies are odd and the trills take a moment to return to my muscles, but I get through what must have been the first page with relative ease.

It doesn't convey how I am feeling at all. I am not reminiscent. I have never been so focused on the future, if anything. On tomorrow, when we play Portugal; on what is blossoming between Alexia and me, fed by endless late-night conversations; on how different Barcelona is going to be next season.

Sighing, I draw my hands back from the black and white, resting them in my lap as I stare at the keys, trying to think of something else to play.

I think back to lockdown in London – trapped in an apartment with Scarlett, and not hating a second of it. She bought me a keyboard, claiming my lack of romanticism was going to be compensated by me serenading her regularly. Most of the time, I let her sit beside me on the stool, pressing at the higher keys and deciding that her tune was far better than anything I tried to show her. When she did listen – usually after irritating me enough to drive me to push her off the stool – she would hum along to the songs she knew. She wasn't as fond as the classical stuff I'd been taught. She liked watching me figure out chords, and, though she would never comment on it, she liked how I sang along quietly. Again, that is something Jaimie is better at. I have always harmonised.

I jump as my phone begins to ring, almost falling backwards onto the carpeted floor of the meeting room. Knowing who it is, I accept the call, preparing to let the Spanish wash over my head as I glide my fingers across the black keys, wondering if I remember any of the songs I once knew.

"Where are you?" asks Alexia curiously, her monologue interrupted and forgotten as she takes in the room, unfamiliar with it. We have FaceTimed enough for her to know what the interior of my hotel room looks like.

I shrug. "Some random place. There's a piano." I press down on middle C to prove my point, resting my phone on the music desk.

"You play the piano?"

She's intrigued further, pink hair falling around her face as she turns in her bed. She pushes it back behind her ears, though I know she will tie it up sooner or later. Alexia finds the colour distracting against the stark white of her pillows, and it reminds her of everything she doesn't want to think about. Her rebellion is something she is proud of but it is also stressful. Jorge Vilda knocks on her door every hour up to midnight.

"And the clarinet," I say, matter-of-factly. "I never really wanted to. My father was insistent that Jaimie and I excelled in all aspects of life. I studied Latin, too."

"Is that why you stare at my tattoos?" she teases, eyes shining in the glow of the bedside lamp.

"Usually, I am staring at you." She laughs. "But, yes, I suppose it could be that, too. Labor omnia vincit improbus: work conquers all. Virgil's Georgics. It suits you."

"You're clever. Do people know that?"

"A few." I think most people forget that I exist as a person outside of football. "I like languages. I like classics, too. I used to recite my grammar at training, or run two laps every time I forgot part of the text we were studying."

"I used to do my homework in the lesson because I would be playing football every minute that I could." And that is why she is the best footballer in the world. "Although, I do have a degree in business, so I guess I–"

The chords come to me and I push down, so caught up in the joy of remembrance that I accidentally interrupt her. "Sorry," I then mumble, deflating as my fingers fail to form the next one. "Go on. I don't have a degree. You win."

She waves me off. "It doesn't matter. Can you play something for me?" Momentarily, she lifts her head, neck craning off camera. She calls out to her manager, who has knocked on her door. I check the time, eyes widening slightly when I see that it is midnight. Vilda is on his final round, and I have not yet gone to sleep despite having a match tomorrow. "Sorry. He has been especially annoying today. We have not been recovering properly because of it."

"Three goals to none should satisfy him." She sighs, agreeing. I change the topic, feeling the edges of our conversation blacken with my hatred for the man and wanting to refrain from souring her mood. "What would you like me to play?"

"Something nice," she says. "What were you just playing?"

"It's not particularly fancy." It is not a classical piece like Scarlatti, but, rather, an easy song I heard when it first came out. Jill introduced me to it, I think – totally giddy and wanting me to feel it too. She made me learn it, but I did so when Scarlett was not home. I would sit at the keyboard with tears in my eyes, stewing in our argument, desperate to fill the silence left by her storming out.

"Fleur, I don't care. I don't mind."

I shift, my pyjama bottoms almost as comforting as the face on my screen. Alexia hadn't yet asked why I am where I am, which means she either does not care or she cares enough to have figured the reason out for herself. I hope for the latter, and then I let her encourage me gently in Spanish, coaxing me into playing for her. She is soft, but she holds the same level of command as she usually does, so intrinsically woven into her that it cannot disappear.

"Alright," I acquiesce. "Let me think of the words."

"Words?"

"I'm not that good at singing," I warn her in advance.

She scoffs. "You are a liar."

"Fine."

"Well, go on."

"I'm thinking."

My eyes run up and down the keys, drawing out patterns and movements. Singing while playing can be difficult. I want to impress her.

I draw in a deep breath, straightening my back.

It feels like diving head first into a cold ocean. Plunging myself under the waves, the shock reverberates through my muscles, and I try not to make it noticeable that I am proud of myself for knowing the actual accompaniment. My limbs move instinctively, knowing what to do, and I swim. And it's good.

I don't sign often, but, right now, it is the right thing to do.

I understand the words that fall from my lips. I relate to them. I smile as I think about how, if I am clear enough, Alexia will get the message.

When I look up, lips parted, breathless, Alexia is there. She has never been more present, it seems. I can almost feel the beat of her heart adjacent to my own, and her hot breath against my neck. She grins the minute I break out of my daze, and I reciprocate.

"I'll learn something in Spanish for you," I tell her, almost whispering.

"You don't need to. I understood that one perfectly."

"You find it way too easy to accept compliments."

She giggles. "Don't give them, then."

"Oh, you would hate that."

"I would. A lot," she agrees.

I lift the fallboard, bringing it down to cover the keys. It thuds against the wood. "I guess I'll have to keep them coming."

"What a shame."

"What a shame indeed."

notes: 

the song is called 'ur so pretty' by wasia project. it's NOT on the nose -- i just asked my pianist friend to help and that was the song she suggested

this is (incredibly) short and sweet but i just wanted to update cuz they are so cute and this was a better, nicer time skip than what i would've done otherwise

'amor vincit omnia' = love conquers all (lol i studied latin) 

also

i'm honestly bored and i want to talk to u guys so how have you been?

thanks for reading!!!