The anticipation of the World Cup final shatters Sydney, kicking the city when it's down, rubbing Australia's lack of medal right in its face.

England plays Spain tonight, and I have been forced into lunch with Leah Williamson.

My sister's girlfriend just happened to be in the country, and really wasn't intending to go, thinking that the tickets would be sold out. I told her she was being stupid – much like she had a month ago the night I almost fucked it up with Alexia (and then, funnily enough, fucked Alexia) – and that the captain would always have tickets available to them. She tries to drag me into the English friends and family section with her, but she is unable to, and so the lunch is a compromise.

The restaurant is quietly buzzing, and thrilled with the presence of two footballers, though we are tucked into the back corner in the hope that no one seeks to disturb us. Leah's leg is bouncing up and down, and has been since we sat down. I am nervous, but not crushed under the investment that she has in this. You'd think she'd bet her entire life savings on this match.

"Been recovering?" she asks despite her jittering, peering at the menu with disgust until her eyes fall on what I presume is the section for children. Jaimie warned me. "Sucks getting knocked out. Did Putellas make it up to you?"

I place my own menu down so that she can see the glare I am giving her. "No. It was a horrible night, and... Just no. You're my sister's girlfriend."

"Nah, but you're like the younger sister I never had," she teases, kicking me under the table. I can't retaliate because I can't remember which ACL she tore, and it's not fair. "And Jaimie may or may not have instructed me to make sure you're not about to jump off a cliff. And I want to know about Alexia Putellas because I'm the reason you got together and therefore should be kept informed."

"You know, you're only two months older than me."

"But so, so, so much more mature."

"Just because I don't know about the disgusting details of your relationship, doesn't mean I don't suspect there weren't some stupid moments from both of you. God knows it's possible." She rolls her eyes and calls over the waitress. I mirror her actions when she orders chicken nuggets and chips, and I get a burger for myself (it's the off-season now).

"But, seriously, how are you? Ever since Viv's injury, everyone knows your country's been counting on you." I'm used to sharing the load with our top goalscorer. I'm also used to feeding her goals, not having to score them myself.

"I'm bored of that question," I answer, honestly. "I think I've finally caught up on sleep, though, so maybe losing has not been that bad. I'm also terrified for Alexia."

She winks. "Me too, but I think for different reasons."

This starts a gentle argument about who is going to win. Leah, ever passionate about her nation, is ready to stand on her chair and preach the score she is sure will have them lifting their second major trophy in two years. She even uses Jaimie against me, showing me a picture of her in an England scarf all the way from Ohio.

From playing with most of the Spanish team, I have a reasonable counter to Leah's bias, but I am more concerned with the way Leah is prodding at how easily they will defend Alexia to notice the trap I am being led into.

It snaps shut when I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair with a huff.

Leah is delighted. Not only have I quit the debate, but she has irritated me enough to get a blush out of me. "I win," she giggles, and I decide she is just as annoying as my sister and that they deserve each other. "You've got such a big, fat crush on Alexia Putellas."

"Keep your voice down," I hiss, not feeling the most pleased.

"You're soooooo in-love."

"I hope Jaimie breaks up with you."

She laughs. "We'll see after she moves in. Might be her downfall."

"I don't blame her. I bet your doorbell sings that god awful–"

"North London forever," she interrupts with a booming voice. I cringe as people turn towards us to see why exactly she is singing. "Whatever the weather! – I could go on."

"Please don't."

Thankfully, she hears my plea.

We spend the rest of the day together, but we separate when it is time to go to the stadium. She heads into England's friends and family section, and I call Frido to see where she is. Under the guise of watching all the Barça girls, I've wrangled my own ticket (much to Alexia's displeasure, who wanted me to attend in her shirt using her ticket), and Frido is happily attending. She throws me a red jersey to put on when she finds me in the crowd.

"Whose is it?" I ask before checking the dorsal number.

"Mariona's," she answers with a smirk. "Not who you hoped for?"

"No, this is perfect," I quickly say. Part of me wants Alexia to find out. It's deserved after reconnecting with her ex-girlfriend the entire tournament. "Do you want a beer? I'm going to get a drink before the match starts."

"Yeah, please."

I take a deep breath and stand up among the sea of Spaniards, easily filtering out their chatter despite my understanding of the language having improved greatly since January. Most don't seem surprised to see me nor Frido, though Irene's wife does raise her eyebrows at the name I'm wearing as though she is expecting another to be splayed across my back.

Returning from the bar with two pints in hand, I take my seat once more. A niggle in the back of my mind winces at where I am. Two years ago, I'd have pictured this final in different colours, supporting the other side. If I am lucky, no one will realise that I am here.

━━━━━━━

They win.

Of course they win. How can a team so brilliant not?

Frido and I jump up in our seats when the final whistle blows, but the surge of the crowd is the opposite to the way the Spanish players all fall to their ground. The battle has been fought, and they are victorious.

Alexia ends up at the bottom of a very large pile of bodies.

Selfishly, part of me worries about the Ballon d'Or. The wound of our defeat is sore, and it aches when the success of my club teammates has now been amplified by them winning the World Cup. There is only so much I can do.

But I ignore my nervousness, swallowing it back as our section jumps for joy – pride and love exuding from those around me in a way that is so overpowering that I feel it in equal amounts.

"Are you crying?" Frido asks with wide eyes, sitting us down amongst the celebrations. We are going to wait until after the medal ceremony. I've been told that I'm probably going to be given the silver ball. It's a little bit of a slap in the face – I'd rather not win anything.

"No," I dismiss, pressing my knuckles firmly into my eyes until the burning subsides and I can see spots when I open them again. "I'm just near my period." She's not convinced, but she questions me no further.

"I feel bad for Lucy." We watch her implode. "Oh! Look, Alexia and Jenni have swapped shirts."

"How wonderful."

━━━━━━━

Three hours later, I meet Alexia at her hotel, escaping from Frido's company with the excuse that I have an early flight to London tomorrow. I do, so it is not a lie.

The building, from the outside, seems unsuspecting, but I walk into a full lobby with open doors to a reception room filled with joy. Music pounds out of speakers, and there are bodies pressed together in prideful hugs and drunken dancing.

Aitana sees me first, voice hoarse as she shouts my name. I smile at her, albeit a little awkwardly, and pretend to not hear her invitation to join in, instead heading towards the shiny doors of the lift. As discreetly as possible, Alexia has pressed herself into the corner while she waits for me, and we are en route to her hotel room before any words can be exchanged between us.

Then, only a few are.

"Te he echado de menos," she mutters into my mouth, pressing me against the back of the door to her room.

I let my head rest against the cold wood as her lips trail down my jaw. "I'm so proud of you," I say into the dimly lit room, words skimming the top of the pink head buried in my neck. "Mi campeona."

Her mouth becomes wondrous, and she loses her grip on reality for a moment. "We fucking won."

"I... I–" My hands grip the red material of her jersey, fingers pressing into her shoulders. She bites down on my neck, tongue quickly smoothing over the sharp pain. I push her away, faced with a name I do not want to see.

"¿Qué pasa?"

I take off my own shirt, hoping she follows suit, but she is drawn to what I have revealed and is more eager to unclasp my bra than realise what she is wearing.

I push her away again, and she whines in frustration. My hand splays across her chest, covering the front of the jersey underneath the weight of the gold medal, and I am too embarrassed to say it out loud but it dawns on her with an irritating smugness that has her gripping my thighs, hoisting me up, and dropping me onto the mattress of her king-sized bed. Her medal hangs in front of me as she straddles my waist, and she swallows my surprised giggle with a passionate, deserving kiss that demands so much more than the hour we have together will allow.

She moans as she tears away my bra, and her thighs squeeze my hips tightly so that I cannot flip her onto her back. "You're so beautiful," she whispers into my ear as her hand slides up my stomach, nails scratching the ridges of my abs, fingers wide as her palms cover my breasts like they are the best award she has ever been given.

"I'm so wet," I tell her.

Her eyes squeeze shut, and she is quick to make use of the short time we have.

I don't know how it happens, but her gold medal sits on top of my chest as I relax in the mess of sheets, waiting for her to come out of the bathroom and simultaneously wanting her to stay in there forever so that this night won't end.

My chest rises and falls, meeting the gold each time, bringing it up. The metal has warmed over the course of the hour, and I let my eyes close, exhausted and not fueled by the same adrenaline running through her veins.

The click of her phone's camera rouses me.

I crane my neck upwards, weary vision met with the sight of her grin. She has pulled on clothes she can travel in, and has promised me that the jersey will be returned to its rightful owner, but I know that the tracksuit only serves to cover the red lines I have dug into her back. The crescents of my nails – uncut due to our separation, perhaps – have left little marks in her shoulders, her hips, the soft flesh of her thighs. Maybe I wear a similar smugness.

Then, I remember what she has just done, and harden my adoring gaze.

"What?" She shrugs, dropping the phone onto the mattress and leaning over me, fingers caressing my cheek before her grip firms on my jaw. Her lips pucker and I lean into the chaste kiss. "You're too sexy. I couldn't resist."

"Don't let anyone look through your camera roll," I warn through a gasp. She kisses me again, this time with a bit more insistence. I open myself up to her once more, deciding that I am not going to be this pliable next time (but she has just won the World Cup, so it's fine right now). "Unless Jenni is looking over your shoulder. Then you can show her–"

She chuckles. "Fleur, jealousy is not a good look on you."

I beg to differ, but I don't voice my disagreement, instead pushing her top upwards to expose her skin. Her stomach sports a bruise or two, but she does not seem to mind. "You have to go," I then tell her, just as she keens into my touch. "You're going to miss your flight. Spain will leave without their queen."

"One day," she husks into my ear, "there is not going to be a flight to catch, and I am going to be able to fuck you into the mattress."

"But that day is not today," I reply, accustomed to the shiver she sends through me.

Her lips turn into a pout. "It's not fair."

"I'll see you in Barcelona."

"I am going to miss you."

I sigh. "Adiós, campeona." She pulls at the ribbon of the medal gently, removing it from my bowed head, and stuffing it into her pocket. Her hand, a lot more sensible than it was a minute ago, grasps mine and tugs me upright. I know I'm going to be left to sort out the hotel room, but it is worth it.

"Adéu," she says decidedly, as though she is forcing her feet to carry herself away from me. She stands with one hand on the door and the other by her side with great deflation. "See you soon?"

"Of course."

She lets go of the door handle with a surge of hope. "How soon?"

"Ale, your flight," I remind her.

"I don't want to go."

"I know."

"I want you to come with me."

"I can't."

I really need to get to London. There are things I need to do.

She frowns. "Why not?"

"I have a meeting with Emma Hayes."

And her face falls with the expectation of the worst, but there is no time for me to explain because Aitana has caught us from the other side of the door, and has commanded her captain to leave at once before Jorge Vilda finds me in one of 'his' rooms.

notes:

(in a sing-song voice) i hate this!

sorry if i tricked u into thinking there was smut in this one i just really could not be bothered to write it x

oh and um.

sorry for the ending

but hey ho they survive they prosper they are the epitome of 'one step forwards five hundred steps back'

thanks for reading -- here's my compensation for my little break recently!!!

OH WAIT AND BALLON D'OR RANT

WHY WAS IT SO FUCKING BORING TO WATCH?? like at least i could do other shit -- i can't imagine how dead it would be to sit in the front row and have to suffer through waffling from everyone to grace the stage

also love that aitana won but i mean haaland should've won too (and this is coming from a man u fan)

AND why is the women's so early and such a secondary event?? i feel like they would actually benefit a lot by making the women's just as suspenseful as the men's because there is so much potential to capitalise on a new demographic (i mean, how many other big events are all ur fav women's footballers attending yk?? like the red carpet looks themselves could generate some cash if they actually thought abt it)

but oh well

at least i got to watch a shitty live performance of that one song from tiktok that everyone uses for their holiday compilations!!