The international break does nothing to distract me from the impending date of the Ballon d'Or.

I have interviews galore in the Dutch camp, and we are glad to comfortably beat Scotland. My goal and assist does not make me feel any more relaxed about the award, or, rather, the possibility of not getting it.

Our own cameras follow me around, collecting footage for what is anticipated to be the most important segment of the documentary. We make it to Paris the night before, and they do not stop recording, even on the flight.

Jaimie disregards the environment entirely and flies in from Cancún without me needing to ask. It becomes apparent that someone has already gone ahead and arranged everything, because I find Papa in the hotel lobby and... my mother there, too.

The pressure only builds up, and I get no sleep that night.

The morning of the ceremony, I am woken up by a firm knock on my door. "Flootz," says Jaimie's unmistakable voice, croaking from the exhaustion of her flight, no doubt. She played her first match yesterday, and she plays the next tomorrow. She will be here for the ceremony, and then head straight to the airport to make it back in time to win the WTA Finals and finish her season on a high. Or so she has declared. "Let me in."

I meet her demand, dragging myself out of bed and opening the door. She barrels inside, a warm hand latching onto my own, tugging me right back to the mattress.

Jaimie's arms wrap around me protectively, and, for the briefest of moments, I am surrounded by an impenetrable force field and so very sure that nothing will ever hurt me. How could it, when Jaimie's right here? She kisses the top of my head once, twice, and then a third time, and I ask her what all of this is about.

"Am I not allowed to love you?" she replies drily, squeezing me tighter until I begin to squirm and beg for oxygen. "You look like you are the one who has just been on a ten hour flight. I'm guessing you haven't slept. Did the sight of Mumma and Papa give you nightmares?"

"God, it really was a jumpscare," I agree, laughing.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I thought it would be a good surprise."

"So you are the one who organised everything?"

"I may have persuaded Alexia Putellas to use her Barcelona contacts and... help me out. You've now got special dispensation. No Barcelona press for you unless you want it, and that means I get to micromanage the whole thing, so I've sorted your dress, my dress, and Mumma's dress. We are going as a family." I raise my eyebrows, but she can't see that from this angle. "We are going as a family because that is what we are, and we are all here to support you. Because we love you."

She kisses my hair again.

"And because we are very proud of you, Flootz."

"Jaimie, stop it," I grumble, but I don't really mean it. There are tears in my ears and I let Jaimie pull me in whichever direction she wants to.

"No big tears yet though, because we are meeting our parents in the café opposite this place for breakfast." She releases me and bounces onto her feet, exerting the energy she somehow still has in a very in-my-face manner. "Hurry up, Flootz. We can't leave them alone together for too long!"

So I hurry up, and I obey her, and I let my father say his monologue about success and hard work. Mumma pulls me aside when we leave, the four of us bundling out in a flurry of Dutch (and English) that the Parisians frown at, tugging me to the left of our route back to the hotel so that we are far away from Papa and Jaimie's conversation about stupid things only they are invested in.

I notice, for the first time, that Jaimie has picked up a lot of our mother's traits, and that her strong grip is one of them. When Mumma releases my hand, I try not to grimace. She mistakes my pathetic joints being crushed for distaste, assuming I don't want to talk to her. "I don't want you to be surprised later on, especially with how important tonight is going to be, so I wanted to... Well, I'm sure Jai told you that I've been over here for a week or so already."

"Barely." She raises her eyebrows, freshly styled hair blowing outwards in the wind. Mum always looks put-together and beautiful, just like Jaimie. "But, yeah, she mentioned it."

"Alright," she says with a nod, "at least you know. I haven't been here alone, as you can imagine, and today is obviously not the right time, but I thought it would be nice if I introduced you and Owen to each other?"

"Who is Owen?"

I am pretty sure I know the answer, but I want to hear her say it.

Her sigh is reluctant and exasperated, as if she thinks I am being difficult. "Owen is my partner. He is really looking forward to meeting you, and, again, not today, but another time."

"Mum." It comes off a bit whinier than I intended. "Mum, I'm really busy. If I win, I'll be even busier. I fly to Glasgow late tonight; we've got important matches coming up; and I'm, like, in a new relationship that I want to focus on–"

"You and Alexia are dating?"

"Yeah."

"For how long?"

I groan. "It doesn't matter. I'm just... swamped with stuff, and, honestly, I don't want to meet Owen."

"Fleur, you are going to meet Owen." Her voice forces me to look her in the eyes, its tone firm and motherly and something I don't hear often. "You are going to meet Owen, and you are going to introduce yourself as 'Fleur de Voss, Ballon d'Or', but, by God, will you be nice and polite and seem like I raised you to not be feral." I am close to telling her that she did not raise me, but I hold it back when I catch what she has said.

"You think I'm going to win?" I ask with a smile, trying my best to forget her orders to focus on maybe not resenting her to the extent I do.

"When I won a race, I knew it was going to happen. A real winner is one who is so painstakingly obvious that they have no choice but to earn the prize."

"I don't know, there have been some pretty good–"

"Darling, you are going to win."

━━━━━━━

The cameras flash as though they are hungry sharks that haven't been fed for years, though I attribute a lot of their attention to the fact that the four of us have stepped onto the carpet with half the party being legends in their respective sport. Papa and I seem very unaccomplished next to a world-record holder and the WTA's global number one.

My dress is tight, black, and has an almost criminal neckline. Jaimie says that footballers don't show enough skin sometimes, claiming that we should be forced to play at least one match in tiny tennis skirts. Her joke, although crass, is about attracting more male spectators. I tell her to shove it where the sun does not shine, but she catches me laughing anyway.

Following my sister's advice, I switched my phone off while we were getting ready. Our camera crew has captured every possible moment there is to see, and we made it to Barcelona's cocktails pre-red carpet so I have already featured on the club's story, but, aside from what is necessary, the world is now faced with an MIA Fleur de Voss. Alexia must be miserable about it, but I will make it up to her when the international break is over.

The Barcelona delegate is in front of us on the carpet, so most of my teammates are stuck waiting for me while the cameras get my family to pose and smile and answer their mildly-invasive questions, but soon a male footballer appears and they lose interest. We are allowed to move on.

It's Frido that makes the first comment, something whispered right into my ear.

I tell her not to jinx it.

I tell all of them to stop predicting the results.

It's hard to ignore the bubbling in my stomach, though.

My fingers feel detached, my feet numb, and my stomach as though it is floating into space.

Jaimie's hand stills my bouncing leg close to fifty times as the tension builds and builds and builds.

There are awards that I don't care about.

Jaimie is asked last-minute to read something out – they need a sportswoman (diversity quota), they hadn't realised.

She messes with me. She reads slowly.

They periodically update us on the whereabouts of the Ballon d"ors; where in Paris they currently are.

The whole time, my mind is racing, like many others. Who is going to win, and have I worked hard enough for that to be me?

Have I sacrificed enough?

Have I trained, have I bled, have I sweat, and cried, and poured my heart into the game?

Am I worthy? Do I fit the mould of my predecessors? Should I be allowed to hold what Alexia did, what Ada did?

Will tonight be the first time a Dutch person has lifted this trophy since before I was born?

More importantly, will that be me?

I sigh as the ceremony begins to drag on a bit too much. My nerves are weighing me down and I can't really breathe, but the small huff of air is enough to make my sister, who has recently returned from backstage, laugh and wave to the camera pointing at us, giving me a soft prod in my stomach to make me look alive again.

The bronze Barcelona has brought me pales as I realise that there are two minutes before I find out.

I begin to countdown in my head, never losing focus, never missing a second.

And, then:

Three.

Two.

One.

The envelope is in Rafael Nadal's hands.

Could he open it any slower?

I want to close my eyes, or cover my ears, but Jaimie is there again, making her presence known, placing her hand on my knee and squeezing tightly as though we are both about to drop into something we have no idea how to handle.

He reads out the name of the award.

I roll my eyes. We all fucking know that already.

He reads on.

His face changes, and he smiles.

I've met him once or twice, mainly because he knows my sister and she's, well, my sister.

I think about what I would do if I lost again. I lost last year.

I moved to Barcelona because I wasn't going to win at Chelsea, but if I don't win now, then maybe I am just not made to–

Oh.

Everyone is clapping, cheering even. And it is all for me.

I have won the Ballon d'Or. I have won the...

"God, let's not wait for it to rust," murmurs Jaimie, her voice soft in my ear and calmer than I expected it to sound. I blink a few times, trying to remind myself that I am here, I am alive, and– Fuck me. I've actually won?

This is a big, big deal.

I think it would be ironic if I tripped over when receiving an award for being the best footballer this season. I keep myself upright.

The stage is more elevated than I thought it would be, and I can see the entire audience from where I am standing. I know my eyes are wide, I know my lips are parted in shock.

I sort of register the French being spoken, picking out that, yes, they are talking to me, but I simply stare at them listlessly and hold onto the podium I am standing behind for dear life.

"Fleur," one of the hosts is laughing, but their voices have morphed into one, "Fleur, nous allons maintenant vous apporter votre Ballon d'Or."

It's handed to me, brilliant gold right under my nose, a shining ball that maybe I have valued too much. But now is not the time to evaluate my priorities.

Right now, right now is very strange to live through.

I have worked so hard to earn this that it weighs nothing in comparison to what I have trained with. Carrying it around Paris would not tire me, because that is the woman I have had to become to have my name inscribed into history.

And I am the first Dutch woman to win it! I'm the first Dutch person to win it this century, too, and now Ajax is going to come knocking on my door and I am going to have to promise them to...

Jaimie is frantically mouthing at me to make my speech.

I remember that I am still on the stage, still in front of all these people. They may want to hear what I have to say, I can guess that quite a few people don't.

My speech is pre-written.

I try to recall it.

It starts in Dutch, of course. "Ik ben diep vereerd en nederig om vandaag voor u te staan als ontvanger van de Ballon d'Or Féminin. Dit moment is een getuigenis van de toewijding, passie en onwankelbare steun van ontelbare personen die deel hebben uitgemaakt van mijn reis. Ik wil mijn oprechte dankbaarheid aan hen allen uitspreken.

"Dank aan mijn vader voor de introductie tot dit alles, en mijn moeder voor de sportieve genen. Bedankt, Johan Cruyff, voor het zijn van onze god. Mijn oudere zus Jaimie, omdat zij degene is die me optilt als ik val, die het licht in het donker voor me is – die pure en vriendelijk is, en me heeft geleerd hoe een winnaar te zijn." They are crying. My parents are crying with pride for me. I feel the grin spread across my lips before breathing in deeply and switching over to something that I know needs to be said. "Gracias a Alexia, por ser un desafío y alguien a vencer." She'll be watching. I see Mapi smirk at me from her seat in the front row. 

"And to my coaches and teammates, past and present: you have been my pillars of inspiration, pushing me to be the best version of myself. There is not one of you who has failed to teach me something that has not added to the person I am today.

"Je tiens également à exprimer ma gratitude envers les organisateurs du Ballon d'Or et tous ceux qui ont voté pour moi. Votre soutien est un immense honneur, et je m'engage à utiliser cette tribune pour plaider en faveur d'un changement positif dans le monde du football féminin et au-delà."

I catch a few surprised expressions. It's very pleasing.

I prepare myself for the end of my speech, something I know will only start a new journey.

"I'd like to dedicate this award to all the women who have paved the way for us, to all the girls who dream big, and the future of women's football. We have come a long way, but there is still much more to achieve. Let's continue to strive for equality, respect, and recognition in women's sports. We are here, we are playing, and we must not stop."

There is more clapping, more cheering.

I walk off the stage as Fleur de Voss, winner of the Ballon d'Or. 

Fucking finally.

notes: 

sixtieth chapter so here is where it all falls into place

my baby deserved this one x

here's the english translation of her speech 

I am deeply honoured and humbled to stand before you today as the recipient of the Ballon d'Or Féminin. This moment is a testament to the dedication, passion, and unwavering support of countless individuals who have been a part of my journey. I'd like to express my heartfelt gratitude to all of them.

Thank you to my father for the introduction to it all, and my mother for the sporting genetics. Thanks Johan Cruyff, for being our god. My older sister, Jaimie, because she is the one who picks me up off the floor when I fall over, who is the light in the dark for me – who is pure and kind, and taught me how to be a winner. To Alexia, for being a challenge and giving me someone to beat. To my coaches and teammates, past and present: you have been my pillars of inspiration, pushing me to be the best version of myself. There is not one of you who has failed to teach me something that has not added to the person I am today.

I also want to extend my appreciation to the organisers of the Ballon d'Or and all those who voted for me. Your support is a tremendous honour, and I promise to use this platform to advocate for positive change in the world of women's football and beyond.

I'd like to dedicate this award to all the women who have paved the way for us, to all the girls who dream big, and the future of women's football. We have come a long way, but there is still much more to achieve. Let's continue to strive for equality, respect, and recognition in women's sports. We are here, we are playing, and we must not stop.

i wrote this AGES ago, like, back when aitana actually won

i've been waiting for this chapter. 

lots of love and thanks for reading!!!!