I have met Alexia Putellas on numerous occasions. For country, for club, for events. I have lost out to her for awards, and she has sat in the same position, watching me go up on stage and believing it should have been her. It is not uncommon for people to be choosing between me or her.

Jonatan and I spoke on the phone in the early days of the negotiations. I wanted to know if I'd be a benchwarmer or a replacement. He asked if I can play on the right and in the middle, to which I reminded him I'm two-footed. I could hear his grin through the phone. "You and Alexia, I feel, will have a connection," he said so confidently that I couldn't bring myself to tell him that she and I have been pitted against each other almost too much for us to be friends at all.

Now, sitting next to her in my new manager's office, I am surprised to find that she and I have gravitated toward each other, a united front against Jonatan. The handshake felt odd. We are on the same team now, even if she has been glaring at me the whole time. I wonder if she thinks I didn't notice how she held my hand a fraction longer than she should have.

"I know you two have met before," Jonatan says in English, "but I would like to remind both of you that you are no longer competing." We lost the translator when we lost the others, and Alexia looks slightly indignant about me not knowing Spanish. I suppose that's fair.

Her jaw clenches, and she gives her manager the same formidable look she gave me. "How are we not competing? We play the same position." If I didn't know any better, I would say she feels threatened.

"I have spoken to Fleur about this. As you may know, Fleur has a rare talent; equal control in both feet." I smirk at the flicker of jealousy upon her neutral expression. "Fleur needs to pass her fitness test and then we will start training with her on the right and you, Alexia, on the left. Extra sessions will be organised to strengthen our formation in the midfield."

Alexia turns to me, furious. She takes in my relaxed posture, my content smile. I lean back slightly, crossing my arms. "¿Es una broma?" Jonatan raises his eyebrows. "Mírala, no me gusta. Es tan arrogante, mira."

"Alexia," Jonatan says calmly. "This is what is happening. It is what is best for the club and the team." He glances at me, flashing me a small but reassuring smile. "Now, as the captain, please." He motions for her to, I'm not sure, give me a welcome speech? Can't wait.

Alexia sits up stiffly, looking straight past me. "Welcome to Barcelona, Fleur. I am sure you will be a great addition to the team and achieve great things. We, at the club, pride ourselves on our success, as I am sure you do too. I am excited for what is to come." She makes no effort to sound enthusiastic, instead coming across rather bored and rehearsed. Jonatan gives her a pointed look. "I am also sorry for your loss."

That catches me a little off guard. I am suddenly very conscious of whether or not the grieving act has been believable so far. "It wasn't your fault," I reply, not knowing what else to really say. "And I cannot wait to make my mark on the team for the next four years." Her eyes widen at the length of my contract, as if she was not expecting it. I scoff, not being able to help it. This time, she looks right into my eyes. I stare back. Oh, it is on.

Jonatan claps his hands together loudly, the sound bouncing around his office and snapping us both out of the staring contest. "Time for a tour! Alexia, porfa ven con nosotros."

We leave his office, me walking beside Jonatan and Alexia begrudgingly trailing behind. Jonatan points out important rooms, and then holds the door open for me as we make our way to the pitches. He lets go too soon for me to catch it, so Alexia is met with the door slamming in her face. I turn around to apologise, but she looks so angry that I am surprised there isn't steam coming out of her ears. I say nothing. She fakes a phone call shortly after.

The rest of my day is spent in and out of meetings with various people. The psychologist says she doesn't need to see me regularly, but suggests we talk every month at least. I meet my Spanish teacher, who opens the conversation with 'I hope you will be better at this than Keira'. María joins Jonatan and I for lunch in the canteen, and we discuss where I will be living and general things about Barcelona that they think are important for me to know. I assume the team has a day off, because the training centre is only being used by the men's team. I also manage to tick a few names off the list of players Papa told me to get pictures with because of this.

I leave the training centre at around four in the afternoon, holding two bags full of kit. María and I get into her car because she is taking me to the showroom to buy my own before driving me back to my hotel.

"How was today?" she asks me after ten minutes of listening to the radio. "I saw that they have now announced your move officially."

"It was good. They had the number I wanted." I was worried they wouldn't. "I'm glad everything is finalised."

"Did you meet any of your teammates?" She sounds hopeful. She probably wants me to make friends so she doesn't have to eat breakfast with me anymore.

"Just Alexia Putellas."

"You don't sound very happy with that."

"I've met her before," I say, shrugging. "We are made out to be each other's biggest competition. She doesn't like me."

"I'm sure you will become friends," comes María's optimistic reply. "Do you know any of the other girls on the squad?"

"A few. Keira, Lucy, Ingrid. And Jana sort of." All indirectly, though one could argue Keira and I are friends. However, I'm not sure I want to become closer to her, because if she finds out about me and Scarlett she would... I don't know. "María, you're making me realise that I don't have a lot of real friends," I joke, knowing it rings true.

At Chelsea, there was Erin and Sam. I haven't spoken to them since I left.

On the national team, I have Jill, Viv and Daan. We talk mostly at camp. Lieke and I used to be close, but drifted.

People like me, I know that. The issue is that I don't like them back. Secretly, and not in a mean way. I think I just prefer my own company. No one knows this, apart from Scarlett (who can't tell anyone now) and Jaimie. The fans think I'm one of the most extroverted players out there, always at parties and lunches, always making appearances on holidays regardless of whose it is. They all agreed on Twitter once that I must be the most popular player in the league.

"I am sure you will make lots here." I feel like María is my mother, giving me a pep talk on my first day of school. "Have you decided on a car?"

I was supposed to be looking some up during the ten quiet minutes, but I took a shortcut and asked my dad to choose one for me. He likes that kind of thing. "Audi RS e-tron GT," I answer confidently. Do I know what that is? Not at all, but it sounds nice.

She takes me to the showroom closest to my hotel, where I buy the right car in blue. It's expensive, but Barcelona signed me for more than they signed Keira. Sometimes holding out for ages has its benefits, as said by my agent. The car seller says it will come in three months, which makes María groan. I've come to realise that part of her job is ensuring I have a means of transport while I am still classed as a new player.

I send my dad a picture of it. He replies with a thumbs-up emoji. It's nice to know he's proud of me.

"Vale, I take you back to your hotel, you change, you relax. Your apartment keys should be at the concierge desk, so I will drive you to the neighbourhood in the evening. Do you know Ingrid's girlfriend? She is having you round for dinner tonight, with Ingrid of course. They live in your building." She really sounds like my mother, oh my god. "I will give you the number of a driver the club has provided you for the first week. Get a good night's sleep, because you will have tests tomorrow. If your medical goes well, they may conduct your fitness test tomorrow as well. They did that for Keira."

"Did you mother Keira like this too?" She parks the car outside of my hotel and shakes her head, laughing. "You are the best, María." I think she understands something about me that I'm not sure I quite get. Scarlett's mum was the same, treating me like a lost little lamb. My mother is not the most warm and loving woman, but we get along well. Jaimie worships her.

"Yo sé, soy la mejor. Now get out of my car." She shoos me away, instructing the bellboy to get my new bags. I start to walk towards the lobby, pausing when María rolls down her window and calls out my name. "I will pick you up in two hours!"

The minute I get to my hotel room, I collapse onto the bed. The keys to my flat prod me from my pocket, but I can't be bothered to move at the moment. I bury my face in my pillow at the thought of having to move all my stuff in. Unpacking boxes is so tedious. Then, my mind wanders to other things. (Or thing. Or someone.)

Alexia really doesn't like me.

I tell Ingrid this when I sit down and have dinner with them. I say it in German, in case Mapi is a gossip. Ingrid's time in Wolfsburg gave her a good understanding of the language, and I learnt how to speak it at school. We can talk freely, which is probably going to come in handy.

"Hey, you told me it was English only," Mapi cuts in before Ingrid can reply, pouting at her girlfriend. "I was doing great as well!"

"Sorry," Ingrid says, though it doesn't sound very genuine. She clears her throat. "What makes you think that, Fleur? You haven't gotten to know her."

"Who are we talking about?" asks Mapi, her interest in the conversation increasing. Since I arrived, it has pretty much been Ingrid and me catching up, and Mapi sat with her cat, listening passively. Bagheera is pretty cute, I have to admit.

Ingrid glances at me. I nod my head slightly — as if Ingrid won't tell her when I leave anyway. "Fleur and Alexia's first meeting did not go so well."

"You met Ale?" At least I know my instincts to not openly talk about Alexia to Mapi were right. My failure to gush over the woman who might be her best friend causes Mapi's brows to furrow. She studies me, looking perplexed. "You met Ale and you didn't like her?"

"Ja." She waits for me to give her a reason. "But the feeling is very mutual." Before I can list all the things about her that piss me off, Ingrid swoops in with a change of topic.

"I saw that Jaimie is doing well in the Australian Open." Mapi doesn't really understand tennis, but Ingrid forced her to watch it today. She now knows why. "Are you going to get another tattoo if she wins?"

"No, one J on my body is enough." When she won the French Open last year, I said I would get a tattoo of her choosing. She had done it when I won the Euros in 2017, so it was only fair. Thankfully, it's behind my ear, meaning it's hard to spot. "And now that she's won another one, surely she's supposed to start winning other stuff as an even bigger expectation."

"I am going to say one thing, and you can't get angry: this summer's Euros."

"No!" I splutter. That logic doesn't apply to football. It's a team sport, it's different. "Scarlett wouldn't shut up about it, and it made me want to die. All the drinking and... Ingrid, she made me come to all the parties with her." I had Viv right there with me, but Beth knew enough Dutch to tell us off when we were talking about the English girls.

"When Lucy came here, Mapi emptied her water bottle on her head." Ingrid doesn't mention how I talk about Scarlett like she is still alive.

"We all agreed to it!" Mapi exclaims, not wanting me to think she's evil. Not when I already have such a strong opinion of her best friend. "Lucy and I are besties now. Don't worry, Fleur, we have no history."

"My girlfriend died after being defended by you." Mapi played left-back that night. Scarlett was a right-winger. Ingrid understands Dutch humour, but knows her girlfriend is stunned into silence by that. She sends me a warning look. "Sorry, Mapi. I was joking," I say sheepishly.

Mapi scratches her head, confused. "But that's true...?" The mood takes a deep dive into the depths of guilt the girls at Chelsea are feeling, and I hate it immediately. "When she died, I was right next to her." I don't want her death to follow me to my new team.

"No, you weren't," I reassure her, not quite understanding why I feel the need to explain this. Most of the details have been kept a secret between me, the doctors, the coroner, and her parents. We all want privacy. "Scarlett died in the ambulance, Mapi. You saw her unconscious. I saw her die."

"Fleur..." Ingrid says, becoming upset. She's empathetic, she hates how my voice cracks. "I don't know how I can–"

"It's fine, Ingrid." I smile, hoping to fix the mood. I was quite enjoying teasing Mapi. "So how did you manage to get Ingrid to date you?" Mapi grins at the prospect of recounting the story, but deflates when Ingrid and I laugh. She realises what I meant, standing up with faux anger, clearing her empty plate and mine, and storming off. "I like your girlfriend. She suits you," I say to Ingrid.

"I cannot believe you said that to her!" Ingrid scolds me when Mapi is out of earshot. Whether she means the one about Scarlett or what I just said doesn't seem to matter. "You can't make jokes like that here, they don't find it funny. Believe me, it was an awkward adjustment. Maybe that's how you got Alexia to not like you."

"No, Ingrid, I let a door slam in her face." To name one incident.

She pauses, deciding if I'm joking or not. She guesses right. "Fleur, Alexia is the most loved person on this team. They worship the ground she walks on."

"I don't like her. She's cocky."

"So are you!"

I am not cocky. I know my worth, I know that I'm good at football. Alexia acts like she is supposed to win every award in the world, as if it would be an insult for her not to. At the Ballon d'Or, she knew she was going to win. She expected it, and, what's worse, she expected me to come second. I know it.

"Oh, I heard you now live in this building," Ingrid carries on. "That makes it me, you, Mapi, and your favourite person!"

"Mapi!" I shout, making her jump. She walks over, holding Bagheera. I take the cat from her, settling her in my lap. Ingrid eyes me suspiciously, wondering how I'm going to torture her girlfriend next. "Alexia lives here?" She nods slowly. "Mapi, do you know any house sellers? I can't be in this place anymore."

"Pues–"

"Mapi, she's joking again."

"Madre mía, no me gustas tu. Ahora entiendo a Ale," she mutters to herself, her Spanish too fast and too quiet for Ingrid to translate. "Ingrid, dile a tu amiga holandesa que no la entiendo."

"She says she loves you and can't wait to make dinners like this a regular thing." I laugh, enjoying their company a lot. I know I don't like most people, but I have to hang out with someone in Spain and this is convenient. Ingrid and I are from the same generation of players, even if I played in the Australian youth team in my early teenage years. Norway was the first team the Dutch under-19 squad played against when I first captained them. I have known her for a long time.

"This has been nice, Ingrid. Danke." She can sense it is time for me to go, that I have had enough. In Spain, they stay out a lot later on a daily basis compared to what I have become used to in England, so it's a handy excuse when I simply run out of charge. Pretending to grieve your ex-girlfriend is harder than I thought it would be. The driver María told me about earlier texts me that he has been outside for ten minutes. "I will be needing your help when I move in. We should schedule a dinner at mine too."

"It will not end until midnight and they will all come late," Ingrid warns light-heartedly. "A foreign concept, I know." She directs my attention to her girlfriend, whose ears seemed to have perked up at the mention of me hosting. That must translate to 'party' in Spanish.

We say our goodbyes, me promising Ingrid that tomorrow we will get coffee, and I leave, feeling a weird sense of contentment. I would be lonely in Barcelona even if Scarlett was still alive. The only reason I'm not feeling the grief full force is because of the distance wedged between us that morning, but distance from one of the only people in the world who fully understands me, makes me feel even more alone. My inner circle would go from two to one anyway.

Speaking of, Jaimie has called me about five times and messaged me throughout the day. I turned my phone notifications off this morning, not wanting to deal with the flood of messages I would get when people find out where I've transferred. She must think I'm dead if I haven't yet responded.

Me: i saw u did well today

Jai: She lives!

Me: i'm internally dying bc alexia putellas is still a stuck-up bitch

Jai: U clearly had a good day. I would ask more but idc.

Me: nice

Jai: Ja. That's me.

Me: why are u using punctuation? r u fifty?

Jai: No, I'm TIRED. Also have been texting Papa sooo

Me: did he tell u abt my new car?

Jai: Ja, it's fucking sick

Me: u could never

Jai: I'm sending u a link to an article about my performance today. Read that bc I don't want to talk to you anymore.

I click the link to appease her, then realise she will never find out if I read it or not. I ignore the other messages in my inbox (apart from my parents congratulating me), including the ones from Sam and Erin.

On Instagram and Twitter, it's even worse. Everyone and their mother has something to say about my move, overloading my inbox and making the app glitch. I lie in bed scrolling through a Twitter account's rant/thread about me, laughing at how strong their opinion is. I fall asleep to tweets of WSL fans losing their shit and expressing it with pictures of Arsenal WFC – mainly Viv, which makes it funnier.

With no one to talk to in the morning, I narrate my routine to myself. María is having breakfast with me, and I opened Sam and Erin's messages when I woke up. They want to chat. Sam has texted me about Chelsea feeling like a ghost club at the moment. They miss me.

"Was last night enjoyable?" María asks. I feel that she cares deeper than what is in her job description. "Did you make new friends?"

I down my coffee quickly, looking at the time. "Ja." She nods. "Can we go to the training centre now? I want to get there early."

"You are suddenly very eager," she observes, amused at the change in my attitude. "What has got you so excited to go?"

I try to avoid looking at the two people who have just walked into the café. She hasn't seen me yet, I don't think.

Nevermind.

Fuck.

"Alexia, bon dia!" Fuck. "Bon dia, Olga." Oh, fuck me. That's her girlfriend, who is giving Alexia the same annoyed look María is giving me. We refuse to greet each other, but they carry on talking despite this.

"L'Alexia s'ha queixat tota la nit d'ella," Olga says, sounding frustrated.

"No, no ho tinc," Alexia murmurs absently. She looks up from her phone. "Hola, Fleur. Are you going to stare at me like this all the time?"

"I'm just in awe of you, Alexia," I reply sarcastically. "I often used to wonder how big a person's head could get, but you answered my question for me." María has finished her conversation. We leave and she smacks me round the back of my head lightly.

"You are so immature."

"She started it!"

"It has been two days," María sighs. "You have been here for two days, and you have made the captain your enemy. Of all people."

"She started it," I repeat.

If Alexia can't find it in herself to accept the fact that she isn't the only good left-mid, is she not arrogant? That is the textbook definition. She is the textbook definition. Jonatan can talk about an on-pitch connection all he likes. That does not mean Alexia and I have to become friends. She is the last person I want to get to know in Barcelona.

notes:

Fleur came second in the 2022 Ballon d'Or and 3rd in 2019. She hasn't won it yet. 

I don't know Catalan so I used google translate, idk how reliable it is (Olga says that Alexia has been complaining about Fleur all night, and Alexia says that she hasn't)

I went down a massive rabbit hole of cars when finding one for Fleur, but the one she gets is sort of like an Audi R8 but electric 

Do u have any opinions or anything u want to say? I'm interested to hear what u guys think