Alexia opens her door with a humility to her smile. The absence of a smirk on such an annoyingly well-sculpted face hitches my breath, rendering me completely unprepared to enter a neutral zone inside what is supposed to be enemy territory. I had readied myself for battle, not the coffee she offers me.

Her apartment is decorated nicely. It's lived-in, more so than mine, and modern enough to fit the stereotypical design of footballer's homes. She has framed photographs on some walls, and safely stylish paintings on others. The layout itself is identical to my own home, though it is inverted as she lives in a B apartment; open-plan, corridor to the rooms, large windows on one side.

I step over a ragged allusion to a monkey; a victim of the dog that barks from behind a closed door as I come in. Alexia tsks and kicks the toy away, letting it slide under her dining table while she brings two full mugs of coffee over to the TV. Unsure of what else to do, I take a seat on the edge of her sofa, the grey fabric almost matching the colour of my post-exercise sweatpants. When Alexia sits too, it is on the opposite end, remote control in hand.

Two notebooks lie on her coffee table, both with the FC Barcelona crest printed on the front. Alexia hands me the newer-looking of the two. The other has a quarter of its pages full with scribbled notes already.

"You started early." She looks up from the lined paper, smile gone, a smirk replacing it at my surprise. I guess I shouldn't have expected anything else. "Alright, grab a pen. Let's talk about Lynn Wilms before you start the match."

We go through my national teammates, and I learn that Alexia is a very good listener. She writes down almost every word I say, leaning over to show me when she isn't sure she has gotten the correct thing. Her attention to detail is relentless, and she quizzes me long after I have thought I could share everything there is about them. Each question is insightful and clever and I have to take in this side of her with slight disbelief. Alexia really is a football nerd.

She presses play on the match an hour and a half later, both of our coffees cold by now. I clear my throat, ready to let her do the talking. "This is their typical formation," she starts with, pointing at the organised lines the players get themselves into before kick-off. "Roord and Oberdorf work well together in the midfield. They can play on both sides. Do you think that Roord will start on the right against us?"

"Possibly. They might not want her to mark me." Jill hates marking me. It's too easy to get in her head when I know her as well as I do, making distracting her a simple task. She loves that I will nutmeg the opposition whenever I can, praising me for the showboating built into my style of play as fundamentally as a simple pass, but, when she is the other team on the pitch, she is understandably irritated by it. No one likes having to reduce themselves to fouling because they have no other option. "Am I staying on the right indefinitely?"

She shrugs, a dismissive gesture. "You are two-footed."

"And you are not," I point out, goading her into admitting that I am better. Alexia would rather drink cold coffee than tell me that.

By the end of the match, we have moved closer together, finding the distance to be an inconvenience when trying to show each other what we have written down. By now, I have filled out the first few pages of my notebook, mostly with the consistencies in my Dutch teammates' play that have been reaffirmed by what happened today.

The 4-0 defeat against Eintracht Frankfurt is an insightful match. It's nice to know what Wolfsburg look like when they lose.

Alexia and I linger on the sofa, uncertain about what to do now. There is nothing professional tying me to staying, and so I stand, making her jump. "Jaimie will shout at me if I'm late to dinner." We haven't adopted the Spanish mealtimes. "If you need my help again, feel free to ask. Or text me. See you tomorrow?"

She clears her throat, the relaxed expression on her face hidden behind something more... Alexia. Jaw clenched, loosening only to agree, she places a commanding hand on my back, guiding me to her door. Her touch burns through my t-shirt, fiery against my skin. Tingling.

I am reminded of where those hands have been. That night, while still hazy, plagues me more than ever as I head down the stairs, ignoring the wobbliness in my strides. That bike ride has made my legs feel like jelly. I have to pause outside my front door, resetting myself. Notebook in hand, deemed permanently mine with the instruction to bring it next time, I swallow hard, eyes closed. Preparing to face my sister. She opens the door before I can knock.

"I hope you hooked up. Leah and I have been waiting for you patiently. Come say hello – she's on FaceTime."

━━━━━━━

The next day, Alexia and I are discussing Wolfsburg's attack on the way to our midfield session on the far pitches. She knows almost everything about how Popp plays, and we are deep in conversation about how they will utilise both her and Pajor. It is a very important thing to know.

Jonatan lets us carry on talking, not yet starting for some reason he feels we don't need to be aware of. Or maybe he does tell us, and neither of us hear him. But the delay is enough for Alexia and I to sit down on the grass, Alexia using her index to draw me a diagram of a possible play.

When Patri and Keira plonk themselves beside us, grinning widely, I have no time to pretend it was an argument, because Jonatan is telling us all that we are not going to win the final if we're this lazy, and Alexia has already started to jog the width of the pitch.

Keira sidles up to me after we are done, matching my pace when I speed up. "What was that?" she asks, even as I refuse to look at her.

"We were talking about tactics." Which is true. Her quiet, unobtrusive snort is enough to make me scowl, despite its harmlessness.

She lets me go, falling back to chat with Patri and Alexia. I saunter off, making it to my car in record time from the changing rooms, and drive to the courts Jaimie is training at.

Yesterday, my sister and her girlfriend interrogated me. They acted as if I was lying about what happened (nothing) and refused to accept my recount until I embellished a story enough to sate their disturbing investment in a professional relationship. Yes, I was in Alexia's lap at one point, but I had simply lost my balance and fallen. I returned to my safe distance almost immediately.

Jaimie is smashing balls at the green fence of the courts when I arrive. Hit after hit, she grunts in anger. I wonder what has ruined their session, but am quickly told by Juan that she is getting her frustration out of her before the hitter arrives. The last one, a recently retired pro from the ATP tour, quit after the first game, afraid she would throw her racquet at him.

I settle myself on the bench on the less-deadly side of the fence, pulling out my notebook to read over the diagrams Alexia had scrawled in there for me. Knees tucked into my chest to act as a table, I add to them, translating her Spanish to Dutch as I go along.

This reminds me of when I was a child, sitting through Jaimie's tennis lessons while I got my homework done. Normally, Papa would take us to the courts and we would stay for half an hour before he drove me to football. As my enthusiasm for playing tennis decreased, I began to get more comfortable watching instead of playing, even though I would make my return every year in the summer. The tennis season never used to coincide with the football season, and would be a good way of keeping fit during the break. Of course, at the elite level, tennis chases the sun so it can have the longest, most gruelling tour possible.

The buzz of my phone – a foreign noise in the soundscape of birdsong and Jaimie playing her match – pulls me out of my intense study. I have managed to tune the general sounds of my phone out until now, so I suppose a break might be more productive.

Alexia Putellas (FCB): I was sent more footage. Some clips from the Champions semi-final this season. Can you come to my apartment tomorrow?

The Barcelona parade starts at six, so we probably need to be at Camp Nou for five. I was forced to watch the semi-final by my sister, who was adamant she was not going to suffer through it alone. We supported Wolfsburg, her more to spite Leah than support my teammates, and I wish I had analysed it then so that I could show Alexia what I have already.

It isn't a competition, but I don't want to seem less dedicated to winning.

Me: send me the clips and i will look over them myself. we can compare notes instead

My suggestion increases my heart rate, weirdly, and I bite my lip awaiting her response. Jaimie and her new hitter are thwacking these balls at each other, and, for some reason, it is putting me on edge.

Finally, after what feels like a decade of typing, I get a reply.

Alexia Putellas (FCB): OK. Ven a las dos a mi casa.

Translating it slows down the thrum of my fingers against the wooden bench, and a small smile spreads on my lips once I understand. It's self-satisfied. At least she thinks my idea was better than hers. So Fleur 1-0 Alexia. Right?

"Ow?!"

I rub the spot on my shin where Jaimie's rocket of a hit landed, watching the ball roll away before looking up at her.

"What's got you blushing at your phone?" She is pressed against the fence as though I am some zoo attraction. I tuck my phone into the pocket of my shorts, shrugging at her, knowing I can stall longer than her drinks break will last. "Who were you texting?"

"Your girlfriend," I tease. "She wants me instead. Figured she made a mistake and got the wrong de Voss." (The thought of this is more than repulsive, but it's worth it.)

Jaimie rolls her eyes, squeezing her water bottle so that the water spurts out of the nozzle, heading straight towards me. It falls short and I stick my tongue out at her. "It's a wonder your captain eye-fucks you all the time, you know. You're a little pig."

I throw my pen at her, so practised that it soars through the gap between the fence's wire and pokes her in the chest.

It's Alexia's pen, actually.

I should probably return it tomorrow. She already hates me as it is.

━━━━━━━

"Thank you," Alexia says, mildly surprised when I thrust the pen towards her the next day. She places it on her dining table without a second thought, and then slips on her shoes, dog leash in hand. It's a bit impolite to leave a stranger in your home unaccompanied, but I let her fetch Nala (still yappy as ever) from what I presume to be her bedroom before asking where she is going.

Alexia looks at me, puzzled. "Lunch. ¿Ya has comido?"

"No," I reply, still unsure of what is happening.

"Good. We are going to the plaza."

She plucks her own notebook from the shelf next to the door, clips Nala's leash to her harness, and walks out of the door. I follow her to the lift, leaning against the wall furthest from her. Nala whimpers in excitement, tail wagging as soon as the lift doors open on the ground floor. We both nod to Ingrid, who looks at us with wide eyes before she disappears up the stairs, and head out into the street.

I'm glad she suggested food because I am honestly quite hungry. Even if Alexia's a terrible person, she does happen to be a local, and that's useful for picking out a good place to eat. When I go out with Jaimie, we normally end up at a michelin-star restaurant (personally invited by the chef), or at the same place nearby that Talia recommended. It's a bit of a date hotspot, but we are yet to see any couples making out in front of us.

"Here?" I question with dismay as she leads me to the exact restaurant I go to all the time.

"Clàudia recommended it, and I have not tried the food yet. Why?"

Nala tugs on her leash, wanting us to sit here. "Talia..." I trail off, resigning to my fate as soon as the waitress spots me. "We go here often."

"My favourite guiri!" exclaims Carlota as Alexia and I pull out the chairs belonging to one of the tables outside. "You brought... Alexia Putellas?"

She approaches us and Alexia looks extremely uncomfortable for someone who should be used to this. "We're talking business. Football."

"Of course," she says with a knowing look. I'm not sure what she thinks she knows, but I will let her believe what she wants. "Do you want me to choose your food for you again, or are you going to figure it out yourself this time?"

Opposite me, Alexia stiffens, frowning. She says something in Spanish to Carlota – too muttered, too fast for me to understand – and Carlota nods seriously, walking off. At my raised eyebrows, she shrugs. "We need to work. En paz. Not flirt with the waitress."

I scoff at her displeased expression, but open my notebook to show her my thoughts on the footage anyway. Nala buries herself under our table, resting at my feet. I hope she doesn't nip at my ankles, but she seems to have relaxed. Maybe even fallen asleep.

Alexia smiles at the pages of writing, face glowing in the sunlight that seems to shine onto us. Her eyes sparkle as she scans over my notes, and stay like that when they meet mine. I have to look away.

notes:

hitting my head against the wall, screaming at the keyboard, tempted to edit the plot

anyway!

translations (and then a rant abt the wc)

Ven a las dos a mi casa. = come to mine at two

ya has comido? = have you already eaten?

en paz = in peace/alone (same thing lol)

ok.

first of all, we could have won that. we nearly did; a crossbar stopped us. i genuinely am torn between calling us awful and saying the game was close, because what the fuck was that. yes, lucy lost possession and it cost a goal, but there were SO MANY tactical issues going on!

russo coming off was a mistake in my opinion, because she is a brilliant striker and adds physical stength to our attack. as much as i love tooney, the stats show lj gave us more possession. i think she should have come on in the second half, but not at the price of russo. you could tell sarina regretted that when she subbed bethany england on -- who is a PROPER striker, stength and all.

spanish side of things, the dramatics made me laugh. my standout player was obviously going to be bonmatí -- she's brilliant. their game wasn't that much better than ours, but the difference is that they managed to put one in the back of the net. and before i hear any encroachment claims -- earps would probably have saved the penalty anyway, it wasn't the best hermoso can do.

alas, such is being an england fan. the olympics are next year, and there's the new season to look forward to (or dread as a united fan). i'm still proud of our lionesses.