Alexia's phone rings at seven in the morning; a warning call from Jenni about sneaking back into her own hotel.

I wake up with a headache, eyes sore, body worse. Alexia glances at me from her propped up position against the headboard, guiding my head back into her lap where she had adjusted our position to talk to her teammate. "Go back to sleep," she says softly, moving the phone from her ear to better hear my reply.

Voice hoarse, I croak out, "no," resting in her lap anyway. Eyes open despite their stinging, I watch the clock, accepting that the world will move on. Time ticks regardless of how stuck in last night I feel.

A blissful half an hour later, Alexia gently nudges me off her, expecting me to have fallen asleep again. When I groan in protest, she startles – a deer caught in headlights, a prisoner caught escaping. She holds her hands up in surrender as I glare, balling the hem of her t-shirt in my fist and tugging her back towards the bed. "I have to go," she explains, laughing. "I will never be allowed to play for Spain again if I don't show up before Vilda checks my room."

"I hate him."

"Who doesn't?" We both think of the names on that list, hating them all too. "Well, if you feel like you can, why don't you come say goodbye to me? Getting up is good for you."

"No one else is awake," I tell her, disgusted by the time of the morning.

"No one will see us then," she answers, smirking. Her fingers curl around my wrist, and, affected by her touch, I release her from my grip. "Come on. You don't even have to get ready."

Her eyes plead slightly, as if she knows this is a lot more significant than it seems. One day of staying in bed often turns into two. And then a month passes, and the world has forgotten the pain that you still harbour like a freshly cut wound. That is how it goes with these things. Alexia does not have time to deal with it, I suppose. Not that I am hers to deal with.

She watches me closely as I plod into the bathroom, forgoing brushing my teeth and choosing to cheat with mouthwash instead. I spit out the blue liquid, and she hands me my sliders. We stay close together as she unlocks my hotel room door, opening it.

The hallway is empty.

Well, until Olivia approaches from her room further down the corridor, calling out my name.

Alexia pauses in front of the lift, not turning around but allowing me to. It's a declaration of secrecy. They don't pry. I wait for my camera crew to catch up with me.

"This is going to make me sound like a monster," Olivia begins, holding a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, "but we need to film you. Just a short clip."

"Now?" I ask, not impressed with the situation. They already caught most of yesterday, so why do they need to extend my pain? Alexia's hand finds mine in the space between us, fingers intertwining with my own, pulling my hand close to her body. "Can't we do it later?"

"The whole point is that it is raw. Real." So, yeah. Now. I glance at the camera with a sigh, nodding as Olivia checks her phone. "Are we rolling?"

"Yep," says Erik, the cameraman.

Okay. The lift is only three floors away. She won't get in with us, and, if she can read the look in my eyes, the camera will be angled away from the body behind me. "So you lost yesterday." Alexia squeezes my hand, listening closely to the conversation even though she has trouble with English so early in the morning. "How are you feeling?"

It's almost laughable.

I narrow my eyes at Olivia, but she mouths at me to just comply. I breathe in and out. "Bad. It sucks. I've just had the worst night of my life, and now I am awake too fucking early." A little, self-deprecating laugh leaves my lips. Alexia's thumb runs over the ridges of my knuckles, reminding me that she is there. I deflate. "I've cried all my tears for now."

"What are you going to do later?"

"Cry again, probably."

Erik laughs, Olivia says 'cut', and the lift doors open just on cue. I tell them that I will see them soon. We can discuss travel plans together. I'm going to take Mum up on the offer to go back to Melbourne. It might be good to stay in Australia for a bit, at least until the World Cup ends.

The doors, shiny and grey, shield Alexia and I from the world for a moment as we travel to the lobby. She wraps her arms around my waist, hugging me. I think it is just as much for her benefit as it is for mine, because she is like a soldier returning to the trenches and I am definitely not okay after being knocked out of the fucking World Cup. The nervousness creeps onto her face as we step out onto the mostly empty ground floor, and she doesn't have to tell me that she'd rather stay here. I know. I would prefer her to, too.

There is a taxi waiting outside, pulled up in front of the big revolving doors of the hotel. The doorman signals that it is Alexia's if she wishes to take it, but she waves him off, choosing instead to call for one that will come in ten minutes.

We sit on one of the sofas in the reception area, my head resting on her shoulder.

"I want you to win," I state as she circles patterns on top of my bare thighs. I hadn't thought to change out of my shorts from last night – soft, faded track shorts that haven't seen the light of day for years. They're covered by the hoodie I am wearing, anyway.

"I want me to win, too."

"No, but I need you to win. Otherwise I lost for nothing." It's better to have been an obstacle on the path to victory than the path to defeat in a final. "Not in a 'I want you to be happy way'."

She giggles, amused. "You're funny."

"I'm just making my intentions clear."

"If you say so."

I turn her head so that she is looking at me, my hand splaying out across her sharp jaw. "I'm serious, Ale." Sort of.

"You never call m–" She cuts herself off. "Does Esmee Brugts not want to play for Barcelona?" The reason for the sudden change of topic is because Esmee Brugts is sleepily talking to the concierge. Alexia forgets that names are the same in all languages, and the girl turns to us upon hearing hers practically shouted in the quiet lobby.

I slide myself to the other end of the sofa, despite Alexia's immediate frown. "Esmee, kom hier," I call, knowing that Alexia is offended enough to be joined. Esmee, surprised and probably too intimidated to ignore us and walk away, sits down in the armchair adjacent to our sofa, the extra pillow she had been asking for settled in her lap.

She eyes the gap between Alexia and I. "Bon dia," she says to Alexia, a good attempt.

Alexia's eyes glow red and blue as she grins. "You are going to come to Barcelona!" she declares loudly, the announcement heard only by us because no one else is here. Esmee won't be allowed to outwardly discuss any of what she is about to say.

"Maybe," Esmee says. She looks at me. "Fleur, are you alright?"

"Nope," I answer. "But our victor here seems to be. Especially since you are going to play with us next season."

"Nothing has been confirmed. You were right, though. They still want me to play for them."

"We want nothing more." And, well, Alexia is Barcelona, so Esmee's nervous smile can only grow ten sizes at that statement. "Johan Cruyff 1 and 2. Perfect. Fleur has two bedrooms. You can live with her."

Esmee and I exchange a look that Alexia cannot translate, not that she is trying. We can talk about this properly when the contract has been signed. I wouldn't mind housing her, especially while she finds her feet both on the pitch and in the city itself.

Weirdly enough, Alexia coaxes Esmee's well-concealed excitement out of her, and happily chats away until the doorman waves at her once more, signalling that this taxi is hers indefinitely. Esmee distracts herself while Alexia says goodbye to me, eyes trained on the wall to her right so she does not see us kiss, sensing that neither of us really want her to.

Though, when we make our way back to our floor, she does ask me whether she will need to buy noise-cancelling headphones if she chooses to live with me.

━━━━━━━

My flight to Melbourne, booked for me by Mum, lands in the evening that very same day. The oldest of my cousins, Reece, works in the airport. He drives me to Brighton, where Mum's house is.

"It was great seeing you, mate," he says as I get out of his Toyota. "I've always preferred you to Jaimie, but don't tell her that."

It makes me smile. I almost forget how nervous I am to step inside almost foreign territory.

Jaimie, upon hearing from me, was extremely ecstatic that I am a) visiting Mum and b) not suicidal. She told me to grab her keys off the woman and escape to her house if need be. I'm definitely taking her up on that offer, because daily doses of my mother are enough to slowly repair the relationship without her driving me insane.

Mum is in a brilliant mood, seeing as Australia have just scraped their way through to the semi-finals after a gruelling penalty shootout with France. Half the family are over, all sitting in front of her massive TV – a gift from my sister last Christmas – with empty beers and Matildas jerseys. Before anyone asks me how I am feeling, my cousin's children bombard me with questions about my holiday with Sam Kerr, calling me a liar for saying I know her. ("How could you know Sam Kerr?" is my favourite indignant response from my cousin's seven-year-old.)

I get rugby-tackled by her middle child, Zach (the ten-year-old that was Jaimie's New Year's kiss, beating Leah Williamson though he didn't know it), and brought to the ground. They make me promise to tell Sam they said congratulations. They also demand I play football with them tomorrow.

"Alright, lay off," their mother, Georgia, says eventually, helping me up off the ground. "How's it going, Fleur? Haven't seen you for ages."

"I'm..." Australians, I remind myself. "I'm alright." I smile, feeling Mum's eyes on me as I pick off the children huddled around me one by one, all simultaneously recounting the match they have just watched. It seems as though the younger ones have no idea that I play football too, happily explaining the rules they have newly learnt.

After what feels like years of convincing, the children are pulled away by their respective parents with coos of 'it's time to go home' and 'Mummy and Daddy need their sleep'. Suddenly, the earlier racket of approximately twenty rowdy Australians is replaced by the quiet, awkward atmosphere of my mother's house. I think I remember my way around as I test myself on the nooks and crannies of the place from my seat on her L-shaped sofa. She perches at the opposite end of it when she returns from dropping my grandparents back to their house on the other side of the city.

"Would you like me to take you to Jaimie's now? You could walk but you must be exhausted." She seems to battle with herself. "No, of course you won't be walking. I'm gonna drive you there. And you're visiting my clinic tomoz. I'll get you some treatment."

"I don't need treatment," is all I can think to reply. Before I could even think about leaving our hotel in New Zealand, we had recovery and then a long meeting. Andries thanked Stefanie for playing for us, we all cried again, and then we parted ways with promises to fix things when we play in the Nations League in September.

"Still. You should have a massage. Tournaments put a lot of stress on the body, and it's important that you recover properly."

I wish, in my petty petulance, that I could tell her she knows nothing about tournament stress, but I cannot. Her Olympic gold is framed, alongside a photograph of her on the medal stand, and hung up in the hallway. I can see it from where I am sitting. I used to beg her to open the safe where the real medal was kept – not the replica inside the glass – so that I could feel the weight of it around my neck, promising myself that I will have my own to compare it with one day. That frame used to be on the wall of my parents' bedroom in Amsterdam. Papa has never filled the hole the nail left in the plaster.

"Plus, they'll wanna see you. All my physios love you." Some of them have worked at the clinic for years, dating back to when I actually used to go to Australia. One was the reason I even thought about playing for the Matildas for a bit – she knew the physio there.

"Fine," I sigh.

"Okay, I'll just grab your bags and then we'll go. You want a drink or anything? Are you hungry? Jaimie won't have food."

"We can order something to her house." I've never actually been there before, but I have the address memorised, along with the floor plan and which keys unlock which door. Just because I don't visit, doesn't mean I don't care.

"You want me to stay?"

She tilts her head to the side, puzzled. I question whether I do. Alexia's command to not retreat into crippling loneliness resounds in my mind. She told me to hang on until she was done with Spain's campaign, and then I can cry as much as I want. "Yes. For a bit."

"Alright," she says, grinning. Her hands hit her knees to commence our departure, and she stands quickly. "Let's go. You should get to bed early."

━━━━━━━

Jaimie's house is fucking massive. I knew that, of course, and I expected nothing less from my sister's tennis millions, but seeing it in person is a whole different experience.

Her driveway is lined with solar-powered lanterns, illuminating her cars. The paint shines under the glow of the warm light, and it is easy to make out the obnoxious number plates that she is even more obnoxiously proud of. Her partnership with BMW does nothing for her ego: she owns an i8 (JA1MI3) and an X7 (D3 V0SS). I roll my eyes, which makes Mum laugh.

"Just wait until you see the tennis court. And the pool. And the guest house. I think she loves her guest house a little too much." I can hear the pride in her voice, the slightly disbelief that her daughter has become so successful that this is where she lives. A mansion, with a Koi pond if she ever feels too stressed, and a place called the 'retreat' where she can nap after training sessions on her own personal court.

"It's a shame," I tell Mum as I slot the key into the clock, turning it until it clicks. Jaimie's house is devoid of life and personality. I suppose my sister brings that with her when she returns home after the season finishes. She lives out of suitcases for most of the year so she must, by now, know of some way to pack it up. "How do you feel about it?"

"Of all the things for us to talk about, is this what you want to start with?"

I watch as Mum takes my bags from me, placing them to the side of the doorway as if she is going to unpack them herself later. I blink away the feeling of childhood – the flashbacks of arriving after long journeys with suitcases almost as big as ourselves, the switch into our Australian lives becoming harder as we grew up – and nod.

Really, as much as what she says jars me to no extent, I'd quite like her opinion on my sister's most recent bombshell.

Jaimie has used the group chat we have as a family. Not the de Voss one, or the Wilsons. The chat that has Mum, Papa, Jaimie, and me.

The last message on there was my new Barcelona address.

Well. It's now the penultimate. Because Jaimie is thinking of moving to London, and she doesn't really need to explain the reason why.

"I think she's maybe overexcited herself," Mum says, but it is not a venomous, snarky, anti-Leah Williamson comment. "She shouldn't go because of Leah. Or, if she does, she should keep this house so she has somewhere to run to if it goes up in flames."

I wonder whether Jaimie has thought this through. She must have, surely. "She wants to sell, Mum."

"Course she does. She wants to chase the feeling of being in-love."

"I don't blame her."

"You're young." My jaw clenches; a reflex, now, whenever I am told this. I have heard it too many times before, all spouting from the same mouth. Mum knows that the one thing I am well-informed about is love. In fact, one could say that I have a higher success rate than her. "No, darling, I didn't–"

"Well, I suppose you know a lot about moving away."

Her face seems to darken with a cloud that follows her around any time I am near; "Fleur." And I regret it almost instantly, so I shake my head. I don't want to argue. We've barely made it inside – I don't want to send her right back out.

"Sorry." She sucks in a sharp breath, and I know that we can forget I said it. "Please can you order some food? I'm going to take myself on a tour."

The second wave of devastation is on the horizon. I'd rather not break down in front of her.

With tears in my eyes, I discover the size of Jaimie's house properly. The droplets never form completely, pushed back by my eyelids when I feel the control slipping away from me. I take around half an hour, my steps as small as they are slow, and when I return to the living room, in which Mum is watching a recap of the week's sports events, I slide onto the sofa beside her with nothing more obvious about my mental state than a quiet sniffle.

Her neck turns to me with terrifying speed. "I'll turn it off," Mum says, the tenderness of her voice a distant familiarity. She reaches for the remote, but I tell her that I am fine. That the update on the Women's World Cup in big, black letters right in front of my eyes is nothing that isn't true.

NETHERLANDS KNOCKED OUT OF WORLD CUP FOLLOWING TIGHT MATCH WITH SPAIN.

"I've ordered us Chinese," is her attempt to draw my attention away from the highlights they are now showing. And she speaks to me in Dutch, which is something Mum never does.

I blink, refocusing my eyes on her face. "Okay. When will it come?"

"Soon." She pauses. "Come here."

Mum shuffles forward, so that her feet are planted flat on Jaimie's walnut floor. She gestures to the space before her. My hesitation allows me to tune back into the TV upon hearing my name.

Fleur de Voss is taking matters into her own hands it seems. She's running, and, boy, the Spanish team just can't seem to stop her. Oh! Nope – she's put the ball through her legs. She's still running, she's still– Alexia Putellas has bolted out of position. The two play together for Barcelona, apparent rivals. Putellas isn't going to catch her, surely. But wait! Fleur de Voss has been smited by the greatest player in the world: the two-time Ballon d'Or winner and her club captain. If the ref's gonna book Putellas, it should be a...

I sit.

Fingers – nimble and experienced – run through my loose hair, gently detangling it. "If you're going to mourn, which I know you'll be doing, then at least you don't have to worry about your hair," Mum tells me, somehow sprouting a third hand to turn the volume of the TV down whilst she massages my scalp. "Two?"

"Yes, please," I mumble instinctively.

She braids my hair just like she used to, when I used to have two plaits almost every day, and definitely when I played football. The year Mum moved back to Australia became the year of failed attempts at replicating the hairstyle by Jaimie. And, after that, I just scraped it all back into a ponytail.

Two hair bobbles fall in my lap. I twist them around my fingers, eyes closing as Mum works. I'm so tired. I will not be able to sleep properly for a while, I think. The only reason I did last night was because Alexia was there, and she isn't going to leave the national team to cuddle me every day. It's a little pathetic. I decide that I won't tell her this, seeing as her ego must already get inflated enough on the daily.

We get on when we are silent. She finishes before our food arrives. She kisses the top of my head when she goes to fetch the delivery from the door. I return to the sofa, though I choose to be a little bit closer to her.

I wonder why I have made her a villain. Countless hours of therapy has led to a professional opinion, but it is more than that. Seeing Mum so happy here makes me feel sick. Or, maybe not me, but a teenage version of myself. A Fleur who questions how a mother could leave her children behind.

Mum serves me my food, set out for me perfectly on the plate. She is one step away from moving my fork for me.

We watch the National Bank Open, Jaimie's current tournament, while we eat. Mum mentions something about Leah Williamson being in Australia, reminded by Jaimie's grin as she is interviewed about her win-streak. "Her brother lives in Sydney," she says, swallowing her mouthful of fried rice, fork slicing through the air as she gestures. "Apparently, I should fly over and meet her. She's all that girl talks about."

"Leah's nice," I reply, eyes fixed on my sister's face. She looks so happy. "They are a terrible couple. The kind that makes you feel incredibly single and alone. Like, you're sort of happy they have each other, but disgusted at the–"

"I'm seeing someone."

I tear my eyes from the screen, abandoning my next forkful of noodles. "What? Since when?" She fidgets in her seat, but there is a small smile playing on her lips. I swallow, even though there is nothing in my mouth. I was aware that Mum had tried before, but she's never made a point to let me know.

"Just recently. But it's... well, I wouldn't be telling you if I didn't think it was serious." Her smile loses its subtlety. "It's serious."

I think, though there are no thoughts that are coherent enough for me to make sense of. I glance at my sister's face on the TV. "Does Jaimie know?"

"She does. She's met him. I asked her not to–"

"Of course." I want to be angry. This is different to her being 'near family'. This is... this is creating another. One that doesn't consist of me or Jaimie or Papa at all. "Why did I even ask?"

"Jaimie's here more. She's also far less intimidating." He must know a lot about us, then. Surprised she recognises she has two daughters.

"I'm not ten, Mum," I scoff. "And Jaimie is barely here!"

"You set a low bar."

"It isn't my fault you live on the other side of the world." I shouldn't say it. I shouldn't... "You could've just stayed in Amsterdam."

It's too late. My heart thuds hard against my chest.

She looks at me, horrified that we are having the argument. Again.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

(But I don't want to cry over yesterday anymore?)

Mum breathes in deeply, something that means she is seconds away from losing her composure. I am sure that I am more familiar with this calming technique of hers than Jaimie is, but that is just the way things go. Jaimie wants to please everyone and succeeds time and time again. It's not fair, really.

"I wanted to go home," she says, voice measured. "Who do you think you get your homesickness from?"

I ignore her joke, hating that she knows about how lonely I sometimes find Barcelona; how I wish things were different and I'd never have to leave my city. "You had a home. With us."

"Come on, darling," she grits out, leaning back so that she relaxes into the sofa; her body language stark in contrast to the sound of her voice. "You're old enough to understand by now. You're a bright girl."

"I was a child! You left me."

She dismisses that argument with a click of her tongue. "You had your sister and your father, who is just as much your parent as I am. Papa did a good job, too."

"Papa is not you. You are my mother." Irreplaceable. A child's mother is one of a kind. "I... Sometimes I just wanted you."

"Who was a phone call aw–"

There is a pounding inside of me that rattles my bones. I try to swallow, but my heart is in my throat and the beats are resounding in my ears and my breath is gone and not coming back. I panic.

"Mum, I'm so scared." The tears that were locked away earlier resurface, and, with a frightening force, they come rushing down my face. Mum, though she must be confused, is quick to come forward, my head in her hands as she wipes my tears with her thumbs. "I'm so, so scared."

Her eyebrows furrow and the sneer disappears as though her lips do not know how to form it. "What of?" she asks me, argument forgotten.

I gasp.

notes:

well this is 4500 words.

honestly just go with it but also imagine if fleur died or something lol x

kom hier obviously means come here (i swear dutch sometimes just looks like a caveman was writing in english or something)

also not super awake atm because something abt life is DRAINING me so we'll see how the writing goes in the coming weeks x

thanks for reading as always!!