Training the next day is brutal.

I oversleep and forgo breakfast in order to be on time, arriving late despite my efforts. Jonatan is disappointed but forgives me.

Unfortunately, the warm-up I have stumbled into ten minutes after it has begun is being led by Alexia instead of the usual physios. Captain-lead warm-ups on occasion help to build the relationship between the captain and the team in a lower pressure environment, but I don't think it really works when your captain wants to grab your neck and squeeze as hard as she can.

I yawn, feeling the sting of dryness in my eyes.

"You are late," Alexia states coldly, halting the team's stretches so that they have nothing to do but watch her humiliate me. She outlines the edge of the pitch with her index finger. "Around it three times." When Mapi declares that to be rather harsh, she threatens to double my punishment.

I set off, sprinting as fast as I can. You don't date Scarlett Powell for as long as I did and not pick up a little of her speed. The team stays silent as I push through the cramping in my overused muscles, determined not to let her have the satisfaction of me slowing down. I finish quickly. Alexia decides I cut the corners on my last lap, and makes me do three more.

Jonatan watches from the sidelines, but he is letting this play out. He hasn't yet fully understood the dynamic between us. I could easily explain it to him: she's a bitch. Though, as I pant my way through the last stretch of my fourth lap, I decide he wouldn't appreciate me talking about La Reina like that.

The girls lose interest after I have done five, returning their focus to their stretches and chattering amongst themselves. One set of eyes burns into my back as I continue without slowing down. Noticeably slowing down – sorry. I'm only human.

I know that Jana watches almost every game Jill plays, and I know exactly who she was watching the Arnold Clark Cup with. Alexia displays the same insecurity that tightened her jaw as when I first met her in Jonatan's office. When she asked if she was being replaced. At least I know that my performance in the international window was excellent.

Once I have finished and stretched myself, the session is returned to the control of the coaching staff, much to everyone's relief, before Alexia can make us work on our endurance.

I don't train particularly well: my touches are badly taken, my passes are sloppy. The shots I have in the scrimmage we do towards the end all fly way past the goal. I rub my eyes and chug an energy drink, attempting to wake myself up a bit more. It settles alone in my stomach, seeing as I am yet to eat anything more substantial than the protein bars the nutritionist almost forces down my throat. I feel dizzy, but Alexia continues to watch me nervously, so I ignore it.

That was probably the worst idea, because when training ends and we break for lunch, I use the energy that is left in my body to hurtle myself towards the nearest bathroom and drop to my knees with my head over the toilet bowl. If I had actually eaten, something might have come out. Alas, I have not, and end up dry-heaving until tears prickle in my eyes. I send Jaimie a picture of me slumped against the wall. She replies with a picture of her and Papa, both frowning. I cast aside my phone as I feel another wave of nausea hit me, hoping this time it will be more fruitful.

After successfully getting rid of the protein bar and telling myself that I feel so much better, I sneak into the locker room to find a toothbrush and toothpaste. I'm expected at lunch, and if I disappear for too long, they'll start looking for me.

I rummage through my own bag. Nothing. I weigh out my options. I don't have many. I check a few of the other girls', mainly the ones who like me and wouldn't mind too much if they lost a toothbrush. Still nothing.

Someone has left their Chanel – how fancy – toiletries bag out, unzipped. A dark blue toothbrush sticks out, and I take it before anyone comes in. Its bristles are a deep red (it must be some form of FCB themed?), and it looks relatively unused. And I don't have a choice. I also find a small tube of toothpaste, so, not wanting to waste time, I race off to the bathroom to use it.

I come back five minutes later, shoving the toothbrush into my bag to hide the evidence. Turning to put the toothpaste back, I realise I must have knocked the black, leather bag over in my rush and its contents are scattered all over the floor. It is then that I notice the initials embroidered into the front. It is then that I also notice the person standing in the doorway.

"You are going to pick this up?" Her steely glare shifts from me to her conditioner that has somehow cracked open in the commotion and is giving the floor a deep hair treatment. I am glad I brushed my teeth, because she walks towards me, stopping only when we are ten centimetres apart. "That is mine." Her fingers brush mine as she snatches the toothpaste from my loose grip.

Alexia holds up the black bag. "A. P. Alexia. Putellas." I hate that I can't look her in the eye, embarrassed about the situation. "Here, in Spain, we do not destroy the things of others. Not of our captain, especially."

"Sí, La Reina," I snarl, finding my voice and recovering my confidence. "Mi capitana."

Her lips purse as she forms a response, and I raise my eyebrows to enhance my victory. I am definitely winning this one. She inhales sharply, but examines my face and backs down. "T'odio molt," she sighs heavily. I can't understand Catalan, but I get what she means.

"The feeling is mutual," I say, before walking through her rather than around her to get to the exit. I wish I had stayed to see her face.

━━━━━━━

This is only the beginning of a gruelling two weeks. I check my tracker app, finding my suspicions to have been correct. Before my period, everything in my life sours or dies or explodes. It's like my whole world acts like it is going to be destroyed, until the bleeding stops and it calms down again.

Scarlett always said it was a good thing that my periods were so irregular. Like, once every three months. It's better that it comes now than later on this month when we have our Champions League game against Roma.

The day I start my period is the day Alexia drills us mercilessly in a mandatory session before the actual training day commences. We do sprints and about two thousand simple passes, and she gets so irritated at Clàudia that she goes red in the face while shouting at her in Catalan. When I look at Mapi for answers, she can only shrug.

For me, the intense session isn't out of the ordinary. Alexia and I are still having our midfield-specific training sessions, though other midfielders are being invited less. Jonatan has shifted the focus from playing style to developing more skill, insisting we spend the sessions 1-v-1-ing because it is wasteful to not make the two best players in the world play against each other. I think he is being unnecessarily difficult, considering he is very aware of the nature of our relationship. He must have seen us getting into the same car together, because he refuses to accept how genuine my complaints about her are. Those car journeys are still terrible.

Most of us are trying to recover in time for the actual day of training to start, sprawled across the grass and drowning ourselves in water from our water bottles, when Alexia stands and demands everyone's attention. Sandra looks as if she is going to get up and put a stop to this, but the captain's face is formidable and her eyes shine so fiercely that it feels wrong to make eye contact. With the sun in front of her, she looks like she is a glowing warrior, about to slaughter us. I ignore her opening sentence in favour of spreading back out on my back.

Until she starts speaking in English. And it's hard for me to ignore her, because I don't have to actively listen to attempt to understand.

"It is unacceptable to be so lazy. Like we are being." It has been two days since we beat Villarreal 5-0. "Bad passes, slow running. In the midfield, we lose the ball on the right." I furrow my eyebrows as the team stare at me, expecting my protests to have been screamed out by now. I wait for her to say more. "Some of us play too selfishly, giving the ball away to the opposition because she tries to nutmeg them and fails. Because she–"

"I assisted two goals in the last game," I state, standing up so the conversation feels like it's just Alexia and me, instead of the whole team being present. "And, last time I checked, you have nutmegged me three times, while I have done it to you a good twenty."

"You are keeping score?" She quirks an eyebrow, smirking. She hums in amusement. "Like a fan."

"Oh, yes, because you are so great, mi capitana!" I exclaim sarcastically.

"I am, thank you."

"You are unbelievable," I mutter. Then, louder; "You are so disappointed with your own underwhelming performance that you are punishing all of us. This excessive exercise will not benefit the team, and you know that. Or maybe you are deluding yourself. You are such an arrogant person that your own pride gets in the way of everything you do. Look at them" – I gesture to the team lying on the floor – "they are exhausted, and it's only ten o'clock! This is crazy, Alexia. Fucking madness."

"It is for their own good," she bites back, cheeks flushed from anger. "We played badly. Forget the score. Your passing does not exist."

"I assisted two goals!" I shout at her, stepping over Lucy to get closer. She puffs out her chest. "I played better than you, and this isn't about the team. Jonatan spoke to you, and now you have to punish everyone, not just me. So, instead of that being a deterrent, you go through with it like a fucking psychopath."

"Jona said that I did not need to feel threatened," she drawls, closing more of the distance between us. I fight the urge to move back, squaring my shoulders instead. "He said you were nothing compared to me." I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. "Nothing," she repeats; a whisper.

"Don't worry, capitana. I am nothing compared to you here in Barcelona. But on the international stage – sorry. Do you know what that is? Or have you forgotten?" I tilt my head to the side, hoping I appear smug in spite of the pounding in my chest. I know that this is the end of the argument, but I wait an excruciatingly long minute for her to stew in her lack of response. One of the girls clears her throat uncomfortably below us, but neither me nor Alexia breaks our stare to determine who it was.

She backs down by rolling her eyes and turning around, stalking off in one direction. I storm off in the other, still fuming.

The fucking nerve to say that in front of everyone. To expose what has been going on pretty much in private. To make me sound like an absolute dickhead for stooping so low. She is such a bitch. A conniving, manipulative, dreadful, annoying, hot, heinous, hateful, arrogant, cocky, bossy bitch.

Ik haat haar.

I tell Jonatan that I will be taking the day off. 

notes:

a short but fiery chapter to kick off fleur's return from the international window with a bang!

bear in mind, this story is from fleur's perspective and she doesn't like alexia. she's not necessarily an awful person (obvi not i love her so much)

t'odio molt = i hate you so much 

ik haat haar = i hate her

thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed the drama xx