The city of Barcelona lives and breathes football. Its bricks are cemented with it; its trees nourished with it; its pavements and cobblestones and paths walked on by heroes of the game. Heroines, too.

They have given us every accessory imaginable to wear, all of it red and blue. Talia's face as Pina wraps her in a scarf, slotting a flag into her clenched fist, is something that the club's content team avoids, happily focusing on Lucy Bronze's newfound Spanishness. The club isn't really allowed to post me too much until the end of the season, though the Champions League final is an exception. I am under the protection of my agent's very convincing case, and am still technically in a 'mourning period'. (Not at all legally binding, but the Barcelona board gave their word that they would carry out my wishes as long as I put pen to paper and signed the damn contract.)

With this safety blanket, Talia and I operate... under the radar. We let our teammates' dreams come true, like they do every day they wake up and put on a Barcelona shirt. Of course, I celebrate with them now, proud of what we have achieved. Proud of what I have achieved. But, mostly, Talia and I stick to the middle of the bus, pressed together to avoid the wild movements of the others, grateful to be experiencing this moment, and happy to experience it passively.

I take a deep breath, searching for a moment of peace within the cheering. Everyone around me is so full of passion, and I don't feel the same. Maybe I will in a year, or at the end of my contract. It is a privilege to be able to feel so strongly about something. I think about how it felt coming third in the BeNe when I played for Ajax. The disappointment was crushing, but the pride to play for my team, my club, was immense. Wearing the shirt I belonged in was better than winning. I'd like to go home someday, when the league is competitive enough to be a challenge, not a domination. Maybe, in four years, it will develop, and I can return as soon as my contract here expires.

I want to be filled with the passion that has Alexia precariously perched on the edge of the bus, knowing that if she falls, she will land into an ocean of her worshippers. The emotion that has the girls losing their voices, screaming at the top of their lungs. I miss feeling like that.

"So." I nudge Talia, the noise flooding back into my ears with an alarming loudness, confetti falling into my eyes so that it is hard to see. This must be so unsafe. "How is your girlfriend?"

She places her hand on my arm as if to brace me for impact. "We are not together. There is a lot that is happening, and she understands."

"But there is someone?" I smirk and she knows what I'm really after. "You know, I sometimes think that people think we join new teams and use it as Tinder. I mean, Tali, a month is quick to be sneaking around with... Patri?"

"No!" She recoils from me, disgusted. I giggle, having gotten the effect I'd wanted. "No, no, no. You are very invasive, and you already know. You saw us."

Did I?

I wrack my brain for some kind of memorable and unfortunate event that has happened recently, the first that comes to mind being Jaimie and Leah's disgusting conversations where they don't shut up about how they miss each other. I would rather hear about how good the English captain is in bed than sit through another one of those phone calls, and that was an excruciating lunch. The only thing that isn't related to them is from earlier today.

"The girls against the wall? When I was–"

"With Alexia."

Oh. I see where this is going. She is going to turn this onto me, raising her eyebrows with the same hunger for information in her eyes that mine possessed only a moment ago.

"We were analysing Wolfsburg together, and she wanted to get lunch."

"In a romantic place." The lunch was far from romantic. Alexia glared at the waitress half of the time. "Then you walked her dog together." Because we were making our way back to the building. "And you were touching!"

"No, we weren't," I snort.

"Her hand and your hand were–" She mimes one of those terribly cheesy parts in movies where the irritatingly stubborn main characters let their fingers brush over and over until they both finally give in. Which is not what happened.

It was a second of contact, and then she stepped away.

And I was glad she did.

I think.

(It did make hearing what she had to say harder, and she did find her way back to me no less than a minute later, but Talia doesn't need to know any of this.)

"I don't know why you're obsessing over this, Talia. It's not going to happen. I am fairly sure I have never had a chance with her. She hates me." It's mutual. It always has been. No one stares at you that hard at events without harbouring some kind of emotion for you, and it has been clear from the minute I joined this club that she is not my biggest fan.

Alexia, as though she knows we are talking about her, catches my eye. My heart jumps as Patri knocks her, terrified she will fall, but she seems secure where she is and continues to stare. "You want a chance with her, no?" But I don't hear what else she has to say, too distracted by the person watching me. It's creepy. It's making my skin crawl. Tingle, even.

━━━━━━━

Frenkie pulls me into a conversation when we get off the buses. He is my counterpart, in a sense, though he often takes on more of a defensive role than I ever could. We were born a month apart.

Despite our obvious connection, he is better friends with my sister, and is mostly asking me about when she will be returning to the tour. He likes to watch her play. Papa is constantly pestering us to invite him to Amsterdam with us, which both Jaimie and I agree is never going to happen.

Hovering behind us, Mapi waits patiently, intrigued by our conversation. She can't understand a word – except for maybe 'ja' – but she enjoys learning languages and is giving me a lift home because Jaimie has stolen my car. I glance at her, nodding towards Ingrid, and she sighs in defeat. "Go without me," I say, seeing the exhaustion set in. Today has been like clubbing without the alcohol to help dull our aching muscles. I'll just order a taxi to take me back.

"Anyway, so you must visit me," Frenkie carries on. This is the first time we have spoken properly since I arrived in Barcelona, and he has apologised for not reaching out. "Our pool has been fixed, and I know that they don't pay you enough for you to live in your own mansion. Mine is ready and waiting, Fleur. You should have said something sooner!"

I laugh, finding his generosity slightly funny. It's a shame that I am like his charity case. "You know, sometimes I regret not becoming a tennis player myself. Jaimie made, like, €17 million last year, and I didn't break €500k." Jaimie, with all of her money, has taken herself and Juan to Menorca for a two-day relaxation retreat before they go to France. Coach and player are probably enjoying champagne and caviar right now.

"Ja, but you get to play for Barcelona with the girl version of Messi." It's not all sunshine and rainbows, but I don't burst his bubble. "She is so good. Half the players I know should be told to sit down and pay attention to her master class. You can tell that you're using her to get better. I watched your Champions League match. You have improved."

"Wow, thanks," I say, rolling my eyes.

"No, no. It's a good thing. And it's nice that you are–" My glare makes him rethink the end of that sentence, to which he flushes red with embarrassment. "No? She is waiting to take you home, by the way."

"She isn't..." Is she? Because it would be convenient, and it's not like she has to go out of her way. Frenkie nods at me, and prods my shoulder to indicate I should turn around.

"See you soon," he says, making a quick escape from the tense silence Alexia has trapped me in.

She doesn't make an effort to walk towards me, so we stay frozen like this until I acquiesce and follow her to her car. We have an understanding, I think. Sometimes I just... get what she means.

Her grin returns, unable to be defeated by the fact that we are right back where we started: silent car journeys home.

After a while, stuck in the inevitable traffic that comes with a big parade, Alexia looks across at me, her smile wide but eyes curious. Confused. "You are not happy."

My answer comes easily and curt. "No."

She taps the steering wheel, but it only seems to thicken the air, suffocating the both of us in an uncomfortableness that we haven't experienced recently. Alexia isn't sure what has made me so miserable; she cannot fathom the idea of someone not being elated at the evening we have just had. For all she knows, Frenkie said something horrible to me that has ruined my day. "What are you then?" she tries, an air of caution to her tone, similar to the feeling of dipping your toes into the water to check its temperature.

And, because she is making an effort, I take the time to consider what is going on inside my brain.

I guess I am a little bit homesick, although it does not feel particularly valid considering I haven't lived in the Netherlands for eight years. At Lyon, I basked in the spotlight and then was too focused on how terrible things were to care. England was different because I had Scarlett, and she became my person. She taught me about the supermarket hierarchies and the hundreds of names for a bread roll. She taught me how to love someone properly; how to laugh and cry together, or argue and then make up. She was compassionate and forgiving, and cleverer than she acknowledged. She should not have had to die, and it was selfish of her to leave me here.

Sometimes, I really wish Scarlett would come back and give me a hug. A short one, even.

"I'm tired," I reply, but Alexia is expecting more. With Jaimie unavailable to talk to, I suppose my captain is not the worst person to share my thoughts with. The psychologist at the club has been valiantly trying to convince me of this. Apparently, she can help. "Mentally tired. A lot has happened, and it's stressful. The final gets closer every day. I have never wanted to win something more in my life, and I have won it before."

Alexia knows that our national team may struggle without Viv at the World Cup. As much as it is about my own performance, us getting knocked out early will make it hard for me to put forward my case. I have to win the Champions League if I want a chance for the Ballon d'Or, and I don't think I can deal with losing again.

"You have," she agrees. "Twice."

Alexia hums, deep in thought.

"If you want to win, we have to work. I have more footage to watch."

I grin at her, though it must look strained; the muscles in my face are aching from earlier's show. "Okay. Let's do it."

She comes with me to top up Oli's food bowl and get my notebook, and we are settled on her sofa five minutes later, the footage of Wolfsburg's group stage match against Roma playing on Alexia's TV.

For the second time today, I am reading my notes, adding to them, and crossing out statements that are not entirely correct. All in Alexia's company.

Growing cold in my shorts and t-shirt, the red paint Mapi had smeared over me doing nothing to keep me warm, I shiver.

Andressa Alves has scored the last goal before half-time, and Alexia leans towards the coffee table to get the remote control. She looks at me briefly, standing up while fast-forwarding through the advert break, and pulls out a blanket from the wicker basket beside the sofa, handing it to me without hesitation.

I accept it gratefully as she sits back down, unfolding the soft material and draping it over myself, pulling my legs onto the sofa. My feet press against the side of Alexia's muscular thigh, but she says nothing.

When Alexia also appears to be cold, I nudge her leg with my foot, getting her attention. She looks up from her notebook, wondering what I want to show her now. I simply kick the blanket over her legs, scrunching myself up smaller so as to not invade her personal space. The game becomes uninteresting, and my eyelids grow heavy. It's becoming hard to stay awake.

"Fleur," she says, and I let the notebook drop into my lap, using what remains of my energy to keep my eyes open. "You can relax."

She gently moves my feet onto her lap so that I am no longer so squashed, and Alexia's sofa becomes very comfortable. I'm warm, and there are the familiar sounds of football in the background. Her pen scrapes against the pages of her notebook with a quiet determination; one that is existing alongside my exhaustion. It holds no judgement towards me.

I think one last thing before my eyes flutter shut: I could fall asleep here. 

notes: 

im so tired so this is not proof read (as if any other chapter is tho lol)

i put this off by watching the spanish girls celebrate in madrid. them singing along to queen made me want to die. salt in the wound.

i do actually promise that we're nearly there 

like i swear

oh and tennis players like jaimie make a fuck-ton of money it's actually terrifying

thanks for reading!!!