The next two weeks before the season starts are hectic. We double-down on training in preparation to dominate completely once again, and it is intense to be filmed almost every day.

The crew joined me the evening before the Ballon d'Or nominees were announced, mostly to ensure my reaction was well-documented seeing as I am lined up to win this year. They stayed for a bottle of champagne because Jaimie couldn't be there, and neither could Papa nor Mum. Talia was in a similar predicament, but apparently celebrated by finding someone to sleep with under an unassuming fake identity. "It was like celebration sex, except with a severe lack of emotion and anything meaningful," she said.

Aside from football, there has been a slight development off the pitch, in that Alexia and I went on our first official date just two days ago. It took place during a lull in training, brought about by the impending first match and how the staff do not want to injure us all.

Under strict instructions not to embarrass me (and definitely contradicting orders from my sister), I was only filmed before and after, with no guarantee of it making the final cut. Olivia helped me get ready once Esmee had left for another one of her self-discovery walks – something the poor girl has taken up after deeming herself camera-shy and abstaining from any involvement in the irritating process of filming a documentary. Although I was technically the one who asked, I let Alexia choose. I had not expected to be sent such a strict dress code.

We went to a place where she would have had to name-drop to get a reservation, unless she had planned the date months in advance and had neglected to inform me. Though the food was beautifully plated and paired well with the endlessly served glasses of wine, the company was much better. Despite spending a good hour discussing the surprise of Talia's loan to Manchester United (slight mood-killer), the date was successful, and there will be more.

Captured by the cameras post-date was only a tipsy rambling of how it went. "It's gold," Olivia repeated to me the next morning as I forbade her from ever letting it see the light of day. "You are so incredibly smitten. It will humanise you!"

As if to add to my stress, Papa decides to visit, with travel plans to Madrid and all. I have no space to house him, but he is content to be redirected to a nice hotel in the gothic quarter and explore the city by himself while Esmee and I meal-prep for the week and discuss how it is a big deal that she will most-likely make her debut for such a massive club soon, but that I am definitely more nervous to play that match than she is. "Daddy issues don't trump young success," she insists, but I refuse to agree and we spend the entire journey to Madrid arguing in hushed, sharp Dutch.

I am sure the other girls are scared of how we sound, but no one mentions anything until we arrive. Even then, it's only Ingrid, and with an amused frown; "Caro is too good at Spanish for us to do that. She refuses and claims I need the practice."

"Fleur gets in enough practice with–" But I cup my hand over Esmee's mouth and drag her away before she can finish. When we are in our room, which I had to beg Jonaton to let us share, she is content to continue on her never-ending pursuit of driving me insane. "Are you going to sleep in here, or are you going to sneak out and cuddle with your girlfriend?"

"Not my girlfriend."

"So you are!" She grins and I push her onto one of the beds very easily. I have been bullied by Jaimie my whole life, but now I have someone to use what I have learnt on.

"As a matter of fact," I begin, rolling my eyes, "I'm going to call my beloved sister and beg her to lose her final so that I am the better daughter tomorrow." As if Leah and Jaimie weren't disgusting enough already, they have been shameless in how happy they are to be reunited, seeing as Leah took four days off to surprise her girlfriend. While not necessarily a 'hard launch', they are doing a brilliant job of shoving their relationship in everyone's faces. Including mine.

(I know it's just a provocation to get me to spill about the date and the next ten I have already been asked on, but I am holding out because depriving them of information is always funny. They are both very impatient people.)

"It won't be that bad, Fleur."

Esmee's attempt at comfort is pathetic and I carry on being nervous until my two feet are planted solidly on the grass and I am able to throw myself into the match.

"You look worried," Alexia says in the changing room at half time, sounding just as bad as I feel. She tries to make our conversation as subtle as possible, in the hopes of remaining professional (and in avoidance of the embarrassment only a plethora of 'I told you so's brings). I wonder if it is just me who sees the way her hands reach upwards to brush my cheeks but fall short when they remember where they are. "Do you need to come off?"

"No, it's alright." I frown, though I am not sure if my lips are capable of deepening my expression. "He doesn't look too impressed. I thought the nomination would... Never mind." She is curious, but she doesn't push her luck. I barge past her just as a few of the girls begin to look our way. The team doesn't need to know that we are aware of the specific nature of the tension between us now. It is maybe not what it was all along, but it developed somewhere and it is really not dissolving.

Thankfully, the match ends in our favour with two goals to none. I procrastinate by making sure I talk to every single fan who beckons for my attention, and it is easy to then be swept up in small celebrations and media duties. There is a time when I have to bite the bullet, though.

Papa hugs me over the barrier, kissing my cheek. "Good match," he says decidedly, relieving about seventy tonnes from my shoulders.

"Are we still on for dinner tomorrow?" I ask, trying to mask the surprise in my tone. When he announced his visit, I instantly poached a recommendation from Alexia and booked a table for the two of us somewhere nice.

"Of course." He pats me on the back, but it feels more like a dismissal than his approval. "Spend time with your team. I need to call Jai – she has just won in San Diego."

My face almost falls, but I maintain my smile. "Tell her I say congratulations." I am being earnest. I'm glad Jaimie has won, especially after her streak was broken in the semi-finals of the US Open.

"This makes her safer in the number one spot."

"Good, good."

"If you win the Ballon d'Or, you'll be on your way to becoming as successful as she is." I nod dutifully. I watch him wave at Esmee, who has snuck up on us. I let them introduce themselves and have their own conversation as his words sink in.

It is hard being the younger sister of Jaimie de Voss. My whole life, I have been held to an almost incomparable standard and measured against her in all that I do. Papa can't help himself – he is the biggest culprit.

Jaimie is clever in a way that I am not. She likes maths and science, understands them more than has ever computed in my brain, and, obviously, to a man whose life revolves around accountancy, it gives her something more to talk about with him.

Jaimie is prettier, with nicer eyes and a better smile, a picture of a promise that I'd get those too. A broken promise, I'd like to think.

Jaimie survived the divorce as though we were never abandoned. She fought for two parents, and she kept them both. She is loved so fiercely by Mum that she felt as though she needed to be in Australia, but has nurtured a relationship with Papa that flourishes despite the distance.

Jaimie is successful. Her wins are her own. If she has a bad game, she loses; if I have a bad game, I am taken off. She doesn't even have bad games, and she has won every big title there is.

Jaimie is the best tennis player in the world. She has been holding the number one spot for thirty-four weeks, with her total being just shy of eighty.

What am I?

I left Australia with no medal; I left England equally empty-handed. Papa displays my silver awards as if they are gold, and expects less of me. Jaimie is jealous – she's told me this before – but she doesn't understand how crushing it is to know that he sees coming second as an achievement for me, because that is all I ever seem to achieve. She envies something that insults me.

"I think we should head inside," I blurt as my spiral ends – as I stand in the eye of the hurricane – and I decide that it would be best for me to leave now before I start crying. Esmee and Papa look at me curiously, and then my teammate nods with a hint of realisation.

"It was nice to meet you, Pieter," says Esmee with a wave goodbye before walking past the clamouring fans, weaving in and out of the sought-after campeonas del puto mundo.

"Safe travels back to Barcelona, yeah? Don't hesitate to call me if you need help." I half-expect him to reply that Jaimie is only a tap of a button away, but he just smiles and sends me off. I try not to think too intensely about it.

On the way home, I make sure to message my sister about her impending comeback, head resting on Alexia's shoulder as the team sleeps. It's easy to operate under the cover of muscle fatigue and mental exhaustion, and the only other person awake is our manager, who stops by our seats briefly to request the captain's earlier presence at recovery tomorrow.

By the time everyone is awake, Alexia and I have parted, with me slipping into the empty seat beside Esmee and her spreading out across two spaces as if she had always had the row to herself. Slowly, we reach the station and disembark, glad to have arrived in Barcelona with one win under our belts. Celebrations will no doubt be more enthusiastic once everyone has recharged.

Esmee and I head to the apartment via the twenty-hour supermarket, picking up a few supplies for dinner. She either does not care that I am making an extra portion of food, or she already knows who it is for. It is obvious that it was always the latter when she opens the front door to Alexia with an embarrassing lack of surprise.

"Eso huele bien." Alexia hasn't changed out of her travel clothes, but neither have we. The lights of the extractor fan are the only ones illuminating the kitchen, and Esmee has the TV on but she is barely looking at the screen, glued to the pages of a book instead. "¿Cuándo llegan las cámaras?"

"Not tonight," I say quietly, leaning into her as she wraps her arms around my waist. "They're holding off until the Ballon d'Or, with the promise that it will all be over soon."

"December isn't soon."

"It's closer than January," I sigh.

"I wish I could come with you to the Ballon d'Or. To see you win, but to see Talia, too." She speaks in Spanish, softly, but I see Esmee perk up nonetheless. However, we remain uninterrupted. "We are arguing again," she confesses into my ear, lips brushing my skin with a lazily concealed intimacy that I really didn't want Esmee to bear witness too, no matter the distance.

"Stop being so hard on her," comes my easy solution. "Manchester is a nice city, and Manchester United is a nice club. How is she supposed to play if she is competing with Mead, Miedema, and a variety of more experienced strikes than her?"

"That is not what we were arguing about."

I dish out the food onto three plates, and Alexia helps me bring them and cutlery to the table, where Esmee is already seated.

"What were you arguing about?" I ask carefully, checking my salmon for any bones before digging in.

"Fleur, kun je me alsjeblieft water halen?" Esmee's tone mismatches her question humorously, and Alexia freezes over her plate with a false sense of being unwelcome. I glare at the twenty-year-old, but she shrugs. "Als jij in het Spaans spreekt, spreek ik in het Nederlands. Ik ben moe."

"No, get it yourself." It's a sign for us all to speak in English, which I know Alexia is not a fan of. I shoot her a matching glare to what Esmee has just received, and she acquiesces. "Alexia, are you going to stay over?"

She blushes.

"You can, if you want," says Esmee with unneeded reassurance. "I'll just sleep next to the toilet in case I feel like throwing up."

"Stop it."

"And you have to close your door and keep it quiet."

"Esmee." She giggles. "Ignore her, she has the maturity of a spoon." A chair scrapes against the hardwood floor, and the lethargy of such a late-night meal is broken by Alexia standing up to take a phone call. With that, I point my fork towards Esmee to stop her amusement. "She's arguing with someone she loves, she's tired, and she doesn't want to speak English, let alone be made fun of."

"You're wielding that like a weapon." I jab it towards her jokingly and she raises her hands in surrender. "Fine, I'll stop. Forgive me for trying to have fun while being the designated third-wheel of your relationship."

I roll my eyes. "We're still not official, you know, so hold off your teasing until we're actually together."

That night, it feels official. In the same bed, pyjamas comfortably on, content to be touching but not blinded by passion, the emotions between us feel a lot older than a few weeks. Maybe they have always existed, buried deep, deep down. Or maybe they are new, but are so natural that they have grown at an immense pace and become so solid that it is difficult to remember what life felt like without Alexia's slow breathing and warm body beside me.

The next day passes pleasantly. Jonatan does not say anything about the train, and we have not yet been brought into his office for his infamous professionalism talk. In fact, the last time I was told off seems like an age ago, despite Alexia and I keeping up appearances in front of the team. While less frosty than before, I think we do a good enough job to remove the idea of us from their heads.

Papa meets me at the restaurant, dressed in one of his work suits as though it is not nine o'clock in the evening. In response to my disapproval, he is quick to remind me, "work never stops. Success happens at all hours."

He's on a business trip, but I am glad he has not made a point to tell me that. He had a meeting in Barcelona the day he arrived, and one in Madrid the day of the match. I do not put more thought into it, for fear of giving myself a migraine, and accept that it has at least worked in my favour.

We arrive at the restaurant with punctuality, and he surprises me with his grasp of Spanish as he takes the lead in situating us at our table with both a drinks menu and the full list of specials for tonight.

"When did this happen?" I question, amused.

"Business in Spain means Spanish. Plus, who do you think you get your linguistic ability from?" I consider it for a moment, and realise that we only ever spoke English to Mum. Most of Amsterdam spoke English to Mum. "How is your mother, anyway? She is coming to our half of the world soon, according to Jaimie."

This is news to me. "She was fine when I saw her last. Unhappy about Jaimie moving, I guess. You must be over the moon, though."

"For her to move in with Leah?" He sounds slightly disgusted. "I think she is speeding through an important process, but at least she will be close to home."

"Closer than me."

"Well, you have always loved Spain," says Papa off-handedly. I wait for him to continue. "Do you not remember when I brought you with me to Barcelona? We saw Camp Nou. You said you preferred our stadium." I laugh, and he carries on, "but you were impressed, all the same. And there was a very pretty Spanish waitress who called you adorable and you went so red that I thought you might have had an allergic reaction to the food."

"So at fifteen, when I told you I was gay and you let me sob my heart out, you conveniently neglected to mention that you already knew?"

"Children say things all the time. When you told me you wanted to marry that waitress, I thought you were pretending to be drunk because I'd let you have a sip of my wine. You were only four or five."

"Papa," I start, forcing myself to go on, "that story is actually quite funny, because–" A flash of familiar blonde hair leads me to cut myself off. "I need the toilet." He nods and opens his menu.

I am sure that Alexia thinks she is about to be kidnapped when I grab her by the arm. She tenses, which is unfair because it causes her biceps to flex underneath her jacket and I am almost suddenly thrust into a very forgiving mood, but it only takes a second for her to realise it's me. Then, she stands still, leaving us more or less in the middle of the restaurant, with an entire group of her friends watching our interaction as if they are locked and loaded with a thousand things to say.

So, I drag her to the bathroom, slamming the door behind us.

"When I asked if you knew of a good place to take my father to dinner, it wasn't an invitation for you to come as well," I grumble, though there is no real anger behind my tone.

"If I didn't know who you were with, I'd think you were on a date," she replies, eyeing my outfit hungrily, throwing a quick glance towards the closed bathroom door.

"Is that a compliment?"

She moves closer, causing me to back myself into the sinks. "No, but this is." She leans into me, hands taking purchase on my hips. "You look beautiful."

"Alexia, this is not the time."

"That man puts you so on-edge." She chuckles to herself. "I suggested we eat here tonight in case he said something that made you just as upset as you were in Madrid, but it seems to be going well."

"He was telling me about my forgotten gay awakening," I groan, letting my head flop forwards, chin resting on her shoulder. "Some Spanish woman."

"Have you always had a thing for Spanish women?"

"No, I've been put off by this one insufferable footballer who refuses to leave me alone. You might know her? Alexia Putellas?"

I don't expect her to turn the sink on and push me into the basin with the evilest of laughs I have ever heard. She doesn't expect me to pull her down with me. 

notes: 

¿Cuándo llegan las cámaras? = when are the cameras coming

Als jij in het Spaans spreekt, spreek ik in het Nederlands. Ik ben moe. = if you're speaking Spanish, i'm speaking dutch. i'm tired. 

lol I did this instead of my work

thanks for reading!!!!