Beating South Africa comes with more devastation than happiness for me in particular.

Although I play well, creating both goals and proving why I am the favourite to win this year's Ballon d'Or, I cannot pretend that I don't know what this means. When Mum hugs me tightly from the stands – an unspoken confirmation of her support from afar (which has always been the issue) – I cannot forget the bracket Andries showed us yesterday; the road to World Cup victory. A road which requires us to bulldoze over Spain.

Unfortunately for me, my evening does not improve. Mum's attendance somehow requires me to go to dinner with her, and it is annoying that I do not have the excuse of a flight there to get me out of it. We leave tomorrow – a fact she knows.

She takes me to an Italian restaurant in the harbour; one that is teeming with people. No one bats an eye at my wet hair, though the team-issued kit may be interesting to some. Of course, the Aussies know about the World Cup that is happening. They probably don't care.

The last time I went to dinner with Mum was when Jaimie won her semi-final match in the Roland Garros last year, and that was with Papa, too, so there was a different elephant in the room.

Tonight, it is just us. Mum and me and the blaring siren between us that screams 'something is wrong'. Because it is. It always has been.

"Flootz, are you still angry with me?" she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she is scolding a smaller, younger version of myself. The meal is nearly over. I am close to escaping.

I slide my fork across the remaining pasta in the bowl in front of me, not wanting to meet her eyes. Jaimie has her eyes. There is something genetic about the way they see straight through me. "Nee, Mum," I mumble, smiling. Forcing it.

"I thought we sorted this."

"Exactly." I hear how I have lost my accent when I speak; the neutrality stark in contrast to her Australian one. I used to sound like a native speaker.

She sighs again, almost viscerally. "Darling, you are being a little bit unreasonable. I mean, when was the last time you visited home?"

"I'm not angry with you, Mum," I insist, choosing to focus on my next opponent. It will be a tough match to play against Spain, feelings aside. "I just don't have the time to be here. The season is busy and Jaimie comes up enough for me to forget that she lives in Melbourne. You never visit."

"You never want me to," she replies.

"I..." It would be nice. "I want you to. At some point."

"I'd like to go to Barcelona."

I wait. She has to fix this. She's the one who left.

"Come home if the World Cup doesn't go to plan. We miss you."

Weirdly, it leaves a slight warmth settling inside of me as I get a taxi back to the team hotel.

That warmth is ripped from my body the moment I remember the details of our next match.

Lieke is the one who tries to calm me down about it, seeing as it is hard to even read Alexia's messages now that I know one of us has to lose.

"You've played against each other so many times. You're literally rivals." I groan, head in my hands, not wanting to listen to Lieke's logic and reason. She whispers it frantically into my ear, cautious of curious ears (Jill and the like) and the coach's general sleepy atmosphere. "Fleur, it won't be any different."

"But it will," I mutter, words muffled by my palms, "because I, like, don't hate her now."

"You're not the only footballer to have played against their girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"You know what I meant," Lieke says, her exasperation only increasing as the conversation goes on.

"She's not my girlfriend," I grumble again, just wanting to make sure she understands.

"Think positively. At least you'll get to see her sooner than you thought you would."

I let out another noise of sheer frustration. I think it's Lieke's eye roll that I hear in response.

━━━━━━━

There's a pit in my stomach as the morning of the match approaches with relentless haste. It's unforgiving. I can't eat.

The bus is buzzing in anticipation, any complacency we held about being champions of Europe once upon a time thwarted by our film session yesterday. Spain are good, and we'd be fools to think this is going to be easy.

Wellington Regional is a familiar stadium to both teams. There is no advantage there.

Our changing room is tidy and clean – ready to host us – and my shirt hangs from inside the cubby with a menacing boldness. I'm starting today, but Daan has gotten too many yellow cards to even play. With her suspended, I will have to work twice as hard. I gulp down an energy drink before I pull my warm-up shirt over my head.

Someone taps my shoulder just after the material has settled comfortably on top of me. I turn around, wondering why Lieke is smirking at me. "What?" I ask, confused.

"Go outside and then turn left into the first room you see," she instructs.

I roll my eyes at her. "We're on the same team. Why are you trying to murder me?"

"I'm not. Just do it." It's not often that Lieke is so serious, though her smirk is still present despite the gravity of her gaze. "It'll be good for you. Expend your nervous energy before you combust."

And that gets my attention. Not for the innuendo it seems to bear, but for the interest of what exactly is going to happen if I obey. So, begrudgingly, I put on my sliders – Coca-Cola sent me a pair of red ones after we agreed that the whole Scarlett scandal was not detrimental to my public image and they extended their sponsorship deal once more – and trudge out of the changing room, leaving the safety of my team to venture out into something that makes the quarter-final seem a lot more real.

Following Lieke's directions, I walk a few paces until I reach a closed (possibly locked) door on the left. It looks like a storage cupboard. I try not to get my hopes up about what meeting could have been arranged.

Before I can apprehensively knock, the handle turns with a click and I am tugged inside so quickly that I don't register what is happening until I'm pushed against the other side of the door. It's not an act of aggression from the scary cupboard goblin, but rather a way to make space. I was right: it's a storage cupboard, and a full one at that.

Then, the light flicks on, and my heart races for a reason other than my seemingly impending murder.

"Sorry," Alexia apologises upon seeing the sheer terror plastered on my face. My eyes widen more. I hadn't prepared myself for this. It's one thing to play against Alexia Putellas, the woman I must beat if I am to become the best in the world. It's another to play against Alexia, who smiles when I hum and blushes if I FaceTime her while wearing a tank top. In my mind, they have to be two different people: one whom I detest, and the other, a face I could consider being the one I wake up to for the rest of my life.

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I stand there, gaping at her, surprised that she isn't a figment of my imagination – some made-up number that I have been calling in my dreams, deluded and on the road to being clinically insane.

"Sorry," she repeats, a little more concerned than the first time. "Did Lieke not–"

My mind works twice as hard to form a sentence as I take in her appearance, eyes working properly now. She is also in her warm-up kit, pink hair not yet scraped back into its usual ponytail however. I want to run my hands through it. "I didn't think I'd get to see you until we were on the pitch," I get out, somewhat breathlessly. "I..."

"I hope you play well."

The formality is awkward, as if she is restraining herself. "The same for you," I reply anyway. The professionalism is nauseating.

"Your runs down the left-wing are essential for your team's attack. Remember to stay alert so you can shorten your reaction ti–" She is less than an arm's reach away, which I discover as I pinch the front of her shirt, pulling her towards me, cutting off her analysis of my playing style with a chaste press of my lips to hers.

She blinks at me, surprised. "Not the time," I tell her simply, kissing her again.

"Sorry," she mumbles into it, heat rising on her cheeks. I feel it easily as I press myself against her, wrapping my arms around her neck. Her fingers dig into my hips as she kisses me back with a lazy passion only her arrogance is capable of producing. She knows she's good at this, relishing in the way I affirm her talent with a needy whimper as she slips her tongue into my mouth.

But we forget ourselves only momentarily. Or, at least, I do.

I push her off me before we end up missing our respective warm-ups (by creating our own), much to her objection.

"I guess we will have to arrange something for another time," I say, enjoying the way my heart pounds in my chest, slowly becoming addicted to that feeling. Alexia seems to lose her whiny neediness instantly, prodding my stomach to urge me to continue. I frown. "Don't make me say it."

"I want you to say it." She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand – a crude gesture that should absolutely not turn me on. "Go on."

I slide my hand across the cold wood of the door, wrapping my fingers around its handle so that I can make my escape at some point. Or force myself out of here before I decide I'd much prefer to quit my job and join the scary cupboard goblin and have storage-cupboard babies. We could use the shelves as bunk beds, I'm sure.

"Maybe," I start, slowly. "Maybe we could... when we get back..." I clear my throat. "We could go on a date?"

"Hm," Alexia says. "I'll think about it."

My glare still works on her, I'm glad to find.

"Thought. Decision made," she hurriedly corrects. "I'd love to."

I open the door slightly, but she grabs my wrist, preventing me from leaving without exposing the both of us. "Can I have one last kiss before I beat you?" comes her innocent request, not waiting for my answer before she has worked my mouth open and is–

"You're going to get us in trouble. Save it for when you congratulate me on my win."

I am only a minute late to the warm-up, and the trainers don't think anything of it. Alexia, however, appears a few minutes after me, her coach hissing at her angrily, though his voice is hushed and his body language is as minimal as he can get it. The only person who really takes it upon themselves to say anything is Lieke, whose grin could give us away to at least Aitana. I don't give my teammate the details of what happened in the storage cupboard, but I do thank her for telling me to go. She says she is glad I have accepted the burden of distracting Spain's best player, even though said player is not starting.

When the whistle is blown, I forget about the Alexia who holds most of my affection. I set out to completely destroy the Spanish National Team and their hateful coach. 

notes: 

my life has not improved

my ex slid into my dms (*this is alarming news*) and i am actually ill now x

BUT i like this section of the plot so i might update later on today (because i realise it's like one am)

also, the reason for this time of update is because i was craving a pumpkin spice latte because my friend had one the other day and so i went to starbucks at like 11pm and bought one?? as if caffeine doesn't exist????? so im suffering now and ive got to meet my friend to go climbing (the same friend btw, who i will be blaming for my sleepless night) in like eight hours which is going to be fun. im gonna fall off the walls (thankfully ropes exist right) if i dont sleep soon tbh 

anyway

hope you liked this chapter where they interact in person without arguing!

thanks for reading xx