María drives me to my new apartment with her own enthusiastic commentary about the areas we pass through. The city is more metropolitan than Córdoba, but the differences are not unwelcome. We drive past the Sagrada Familia, but María makes a joke about our Mezquita and the Alhambra that resounds with me.

She drives into the underground carpark of my new building, rolling her eyes at the sight before us. Most of the spaces are empty, bar three. Two shiny Cupras next to the old Fiat 500 I bought for a criminally cheap price.

"That one is Alexia's," María says, pulling up next to the cars. She points to the more expensive-looking of the two. "The other is Mapi's. Fleur doesn't like Cupras, though the club tried to give her one." I try to remain calm at the prospect of living in the same building as the best players in the squad, but María sees through my façade easily. She gets out of the car, chuckling to herself, and opens my door for me.

I follow her to the lift that should take us up to my floor. It's smaller than a commercial one, but the sides are panelled with shiny wood and the buttons are a garish gold even if they are tarnished from use. "How many first team players live here?" I ask as smoothly as I can, noticing the floor María has selected. My suitcase and I may encounter some big names, it seems.

"Officially three, not including you. Mapi León is on the sixth floor, often accompanied by Ingrid Engen. Alexia Putellas lives on the fifth floor, and Fleur de Voss on the third. You are on the first." Which means the ride in the lift is short, and we are getting out soon enough. "Each floor has two apartments; A and B. They're all pretty similar, except the third floor and above all have two bathrooms as opposed to one. Since you are not a permanent transfer, the club put you up in 1B following an advert for a roommate from the current resident. You have been sent the details for rent and the landlord's information, yes?"

I nod, having flagged the email with a sense of self-responsibility that comes with moving away. "Are there rules about fangirling?" I joke, accepting the key María offers to me. It slides into the lock with ease, and I pause before opening the door.

"You'll meet them all tomorrow." María squints, as though she is remembering key information. "Apart from Fleur, who is not training at the moment. You shouldn't finish too late, though, so drop by my house when you are done and you can meet her there. Try out your English on her. Her Spanish is barely conversational."

My heartbeat increases dramatically. "Tomorrow?" Of course, I know I have to meet them all eventually, but tomorrow is soon.

"Well they have to train and you have fitness testing, so, yes, tomorrow." Noticing my hesitation to open the door to my new apartment, she gives me a pointed look that is so motherly I feel obliged to obey. I take a deep breath and bite the bullet, revealing my home until my loan expires. María gives me an encouraging hug goodbye, pushing my suitcase in with me as I step inside. She waits in the doorway for me to look ready to be left alone. When I do, she sucks in a satisfied breath through her wide smile. "I will send you my address and check in with you later to ensure you have met your roommate. I'll be at the training ground tomorrow too, so you will see me then. For now, have a nice evening, and get some rest."

I thank her gratefully, glad that she isn't completely abandoning me. She shuts the door behind her as she leaves, and I stand in the middle of the furnished apartment, wondering what I am going to do now.

This is it, I guess. I now live in Barcelona. On my own.

"Fuck, you're here already?" A woman brings me out of my thoughts, hugging me tightly before I can reply. "I'm so sorry. I think I fell into a coma, you know. I was so tired."

She lets me go, and I stumble backwards, surprised. "Are you... Marta?"

"Yeah!" At least she's nice.

Marta's dyed blonde hair is scraped back into a messy ponytail, no doubt ruined by the nap she has just been woken up from. She wears nothing more than an oversized t-shirt that has a bedazzled Eiffel tower in the middle of the black fabric, and her smile is welcoming enough for me to put at ease. She must be around my age.

"You're Natalia, right?"

"I don't really go by my whole name. You can call me Talia." Mamá says that, when I was little, I hated that another girl in my class had the same name. I stomped home one day, furious that we had been confused. Apparently, I had to be talked out of changing my name to my middle name (Elisabet), which is something Mamá rarely mentions, even when she is at her angriest. Each syllable seems to slice a lesion on her tongue. She persuaded me to be called Talia instead.

"Okay. Talia it is," Marta replies happily, unbothered by the fact that we have only just met as she leaps onto the sofa, spreading out among the folded blankets and dirty(?) clothes. "Now that I'm energised, do you want to go out? It's only eight. We've got ages before dinner. There's nothing in the fridge anyway."

I glance at my suitcase. Do I really want to unpack now? Bonding with Marta is surely a priority. It would be horrible to hate the person I live with. "Sure. It would be good to get a feel of the area. Let me change, and then let's go."

"I love you so much already," she giggles, going on her phone as I stalk off to my bedroom, suitcase in tow.

It's devoid of any furniture.

I knew that beforehand, but the reality is still disappointing.

A double mattress has been pushed into the corner, leaving space for a non-existent wardrobe and some drawers, and maybe a sofa if I can afford it. I lay my suitcase down flat, opening it to pull out the sheet Mamá made me bring (I thank her mentally) and a change of clothes that will be nice to go out in.

I feel sticky in my current outfit.

Sheet on the mattress and new clothes on my body, I go to our shared bathroom to check what I look like in the mirror. Marta's make-up fills the shelves of the bathroom cabinet. One of the doors is missing, meaning the mirror is significantly smaller, but it is fine. Marta seems like a bit of a slob, but I will manage.

We walk to a bar nearby, situated in a buzzing plaza full of people who are equally pleased to be out. I know that I want to play in England at some point, but I don't think I could cope with the lack of social interaction in their culture. It would take some getting used to.

Marta offers to get me a drink, but I turn her down, choosing to stick to sparkling water so that I don't have to fight off a hangover tomorrow in front of some of the best players in the world. "Suit yourself," she replies with a cheeky smile, eyeing up the bartender.

On our walk here, we established some house rules. No sleepovers and no sex in shared areas (the bathroom is a different story that we will deal with if or when it happens). I remind her of such before urging her to go talk to him, and then sink into my seat at the table, feeling the exhaustion seep into my bloodstream now that I have come off the adrenaline of the day.

Lazily examining the other patrons around me, I lose myself to the clashing music of the plaza, each restaurant fighting for their playlist to be most easily heard. The battle around us goes unnoticed by most, everyone too engrossed in their own huddled conversations to care about the flamenquito at war with this bar's reguetón. My mouth follows the lyrics to Tití Me Preguntó of its own accord, because my eyes are suddenly doing everything they can to not stare at the familiar face two tables to my right.

What's worse is that she is staring back.

And coming over.

Marta, wrapped up in her conversation with the bartender inside, has not yet returned to occupy the plastic chair opposite me, giving Clàudia Pina the perfect opportunity to take a seat. Her smile is inquisitive and her eyes light up at my lack of enthusiasm. She has even brought her Fanta with her.

"I didn't know we were playing Sevilla." We have never met off the pitch, but of course she knows who I am, just as I know who she is. She sets her drink on the table, and I force myself to relax. She is going to be my teammate and I need to make friends. "Unless you are the reason Ale has instructed us to be on our best behaviour tomorrow?"

That's nice of my new captain to do.

"I'm only here until the end of the season," I reply simply, not wanting to entertain the way Clàudia's hand rests so enticingly on the table, her lip trapped between her teeth as she awaits my confirmation.

"And you're in a bar the day before you start," she teases, though her surprise at the news is evident. She stands up, moving the chair so that she can sit next to me, instead of opposite. Before she gets comfortable once more, she hesitates. "I'm not taking your girlfriend's seat, am I?"

I laugh, finding the prospect of dating Marta to be hilarious in itself. "You're fine." She beams, warmth radiating off her body as the proximity increases along with the speed my heart beats. I would have to blind to not admit that she isn't pretty.

"Alright, Talia, tell me your reasons for joining the best club in the world." Knowing better, I don't argue against her incorrect statement. "And, in return, I'll tell you all about the team."

"That's easy. My manager told me I needed a standard they couldn't give me at Sevilla, and your club wanted to train me." Clàudia smirks at the air of arrogance my words carry. Why should I not be proud of being wanted by the two best clubs in Spain? Plus, if the way her eyes darken are anything to go by, I think she finds it attractive. "Your turn."

"It's a lot to say over one drink." I can see where this is going. "...It's a bit early for dinner, but I am sure we can pass the time."

"Bold of you to assume I would want to join you," I reply, nudging her arm gently. She remains quiet while I bask in her embarrassment. Then, when I begin to feel bad, I give her what she wants. "Why don't you show me around the area? You can tell me about your team until we find a place to eat."

Marta gives me a wave as Clàudia eagerly agrees to my offer, downing her Fanta. I decide to desert the remains of my own drink. 'No sleepovers' is what she mouths before I accept Clàudia's hand, letting her lead me into a street heading away from the plaza. 

notes: 

woohoo 1k reads!

i decided to switch up the love story in this one because of how delusional the other two are x

from now on, you'll be able to pick up clues on the mystery that will become more apparent as we get further into it. read carefully...

thanks for reading, my loves!