As expected, I don't play a minute of the first leg. Jonatan pulls me aside after the match. We are all aware of the reason I am here. Training with the top teams never necessarily extended into playing for them.

"I want you to play," he tells me, sounding quite serious. However, his words are hollowed out, as though he is only saying them to keep me motivated. "No, no, Talia. We need you to play. You really are very good; extremely talented. Perhaps in the return leg. It is important that you continue working hard and learning from the more experienced players here."

I nod. "Yes, coach."

His smile is a nice touch. "I see great things in your future. There could be a future for you here." He pats me on the back as a form of dismissal, and I head into the changing rooms. Clàudia is right – the best teams party hard when they win and feel it deeply when they lose. I am glad we won.

Jonatan's words swirl in my mind as we make the journey back to Barcelona. I had not thought to inquire about what will happen when the season ends. I certainly don't want to continue at Sevilla after being shown a new world of talent and elite sports. Spanish football is not developed enough. The league is hardly competitive unless I were to play at one of three clubs.

I could always play in a different league. Chelsea's kit is nice. I have heard good things about the WSL from Lucy and Keira, and Fleur is encouraging about stepping outside of my comfort zone. She would know, I suppose. She left Ajax, her home club, at eighteen to play in France. She told me that she knew not one word of the language until she arrived. "It was not so bad," she reflected. "It had its bad times, but I am the player I am today because of those foundation years."

On the coach to the training facility, I talk about it with Salma. She, like me, is always thinking about the future. Apparently, it is something young players often do. "It's not like I have a contract here," I say.

"You probably could get one. They like to have a good bench."

"What if I don't want to be on the bench?" It is not egotistical for me to think this way. Not if I am one season at Sevilla away from wearing the captain's armband. "Hopefully, I'll get selected for the World Cup squad. I could gain some traction from that. Would you ever want to leave Spain?"

"For me, leaving Spain is not ideal. I'm not sure I'd cope with football and a new country. Have you seen how cold it gets in Germany?"

"Well, yeah. It's no different to the temperatures at home and in Barcelona for me. Snow seems fun, too. I've never seen snow." I'd love to be someplace cold, even if I'd regret it in the actual moment. Something about the whiteness of the frost – the crispness I imagine the air would possess – seems refreshing. "You can't stay here your whole life."

"But I can try," she says with a smirk, raising her eyebrows. It is an FC Barcelona trait. They sign and extend and extend until, one day, they die in a blue and red shirt. "Why? Are you thinking of leaving?"

"Salma, I'm here on-loan," I remind her.

"I would sign you immediately. You're too good not to want at the club." Barcelona, in their extremely welcoming nature, seem to have forgotten how temporary my presence is. It worries me to think that Clàudia may also feel this way. It would be a terribly difficult conversation to have. "Plus, your girlfriend would do everything in her power to make it so that you never leave."

"She's not my girlfriend." Salma giggles. "She's not! We have been on, like, three dates."

"You kiss a lot."

"Nothing is official."

"Well, you should probably check in on that. Ask her." I can't. Not yet. "But, alright, I will let you be slow. This isn't the Talia I know, so maybe I should let her figure her things out." She references the girl who wasn't sure enough of her sexuality to have a relationship. I think about her, glad that she has disappeared. "Fuck, she's actually coming ov–"

"Hi, Pinagol," I say before Salma can make it obvious that we were talking about her. "What's wrong?"

"Swap," is all she says, looking at Salma. The hesitation causes her to remember her manners, her grin replacing the serious expression plastered onto her face. "Por favor, Salma. Swap."

Salma gets up with a sigh and allows Pina to collapse into her empty seat, spreading out as though I'm not taking up any space beside her. There's probably around five minutes left of the journey, so whatever she wants to say to me must be important.

I wait patiently for her to get it out.

"So," she says with a slight tentativeness twinging at her tone, making my heartbeat pick up. "So I was thinking about that address. I know where it is, sort of. We could definitely go, you know. If you want to."

Do I want to?

I could find my father, but that won't fill in the shadow of absence in my childhood. And to go behind Mamá's back, especially when she was so against me ever coming here in the first place...

Maybe that is exactly why I need to look.

What could go wrong?

"Maybe we should go tomorrow."

"Not today?"

"I can't. I'm going to suffer through a car journey with Fleur and Alexia, and then Marta says we need to spend time together so we're watching a movie. And I don't think anyone would appreciate getting a knock on the door from two strangers late at night, wondering if they had fathered a child twenty-one years ago." This uncharacteristic patience may or may not stem from sheer terror at the prospect of going two decades with no answers only to suddenly be bombarded with them two weeks into moving to Barcelona.

She hums. "Yeah, alright. Okay, we'll go tomorrow. We can go for dinner afterwards?" Her question is hopeful, and adorably shy for someone who seems to hold the key to every 'yes' possible in my body. "I can cook for us, actually! Come over. Patri might not want to leave, but we can figure something out."

"She can walk her birds," I say, seriously. Clàudia giggles, and doesn't stop until we reach the Joan Gamper.

The gaping of the team gives Clàudia a good opportunity to kiss me goodbye, using Fleur and Alexia's rivalry for our own benefit. Everyone else is too busy watching Alexia get into a sleek, black Audi – not a Cupra.

"Have fun," Clàudia says as we get off the coach, nodding towards the car. Through the windshield, we can see two faces with matching expressions of complete and utter hatred. If only they chose to see it for what it really is.

I slide into the backseat with a smirk imprinted on my lips, ready to give them both a talking to. No one else is brave enough.

Alexia beats me to it, opening her mouth with a remark of her own.

"You should really make it official with her," she says matter-of-factly. Fleur doesn't seem to be paying too much attention, eyes trained on the road. Both of her hands being on the steering wheel feels unnatural, as though one should be on Alexia's thigh or something. Despite the tension, the car holds an air of domesticity. A little glimpse into the future, I think.

"I'm not opposed to it," I reply, growing used to this being the only thing my temporary captain wants to talk to me about. "I've never said that I was. You're only assuming things."

"You're stringing her along."

"No, I'm not. We've gone out a few times. Are you expecting a wedding?"

"Well, I can hear the bells," she mutters. "Pina is sweet and kind and does not need you to play with her. Not that you are. But if you are going to – don't." She straightens her shoulders, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. Alexia is intimidating.

"Clàudia is an adult, believe it or not. She can make her own decisions."

"And I can make your career go downhill very quickly." I laugh, picking up on what I hope is a joke. I choose to ignore how right she is. "But, seriously, do you want to date her? No one is stopping you! Please."

"She'd hate that you're begging me to date her, you know," I deadpan, much to Alexia's annoyance. People keep telling me that I remind them of her; their reina. I bite my tongue a lot, especially in Barcelona. It's not safe to tell the team you play for that you support their rivals. Alexia would probably ruin my career for that. Alas, I sort of like arguing with her. If Madrid can't beat them at football, maybe I can win this for them. Until I achieve my dream, that is.

"But I am going to continue because I believe in love. And I'm not begging."

"It sounds like begging to me."

"It's not."

We pause when Fleur parks the car outside a familiar house. She gets out swiftly, and I watch her interaction with María from the car as Alexia carries on her lecture about love and relationships and making a move on someone.

I bite my tongue in regard to this, too.

Fleur places her cat, Oli, in the seat next to me, saying nothing. She seems miserable, probably caused by Alexia's presence. She must be exhausted, too. "Can I connect my phone to the bluetooth?" I ask, not wanting to talk about my love life any longer. Both her and Alexia groan. "You don't like Yung Beef?! He is the best."

"Alexia is in love with Rosalía," says Fleur. Alexia is on her phone, presumably texting Clàudia to tell her what she has just told me. She is all for us. Her head perks up at the sound of her name, but I cannot be bothered to watch them any longer and turn the music up, letting the words flow out from my mouth as though I am back in Córdoba with my friends, drinking on someone's balcony.

"I am not in love with Rosalía," Alexia protests, though it is very delayed. "I like her songs, but not as a girlfriend. Everyone thinks she's pretty, don't they?"

Yeah. Fair.

To get her back for her earlier lecture, I decide to push it.

"I don't know about you, but I think that Fleur's quite pretty." We both know it is an extreme understatement. Fleur is a very attractive woman, though she is a bit too tall and blonde for me.

The cat beside me mewls softly, purring as I pat his carrier fondly. "And Oli is super handsome." They seem to roll their eyes at the same time. It gives me reason to make Alexia blush, which more than I need to tell her that she should kiss Fleur. (Because she should.) Her scowl is worth it.

"What?" she sneers.

Indignantly, I reply that the atmosphere of the car is rife with their sexual tension. I'm suffering, and I'm in the backseat. I can't imagine what it feels like for the both of them.

When I get home, Marta and I discuss what dating your enemy would be like, neither of us really paying attention to the movie playing on our TV.

While she brought the topic up due to the romance plot in what we are 'watching', I continue the conversation out of my own personal interest. I hope that Fleur and Alexia realise that they like each other more than they hate each other.

I even ask Clàudia what she thinks as we make our way to the address in the letters. "Ale doesn't shut up about her," she agrees, her pensive tone dissolving as I nod enthusiastically in agreement. She parks the car nearby, asking me to read the address out to her once more. "My friend lives near here, you know. And, of course, Ale's family. I've been here tons with her."

"She's from Mollet de–?"

"Vallès. I know you can say it properly."

"Which one of us speaks better English?" I question with raised eyebrows. She rolls her eyes. "That's what I thought."

We get out of the car, stepping onto an empty street. The buildings on either side look daintily residential – as if they are filled with sleeping grandparents whose children have long since left home. They must be old, too, because most parents don't let that happen too early on. A passerby nods at both of us, and Clàudia glances at me as though to ensure I haven't collapsed with nerves. I am trying not to get my hopes up, really. Diminishing the worth of this information makes it easier to cope with.

"Ready?" she asks. "It's that one over there, I think." She points straight ahead of us. It's a tan building. It looks as though a cloud of dust would surround you if you were to blow on its walls.

I nod. "Yeah. It'll be fine." The worst that could happen is that it means nothing. "Let's go."