The airport is not empty at all, but Alexia insists on getting me a pass through security so I manage to do alright for time. She also calls the hotel Arsenal has put me up in until I sort out where I am going to live (Laia's, probably). My new babysitter won't be arriving until the twenty-ninth, though, so the DoubleTree in Borehamwood it is.

The terminal pulses with activity as people hustle to their gates. I have about thirty minutes, and an important call to make.

I see a sign for an outdoor smoking area, which will be a lot more private than the middle of the seating area I am currently in. From experience, most people just want to enjoy their cigarette. It's not like I am famous and they will recognise me.

It is not as cold as England will be, but the nighttime chill of Madrid shocks me slightly. I will permanently be buried under layers in London, I decide easily, fishing out my sweatshirt from where I have stashed it in my rucksack along with the few things I actually own. My other clothes are in my suitcase – which was never unpacked from the World Cup. Mamá is going to post what I have left at home if I need it. In general, I quite like living the nomadic lifestyle. It was fun sharing an apartment with Marta, at the very least.

Each sound of the dialling tone squeezes my ribs. A chain wraps around my neck as I remind myself of my reasons again.

"Hey, Clau."

She grumbles and bedsheets rustle. "Talia, I was having a nap," she murmurs. "It was supposed to be a siesta, but clearly I needed more sleep than I thought." She shuffles a bit more and then suddenly seems to wake up. "Hello! I haven't spoken to you recently. I've missed my girlfriend."

A mix of guilt and longing floods my chest as I hear her drowsy voice, her sleepiness making this whole thing worse. "Sorry to wake you, babe," I say, my words laced with a hint of remorse. "I know how much you love to sleep. I just needed to talk."

I take a deep breath, the imaginary chain around my neck tightening. I wonder if the smokers out here know what is going on. Part of me hopes none of them speak Spanish. "Clau, there's something important I need to tell you. It's about my career, and it's a bit complicated."

I can almost feel the tension building in the silence that follows.

Then, "what's going on, Talia?" Her voice shifts, concern seeping into her tone. The rustling of bedsheets ceases, replaced by an attentive stillness.

"I was sexually assaulted by one of the physiotherapists at the World Cup. He, um, kissed me, and he tried... Well, he tried to play it off as him having feelings for me – not mutual feelings – but it was obvious what it was." The words stumble out of my mouth quietly, each syllable laboured and like a laceration on my tongue. Her reaction is not audible. "It's a big thing for anyone, but, you know, what with what happened to my mother, it's kind of killing me? I feel like I am being punished for existing, which is, now that I'm thinking about it, low-key fucking me up. It was hard enough sleeping, reliving a trauma that wasn't mine, and now it is just as if it has been doubled up. As if someone went 'let's give it to you first-hand'."

There is a loaded pause; a moment of stunned silence that hangs in the air like a suspended question mark. When she finally speaks, she does so in disbelief. "Wait, what? Slow down. Are you saying that you were... assaulted?" Her words are measured. "Shit. I'm so sorry. I'm – fuck, have you told anyone else? Have you kept it to yourself all this time? Did it happen more than once?"

"No." To everything. "Alexia saw and she stopped it. We told Vilda, and he did not give a fuck. I told the RFEF but that did not go well, and I don't think FIFA actually got my email because they never replied."

"This is messed up. No one should go through that shit." She sounds terrified of whatever she is going to say next. "How did the RFEF handle it?" Ah. With good reason.

"Not well, as you can imagine." I am glad she has been asleep, because it means she will not feel betrayed. "I've been banned from playing football in Spain. It's a mess, and I didn't want you to hear it from anyone else." Silence. "I have accepted Arsenal's offer."

All I hear is the steady hum of the phone line until her voice, a mixture of surprise and empathy, breaks through. "I wanted you at Manchester City. I could have visited both you and Leila in one trip then. Naturally, you have to be difficult, though. You are so lucky that I love you."

I wince.

She has never said that before.

"Clàudia," I say softly, voice resigned to my decision, "I love you too." I'm not... No, I do. I'm not sure if I can say it again, though.

There's a tense pause. She must know me too well. She will have heard what I did not say. "Talia, are you alright? You sound... off."

I draw in a deep breath, ready for the end. It feels like jumping off a bridge.

"I'm leaving."

My stomach lurches as I slice through the air, eyes squeezed shut so the wind does not make me cry.

"Yes, I know," she replies slowly, not following. "You're going to England. You've said."

"No, Clau." I wish she did not have to make this so hard. "I'm leaving. I've been banned from playing here until further notice. I'm at the airport right now; I am going to get on a flight to London and I don't want to come back."

"Okay."

Though her response is simple, it is understanding. A tacit acknowledgement of plans she, in her mind, is now adjusting. The space between us, though I have not yet left, feels like an expanding void. It really fucking sucks.

"They haven't banned you from the country."

"I can't be in the country."

The volume of my voice raises slightly and people turn to watch. There are two who have not yet left, and have heard the whole thing. A woman and a man. One rolls her own cigarette, and the other sucks on a stub as though it is the last time his lips will meet his addiction for hours.

We're in an airport, so I suppose it could be.

Their eyes shine under the lights of the city, but both look away quickly.

"What about me? And us? I can't always be the one who has to get on a plane to come see you." She sounds desperate. Probably more so than she wants to.

I don't know if it is the cold making my toes go numb, but something inside of me hardens. "You won't be," I tell her, the brevity of my response heavy with finality.

"Well, if you're 'never coming back to Spain', apparently I am."

"Clàudia, don't you get it? I'm breaking up with you."

I hit the water beneath the bridge. It is ice cold and dark. I plunge to the bottom, my feet touching the sandy river bed.

I push upwards. It is the only way to go.

A tear grazes my lip, but no others follow.

"I'm so sorry, Clau. I just need to be on my own for a while."

The line grows distant, as though she has moved the phone from her ear to the living room. "If that's what you want, Natalia," is her reply.

She hangs up.

My phone feels lighter, in a bad way. But I feel... free.

There is nothing else – apart from family – that ties me to this country. There is nothing in the way to stop me from exploring all my options outside of this place, and opening my future to every single thing possible.

Maybe I can play in every major league.

What about America? One of the Madrid players is going to New York. Before joining Barcelona, I had never even left Spain, let alone the continent.

Football is my life. If I can't play, I can't live. If I can't play in Spain, there is no reason to stay.

If Spain does not want me, I do not want Spain. And I am... okay with that.

I will just put it past me. One day, this will blow over. Further notice could mean forever – maybe Jenni will make a bigger change, and it is reversed.

To me, right now, in the smoking area of Madrid-Barajas Airport, boarding pass in the back pocket of my jeans and the sentence I used to break up with the first girl I've ever loved lingering on my tongue, none of that really matters. I'm going to Arsenal for two seasons. I can take it day by day.

My resolve is uplifting enough to spur me back inside.

I turn towards the door, ready to let myself into an area with no hazy smoke. If I am going to be this new-found carefree star, I might as well start caring about second-hand smoking.

Before I can go anywhere, however, someone taps my shoulder.

"Sorry," I say quickly, just in case I had actually rammed into them instead.

"Natalia."

I whip my head round to the origin of the voice. It is foreign to my ears: a stranger. Am I more famous than I'd realised?

The woman who had previously been rolling her own cigarette holds her hand out towards me. Tentatively, I shake it. She is quick to apologise for her abrupt interruption of my evening.

"I'm Isabela Herrera," she explains. "I sit on the board of the RFEF." I suddenly do not want to be shaking her hand anymore. She notices my disdain. "No, no. I was the reason our vote was not unanimous."

"There was a vote?" I ask incredulously.

She nods. "Sí, you caused quite the uproar internally. You're a talented arguer." I laugh at her joke, and she lights her cigarette. "I was surprised to see you here, and I will admit to eavesdropping."

"Oh, don't–"

"Sometimes we must make hard decisions." She speaks with such conviction and recognition that I find myself utterly seen. Isabela Herrera seems far too intelligent to work alongside those pigs. "Anyway, I won't keep you long. I just wanted to say that you will come back one day, and we will be waiting for you. You'll make your return and you will never have to leave again. Good luck elsewhere, nuestra futura reina."

THE END.

notes:

it's currently 1.36 am as I'm finishing writing this. lets hope its okay.

I'm sorry if I broke any hearts but the ending was decided from the start. it makes me sad but they were always going to break up

anyway! there's still the epilogue to go (yay)

thanks for reading as always!!!!