#finally made it to barcelona

[b14augrana]

MAPI IS IN THE SQUAADDDKDKEJWJWIQ VISCA BARÇA SEMPRE 💙❤️ THIS IS OUR YEAR!!!!!!

[dehlicia]

FERMÍN'S HAT TRICK, DOUBLE LEWA'S HAT TRICK PLUS A FOLK GOAL, FINALLY IT'S TIME TO SAY THAT IT'S A GOOD DAY TO BE A CULER!!!!!!

[cressidagrey]

Through The Looking Glass

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Lea Willems - Verstappen (OC)

Summary: Max Verstappen and his wife’s relationship as told by Twitter. 

Notes: So this came about, because I was on Instagram and looked at pictures from Alexandra Saint Mleux and was like…so what if a driver’s girlfriend looked more like me and less like her? 

Then it became a whole thing, and I went down a rabbit’s hole about people online boyshaming athletes’ wives and girlfriends. This is the result. Also, it’s incredible difficult to even find aesthetic pictures to use in a smau that depict women that are even just mid-size, not even plus size. As a in-between girlie, I tried my best.  

(Also I finally made a nice Lea 😂 I know somebody who will be very glad about that.)

Warnings: The internet being a horrible place. Nikita Mazepin bashing, but like…he is canonically a horrible person, so is it even bashing? Bodyshaming, fatphobic comments and the media being horrible. If I missed something, please let me know. 

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

@/gridarchives: The most underrated long game in F1 history is how everyone thought Max Verstappen’s marriage wouldn’t last. 

How Max and Lea Verstappen went from “mad max mistake” to “paddock’s power couple”. A thread: 

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with the basics: Max Emilian Verstappen, born 30 September 1997 in Hasselt, raised in Maaseik, Belgium. Lea Willems, born 12 April 1997, raised in Maaseik. 

@/gridarchives: They met as kids. Both came from racing families — Lea’s older brother ran the local karting rink where Max used to train. They were inseparable. They met at 8. Were dating by 14. Married at 18.

@/gridarchives: 2015 — Max’s F1 debut. Lea’s still in school. Doesn’t follow him to every race. Doesn't start an Instagram. Doesn’t chase a spotlight.

They do long-distance. Quietly.

And when he gets his first victory in 2016, she’s the one waiting in the garage. Not in the VIP suite. Just… there.

@/gridarchives:  max is 18. Fresh off a win in Barcelona. Deep in his Mad Max era—aggressive on track, icy in interviews, throwing elbows and collecting penalties like candy.

And then, seemingly out of nowhere, He marries his high school girlfriend.

And announced it on Instagram: 

@/gridarchives:  Red Bull had no idea. Reportedly, Christian Horner found out when the rest of the world did.

 Max showed up to the next debrief wearing a ring.

 When asked about it, he just shrugged and said, “We got married.” Like it was no big deal.

@/gridarchives:  Cue chaos. The media ripped it apart.

“Too young.” “Too fast.” “Is she pregnant?” “He’s ruining his focus.” Lea was called everything from clingy to irrelevant. She never said a word in response.

@/gridarchives: The Internet:

“This won’t last” “teenage hormones” “he’s too immature” “What is he even doing getting married?” “career suicide” “She’s just a karting fling, right?”

@/gridarchives:  After the announcement, the backlash wasn’t just about the when. It became about the who.

 The internet took one look at Lea Willems — now Lea Verstappen — and collectively lost its mind.

And not in a good way.

@/gridarchives: She didn’t look like what people expected. She wasn’t tall and wafer-thin. Wasn’t a size 0. She didn’t wear designer brands. She wasn’t a model, or a socialite, or someone famous in her own right. Wasn’t doing sponsored beauty campaigns or sitting front row at fashion week. She was a normal teenage girl who had the audacity to exist beside the fastest boy in the world. And that wasn’t enough for some people.

@/gridarchives: They called her fat.

They called her plain.

They called her a phase. 

They called her “a distraction.” They said she was “a mistake made by a hormonal teenager.”

@/gridarchives: Some actual headlines from 2017:

“The Wife Verstappen Doesn’t Want You to Know About” Like she was a scandal, not a person.

“Not Exactly A Model Marriage” “Can Verstappen Do Better Off Track?” “Too Much Wife, Not Enough Wow”

because she wasn’t a size 0, because she didn’t wear makeup, because she had hips and curves and didn’t fit the “WAG” mould.

@/gridarchives: It wasn’t just tabloids.

Comment sections. Fan forums. Reddit threads.

People picked apart her weight, her clothes, and her posture. Zoomed in on photos to circle “problem areas.” Compared her side-by-side with other girlfriends in the paddock like it was a contest.

@/gridarchives:  And she never defended herself. Not once. She didn’t clap back. Didn’t give an interview. Didn’t even post a Notes app statement. She just stayed by his side. Quiet. Steady. Private. Which, of course, only made them nastier.

@/gridarchives:  Comment sections were disgusting. Fashion blogs ripped her apart. Paddock gossip accounts used blurred photos of her in jeans and sneakers with headlines like:

“This is the woman who tamed F1’s hottest young star?” It was sexist. It was fatphobic. It was constant.

@/gridarchives: Two headlines from 2017:

“Not Quite Paddock-Ready: The Woman Behind Verstappen’s Downfall” Another: “The Weight of Love: Can Max Stay Focused With Her Around?”

It was cruel. Dehumanizing. And relentless.

@/gridarchives:  She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t care about glam paddock fashion. She wore baggy Red Bull hoodies and old Adidas. She didn’t post bikini pics. She didn’t post at all. She still doesn’t even have an Instagram account.  And for some reason, that made people furious.

@/gridarchives:  And it all came to a head in Malaysia. 2017. Max won his second career race. It was one of his best weekends. And then… that interview happened.

@/gridarchives: The interviewer, midway through what was supposed to be a fluff piece, decided to get clever.

“Now that you're a more high-profile name, have you ever thought of… upgrading the wife situation a bit?”

“I mean, she’s not exactly the grid’s most glamorous, is she?”

@/gridarchives:  Max went completely still. Didn’t blink. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. The silence lasted a full 5 seconds—uncomfortable, searing.

Then he stood up. Took off the mic. And walked out.

Didn’t say a word.

@/gridarchives:  Red Bull PR went into meltdown. The outlet tried to backpedal, claiming it was a joke. But Max? He was done. Hasn’t given that outlet a single interview since. Won’t speak to that journalist. Won’t allow access. Nothing. Complete blackout.

@/gridarchives:  When asked about it later, he said only: “I’ve tolerated a lot of things in this sport. Insults. Pressure. Hate. But you don’t get to insult my wife. Ever.”

And that was that.

@/gridarchives:  For nearly three years afterwards, Max refused to answer any questions about Lea. No interviews. No comments. If asked, he would shut it down with the same two words:

“No comment.” Sometimes cold. Sometimes biting. Always final.

@/gridarchives:  At one point in 2018, a reporter tried to ask about Lea’s “lack of media polish” during a press conference. Max didn’t flinch. Just stared them down and said: “Keep my wife’s name out of your mouth.” The room went silent.

@/gridarchives:  He wasn’t just protecting her—he was making a point. If the world couldn’t treat her with basic respect, it didn’t get to know her.

@/gridarchives:  Max Verstappen might be aggressive on track. But when it comes to her? He’s pure protection. No compromise. No apology.

@/gridarchives: Till this day, Max rarely posts about Lea on his Instagram.  And when he does, he shuts the comments off. Not for the attention. Not for the aesthetic. But because the internet has never deserved her.

@/gridarchives:  Once a year. Maybe twice. Usually on her birthday. Or their anniversary. Or something small and intimate—like a quiet photo of her walking ahead of him, holding their son’s hand, not even looking at the camera.

@/gridarchives: And the comments? Disabled. Every time.

 Not to avoid backlash. But to cut it off before it starts.

@/gridarchives: A fan once asked in a Q&A why he disables comments.

Max said, “Because she didn’t ask for this. And if you’re going to look at her, you’ll do it with respect. Or not at all.”

@/gridarchives: He protects her like he protects his lead on the final lap— With focus. With fire. With zero margin for error.

Because that’s love, in Max Verstappen’s language.

Not public declarations. But boundaries.

@/gridarchives: And then came one of the wildest moments of the 2021 season that never made Drive to Survive:  

@/gridarchives:  mid-2021. Tensions are sky-high. Max and Lewis are locked in one of the most intense title battles in F1 history. Every race is war. Every point counts. And through all of it, Lea is quietly there. Present. Steady. Visibly keeping her distance from the media.

@/gridarchives:  But as the summer break ends, rumours start. Whispers online. Tabloids are posting unflattering shots of Lea in the paddock. Comments like:

“Max’s wife letting herself go?” “Not paddock pretty.” “What happened to her figure?” And then… Nikita Mazepin opens his mouth.

@/gridarchives:  Overheard at a hospitality lounge, according to multiple sources: Mazepin, laughing with some junior sponsor rep, said: “No wonder Max is driving angry. Imagine going home to that every night.” Gesturing toward Lea.

Someone told Max.

@/gridarchives:  That weekend, Max cornered Mazepin. Not at the press. Not on camera. But behind the motorhomes. Multiple witnesses said you could hear him yelling. But the only quote that’s ever been confirmed?

“Talk about her again, and I’ll end your career before your car does.”

@/gridarchives:  Mazepin reportedly tried to laugh it off. Max didn’t flinch. Didn’t joke. Just turned and walked away—straight back to Red Bull. Team management never commented.

@/gridarchives: And then came the Instagram post: 

@/gridarchives:  The internet went feral. F1 media tried to scramble for quotes. But Max didn’t say another word. Not about the incident. Not about the pregnancy. He just showed up at the next race and put the car on pole.

@/gridarchives: And then? Abu Dhabi 2021. The title fight went down to the wire. 

@/gridarchives: According to multiple team sources, Lea stood quietly at the back of the garage the entire race. Didn’t pace. Didn’t panic. Just watched. Hands on her baby bump. When asked if she was nervous, she reportedly said:

“Why would I be? He was born for this.”

@/gridarchives:  A Red Bull mechanic was overheard saying, “I’ve seen engineers cry. I’ve seen Horner nearly faint. But Lea? Lea stood there like it was a normal Thursday.”

@/gridarchives:  When Nicholas Latifi crashed and the safety car came out, most of the paddock erupted into chaos. Lea? Sat down. Ate half a banana. Said, “He’ll take it. You’ll see.” Then leaned back like she knew something the universe didn’t.

@/gridarchives:  After the race, everyone was losing their minds. Celebrating. Crying. Lea? Still calm. Still glowing. Walked through the crowd, straight to Max. Hugged him. Kissed him. Whispered something in his ear.

No one knows what she said. But he started crying.

@/gridarchives:  Someone once asked Max what got him through that day. He said, Seeing my wife. Knowing she was there. If she was calm, I had no excuse not to be.”

@/gridarchives: Two months later, Max did maybe the funniest thing he has ever done:  announcing he became a father during a random team redline stream like it was a tire strategy update.

@/gridarchives:  February 2022. pre-season. Max is on a team redline stream.  Chat is flying. Comms are chill. He’s driving like a demon. And then someone asks why he missed the previous session.

@/gridarchives:  And Max, completely calm, goes: “Yeah, sorry, I was a bit busy. My son was born that day.”

Another driver on comms:

“Wait—WHAT?” “You had the baby?”

max: “Yeah. His name’s Kai.” casually overtakes three cars

@/gridarchives: Someone in the background (probably Jeffrey Rietveld) goes:

“Max, did you just soft-launch your child mid-race??”

Max:

“He’s perfect. Looks just like his mum.”

Icon. Legend. Zero chill. Zero Press. Just vibes.

@/gridarchives: Chat went FERAL. Clips instantly went viral. F1 Twitter lost its mind. Red Bull PR had to play catch-up for days.

@/gridarchives:  Barcelona 2022. Two months after Max casually announced the birth of his son mid-sim-racing stream, he walked into the paddock in black sunglasses, a Red Bull hoodie, and a baby carrier.

@/gridarchives: Inside the carrier: a tiny, snoozing Kai Verstappen, 8 weeks old. Wearing noise-cancelling headphones and a Red Bull baby onesie. Strapped to Max’s chest like the calmest accessory in the world.

“My son’s first race,” Max said. “He should get used to the noise early.”

@/gridarchives: Lea was right beside him. Soft jeans, a linen shirt, hair up, a tote bag with what was presumably enough diapers to survive a national emergency. No makeup. No fuss. The quiet core of a very loud world.

They looked like a family on a casual stroll. Not the title favourites in the middle of a high-stakes season.

@/gridarchives: The media tried to swarm. Max didn’t stop walking. Lea didn’t even blink.

@/gridarchives: A Sky reporter asked if he was more nervous racing now that he had a kid. Max said, “No. I’ve always raced to win. Now I just get a hug either way.” 

And then he smiled. Like a real one. And the internet broke.

@/gridarchives:  He won that race, btw. Then went straight back to the garage to take Kai out of the headphones and kiss his forehead.

“He slept through the whole thing,” he told Sky Sports, grinning. 

@/gridarchives: But Max wasn’t done for 2022. When the FIA banned jewellery in 2022, Max Verstappen responded by getting his wedding ring tattooed on. 

@/gridarchives:  So the FIA updated their rules: no jewellery in the car. No earrings. No chains. No rings. Supposedly for safety. Cue half the grid complaining, Lewis dragging them in interviews, and Max just going radio silent.

For about a week.

@/gridarchives:  Then someone spots it. On the Thursday of the next GP. A thin, clean tattoo around Max’s ring finger. Black ink. No embellishments. Just a simple band.

Someone asks about it, and Max goes: “The rule said I had to take the ring off. Didn’t say I couldn’t make it permanent.”

@/gridarchives:  Someone else asks if it hurt. “Not as much as leaving it off.”

@/gridarchives: Bonus: Christian Horner was reportedly told after the fact: 

“Max walked in, took his gloves off, and I saw the ink. I said, ‘Is that what I think it is?’ He said, ‘FIA can’t ban skin.’”

@/gridarchives: Let’s also talk about how much Max’s family loves Lea: 

@/gridarchives: Let’s start with Jos Verstappen. A man who, famously, trusts no one. But when asked once in a Dutch interview about his son’s success, he said:

“Max has two advantages. His talent. And Lea.” “She makes him better. She makes him calm.”

from Jos. That’s practically a sonnet.

@/gridarchives: Sophie Kumpen, Max’s mum, was the first to believe in Max & Lea. Sources say she knew from the start that Lea was “good for him.”

In a rare interview, Sophie said: “She’s grounded. She sees Max for who he really is—not the driver, not the number. The boy. The man. She’s calm. I like calm.” Mothers know. Mothers see.

@/gridarchives:  Then there’s Victoria Verstappen, Max’s sister. Fashion, fitness, mama of three—loved by fans. Has repeatedly said that she considers Lea a sister, not an in-law.

“She’s my family. Has been since we were teenagers. We grew up side by side. I trust her with everything.”

@/gridarchives: And they were all fiercely protective of her during the years. According to a Dutch journalist, Jos once called an editor directly and said, “Write another headline about her weight, and I’ll see you in court.” #DadEnergy

@/gridarchives:  Victoria has posted maybe a dozen photos with Lea in the past decade—quiet, untagged, casual: 

@/gridarchives: And every single time, without fail, the comments are a mess. Bodyshaming. Comparisons. “She’s not hot enough.” “Why does she look tired?” The usual sexist, vile garbage.

@/gridarchives: But Victoria? She’s not having it.

“You don’t get to speak about my family that way.” “If you wouldn’t say it about yourself or your sister, don’t say it here.” “Delete this comment and never come back.”

“Take your body issues elsewhere”

“You must be exhausted being this bitter online”

That’s in the comments. Publicly. Repeatedly.

@/gridarchives: At one point in 2021, she even posted a story about it: 

@/gridarchives: I am not done. Lea Verstappen is as much a part of Red Bull Racing as any race engineer or strategist.

Here’s what the people behind the scenes have said about her

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2017) – early days: “Max keeps his private life very private. We respect that. I’ve only met Lea a few times, but she seems like a lovely, grounded young woman.” (translation: Who is this girl and where did she come from?)

@/gridarchives: Christian Horner (2023) – post-Kai, post-3 world driver’s championship titles: “Lea’s been the calm in Max’s storm. She doesn’t need to be in front of the cameras to make an impact. She’s the reason he’s still sharp. Still here.”

@/gridarchives: Gianpiero Lambiase (GP), Max’s race engineer: “Lea is Max’s reset button. I’ve seen him go from zero to rage and back to calm in under a minute because of one text from her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.” Iconic.

@/gridarchives: Helmut Marko (2023): “I thought she’d be a distraction when they got married. I was wrong. She’s the opposite of a distraction. She made him… sharper. More dangerous, in a good way.” (yes. Helmut Marko said that.)

@/gridarchives: Red Bull comms team (2022), anonymously: “Lea has never, not once, asked for press management. No image control. No story spin. Her only request was: Don’t use Kai for content. And she said it so kindly, we printed it and taped it to the media room wall.”

@/gridarchives: Jonathan Wheatley (2022), Former Red Bull Sporting Director:  “She’s the one person I’ll never say no to in the garage. She brings us banana bread and keeps Max from threatening to move to endurance racing when he’s moody.”

@/gridarchives: One mechanic from Red Bull’s pit crew (2020): “When the media was tearing her apart in ’17, she brought us coffee in the garage.  No cameras. Just said, ‘Thanks for looking after him.’ I’ve worked 200+ races. That’s the only thank you I still remember.”

@/gridarchives: And the thing is? None of these quotes comes from trying to promote her. Lea has never once been part of the brand. She’s not a Red Bull ambassador. Not an image. Just a quiet presence who everyone, from Horner to the interns, has come to respect.

@/gridarchives And it’s not just Red Bull. Ask around the entire grid, and the way people talk about Lea Verstappen is with quiet awe.

@/gridarchives: Lewis Hamilton (2022): “She doesn’t show up for the cameras. She shows up for him. You can tell—there’s real love there. Real quiet. Real strong. I respect that.”

@/gridarchives: Daniel Ricciardo (2023): “Lea’s been around longer than most of the guys on the grid have even had race seats. She’s part of the Verstappen firmware. Comes with the engine. And her banana bread is terrifyingly good. Like… disarm-a-grown-man good.”

@/gridarchives: Charles Leclerc (2021):  “She used to sit on the karting fences next to my mum. Always quiet. Always watching. People talk about Max changing over the years, but I think the best parts of him were always there. She just kept them safe.”

@/gridarchives: And then there’s Kai. Lea and Max’s son. Now a paddock regular with noise-cancelling headphones and strong opinions.

@/gridarchives: A little boy who adores his parents… and who calls Daniel Ricciardo “Uncle Danny”.  Who calls Oscar Piastri “Car” and hugs his leg when he’s tired. (Oscar panics every time.) Who once tried to drive Lewis’s scooter, and Lewis let him.

@/gridarchives: It’s been almost ten years since Max and Lea Verstappen got married. They’ve weathered the spotlight. The storms. The silence. The wins.The losses The noise. The pressure. And through it all, they’ve never wavered.

@/gridarchives: Lea has never given an interview. Never done a press tour. Never gone on a podcast. There is no tell-all memoir. No YouTube vlog. No WAG content series.

Just: banana bread, Red Bull hoodies, and a quiet kind of grace that broke the mould.

@/gridarchives: Lea Verstappen didn’t come to the paddock to be famous. She didn’t come to be seen. She came to stand beside the boy she loved at 14— Who became a man. A world champion. A father.

And she never once let the world shake her.

@/gridarchives Max Verstappen doesn’t perform love. He protects it. And Lea Verstappen? She’s not just the woman behind the champion. She’s the reason he stayed human in a sport that tries to turn people into machines.

@/gridarchives: People tried to ignore her. Then tried to ridicule her. And when that didn’t work, they tried to erase her.

But she’s still here. Still Lea. Still standing exactly where she always has— Right next to Max.

@gridarchives Power couple doesn’t even cover it. Max & Lea Verstappen? They built something that lasted.

And in Formula 1? That’s rarer than a clean lap around Monaco in the wet.

[jocelynellie]

Midnight in Algarve - OP⁸¹

Oscar Piastri x Norris!Reader

Summary: The younger sister of Lando Norris, has spent three years quietly crushing on his teammate, Oscar Piastri. During a birthday getaway in Portugal, with their rooms side by side and the pressure of the paddock behind them, years of unspoken tension come to a head as Oscar and Y/n finally admit their feelings and cross the line from longing to something real.

Contains: smut (18th+ only), fluff, mentions of alcohol, (some) use of Y/n

Word count: 2.4k

Y/n Norris had always been good at pretending.

Pretending she was fine when strangers at paddocks asked if she was dating one of the drivers. Pretending not to notice when journalists used her as a footnote in Lando’s rising stardom. And especially pretending not to look too long at Oscar Piastri.

Three years ago, she’d first met him at her brother’s post-race dinner in Barcelona. She was 20, fresh off exams, wide-eyed and exhausted, sipping wine like it was a survival tactic. Oscar had been seated across from her —grinning, tan, leaning back in his chair comfortably, not cockily like her brother does, he had the shy and polite factor about him.

“So, you’re the famous Y/n,” he’d said, offering his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her heart had betrayed her with a skip even then.

She remembered how he made her laugh so hard she nearly choked on her drink. Remembered the flicker in his eyes when she touched his arm as she leaned in to whisper something. His eyes - they were so gorgeous, so soft, so inviting, she just wanted to stare into them forever.

But the night had ended, as they always did, with a hug, a casual “see you around,” and the unspoken understanding that she was off-limits. She was Lando’s little sister. That was the boundary—silent but impossible to ignore.

And yet, he kept showing up in small ways.

He always greeted her first when they crossed paths at races. Remembered the coffee she ordered at the team hospitality every race, he started having one already made for her for when she arrived shortly after him at races.

Every interaction lingered longer than it should have. Every accidental brush of shoulders or locked glance stirred something electric under her skin. And always—always—they both looked away too quickly, both of their faces flushing what they were both sure was a bright red.

Now, in Portugal, almost three years of pining, proximity, and polite distance were burning in the summer heat.

The holiday house Lando had booked for his 26th birthday was sprawling and sunlit, filled with noise and movement. She had volunteered to help organise everything: the playlist, the food, the rooms. She’d found out she’d be staying in the room next to Oscar before he did.

That knowledge had haunted her for the days leading up to the trip.

The first night, she came out for water and found him barefoot, shirtless, sleepy-eyed. Her mouth had gone dry.

“Midnight hydration club?” he’d teased.

She’d nodded, unable to form words at first.

It was like that, always: the flutter in her chest, the need to act normal. It was exhausting.

There was no interaction after that, she sat in silence on the cool stone of the countertop, sipping from her water bottle and Oscar left the room a minute later, looking back at her momentarily.

Oscar was no better.

From the moment he met her, she had settled under his skin in a way no one else had. She was sharp-witted, sweet and terrifyingly smart (unlike her brother). He remembered her laugh in Barcelona. The one where her whole face lit up. He’d heard it only a few times since—each one burned into memory.

He told himself it was just a crush. That it would pass.

It didn’t.

He kept it all quiet. Because of Lando. Because of timing.

But it didn’t stop the wanting.

Now, in Portugal, the walls between them felt thinner than ever—literally and metaphorically. He caught glimpses of her on the terrace, at breakfast, air drying her hair on the balcony. Every time she laughed, he looked up like he’d been summoned.

That night, when the party was in full swing, he found himself drifting upstairs before midnight, needing air. Or space. Or just the faint hope that he might bump into her.

She found him instead, sitting outside his room with a beer in hand.

“You’re hiding,” she said, sinking down beside him.

“You first.”

She smiled. “I love my brother to pieces, but this isn't my scene.”

He hummed in agreement. She looked tired, but still luminous—bare shoulders, flushed cheeks, hair curling slightly from the sea air.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Dangerous,” she teased.

He smirked, but then turned serious. “About you.”

She stilled.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said softly. “Always have.”

She turned to face him fully, heart thudding. "You've been drinking Osc." She told him softly.

He held up the beer in his hand, unopened. "Haven't had any actually." She stays silent, unsure of how to react. He let out a quiet breath. “Three years.”

“Three years,” she echoed, she could hear her own heartbeat at blood pulses in her ears.

“Do you know how hard it’s been not to look at you too long? Not to sit next to you at dinner or ask for your number when Lando’s not around?”

She smiled, crooked. “You could’ve.”

“I was scared.”

She looked at him then—not just glanced, but really looked. Saw the flicker of nerves, the earnestness underneath the easy charm. “I’m scared too,” she admitted.

A silence settled over them. The air buzzed with everything unsaid.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, voice low, reverent. Her breath caught.“But only if you want me to,” he added.

She leaned in, so close he could smell the citrus in her shampoo. “I’ve been waiting three years for you to say that.”

And then, finally, they kissed.

It wasn’t fireworks. It was relief. It was three years of what-ifs melting into what was. Her fingers in his hair. His hands gentle at her waist. They moved like they’d done this before, in dreams or imagined moments.

The pull apart momentarily, looking into the depths of each others before leaning back in, lips locking again in a soft but passionate kiss.

The kiss deepened, and she felt herself drowning in him. His lips were firm yet gentle, his hands on her waist, holding her as if she were the most precious thing in the world. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, and for a moment, the world around them ceased to exist.

Suddenly they were standing, he tapped her thigh, motioning for her to jump. So she did, wrapping her legs around his waist, his hand moving to ass to support her, lips still locked, breathing heavy between the both of them. She knew what was going to happen, her heart was pounding but she was going to let it happen, it's all she's wanted for three years.

He led her into his room, kicking the door shut behind them and he placed her down on the edge of the bed, he bends over, hands either side of her body so his face is level with hers.

They shared a soft moment both of them understanding each other's feelings just through their eyes, both in agreeance with what was about to happen.

“You’re so beautiful,” Oscar murmured, his breath warm against her skin as he pulled her shirt off, revealing the lace bra beneath. His eyes darkened with desire, and Y/n felt a flush spread across her chest.

“Oscar,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his lips trailed down her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His touch was confident yet respectful, as if he knew exactly how much she needed to be cherished.

He paused, his hands resting on her hips as he looked up at her. "Baby, are you sure you wanna do this?" he said, his voice rough with need.

“I'm so sure,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, a string of words only for their ears.

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips brushing hers once more. “Then let me show you how much I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his hands moving to her bra, unhooking it with practiced ease.

She closed her eyes as he slid the straps down her arms, her breasts exposed to his gaze. She felt a mix of fear and excitement, her heart racing as his hands cupped her, his thumbs brushing her nipples. A soft moan escaped her lips, and she tilted her head back, surrendering to the sensations flooding her body.

“You’re perfect,” Oscar whispered, his lips trailing down her chest, his tongue teasing her nipple until she arched into his touch. His hands moved to her skirt, his fingers deftly unzipping it as he kissed his way down her stomach.

She gasped as her skirt fell to the floor, leaving her in nothing but her panties. She felt exposed, vulnerable, but Oscar’s gaze was so full of adoration that she couldn’t feel anything but desired.

He knelt before her, his hands resting on her thighs as he looked up at her. He said her name, his voice thick with emotion. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, her breath coming in short gasps. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging inside her.

Oscar’s hands moved to her panties, his fingers hooking into the waistband as he slid them down her legs. She shivered as they fell to the floor, leaving her completely bare. She felt his gaze on her, warm and hungry, and she couldn’t help but squirm under his attention.

“You’re so beautiful,” he repeated, his voice a whisper as he leaned in, his lips brushing her inner thigh. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair as he kissed his way closer to her core. "Such a pretty girl." He said against the skin of her thigh.

“Oscar,” she breathed, her voice a plea as his lips hovered just above her core, his breath teasing her.

He looked up at her, his eyes dark with desire. “Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice commanding yet gentle.

She swallowed hard, her cheeks flushing as she met his gaze. “I want you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I want you to make me feel… everything.”

Oscar’s expression softened, and he leaned in, his lips finally pressing against her, his tongue teasing her clit in a way that made her cry out. His touch was skilled, his mouth moving with a rhythm that had her squirming, her body arching off the bed.

“Oscar,” she moaned, her hands gripping his hair as he sucked gently, his tongue flicking in a way that sent waves of pleasure through her.

Her moans and whimpers were like music to his ears, only encouraging his actions in pleasuring her. She felt herself spiraling, her body tightening as she neared the edge.

“Come for me,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he continued his ministrations. “Let go, honey.”

His words were her undoing. She cried out, her body shaking as she climaxed, her release overwhelming in its intensity. Oscar held her through it, his hands gentle on her thighs as she rode out the waves of pleasure.

When she finally came down, She was breathless, her body limp as she leaned back against the bed. Oscar sat up, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice soft as he brushed a strand of hair from her face.

She nodded, her voice too weak to form words. She reached out, her hand resting on his cheek as she pulled him in for another kiss. It was softer this time, a tender exchange that spoke of everything they couldn’t say.

“Oscar,” she pants. “Please…”

He lifted his head, his eyes dark with desire. “Please what, honey?” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. “Tell me what you want.”

She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal. “I want you to take me,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “All of me.”

Oscar’s eyes flared with a primal intensity, he stood to take his shirt and shorts along with his boxers off and he kissed her deeply, his hands moving to her thighs, spreading them wide. Her breath hitched as he positioned himself between her legs, his erection pressing against her core. Her eyes wide as she took in his naked form.

“Ready for me?” he asked, his voice a husky command.

She nodded, her eyes locked on his. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Oscar. All of me.”

He thrust into her in one smooth motion, filling her completely. She gasped, her head tipping back as he began to move, his hips snapping with a rhythm that was both urgent and deliberate. The sensation was overwhelming, every nerve in her body singing with pleasure as he claimed her with a ferocity that left no doubt of his devotion.

“You feel so good,” he groaned, his forehead pressing against hers. “So fucking perfect.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her heels digging into his back as she met his thrusts with equal fervor. The room was filled with the sounds of their passion—the slick rhythm of their bodies, their ragged breaths, and the occasional soft curse that escaped Oscar’s lips.

“Harder,” she pleaded, her voice desperate. “Please, Oscar, harder.”

He obliged, his movements becoming more forceful, his hands gripping her hips as he pounded into her with a primal intensity. She cried out, her body trembling on the edge of release, every thrust pushing her closer to the edge.

“Come for me, honey,” Oscar commanded, his voice hoarse with need. “Let go.”

His words were her undoing. Her orgasm crashed over her like a wave, her body convulsing around him as she cried out his name. Oscar followed moments later, his hips stuttering as he filled her with his release, his deep groans of pleasure echoing in the room.

For a long moment, they remained locked together, their hearts pounding in unison, their breaths slowly returning to normal. Oscar withdrew gently, his hand brushing a stray curl from her forehead as he looked down at her with a tenderness that made her heart ache.

He kissed her softly, a promise sealed in the tender press of their lips. As they lay entwined in the aftermath of their passion.

When they broke apart, she laughed—a small, breathless sound.

“We’re screwed,” she said.

“Completely,” he agreed, grinning.

“But happy?”

“Very.”

Outside, the sea kept whispering against the cliffs, but inside, a different kind of tide had turned.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦ ✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

[samkerrworshipper]

trouble in paradise

slow paced/slow burn fics fear me. i wrote this in like 4 hours so lets be kind guys and ignore how spirally thsi is. hopefully another fic coming sometime in the next week xo

williamson!sister x alexia putellas

warnings: light angst, mentions of alcohol

You have mixed emotions as soon as the whistle blows.

You’re ecstatic, obviously. Who wouldn’t be after winning the biggest accolade your club has had in 18 years, especially considering just how much time and effort you’ve devoted to

them in those 18 years.

Arsenal has won, your one and only club has managed to win the champions league in what can only be described as probably the biggest underdog win in champions league history.

It’s exhilarating, it doesn’t feel real. But as your eyes lock onto Alexia, on the other side of the pitch, doubled over on herself like she’s experiencing a pain that is non-human.

Then your eyes move to Leah, your sister who bleeds even more red than you do.

She’s running straight for you, like you’re the only person in the world she wants to share this moment with, and you feel the same, she’s the most important part of your world. But as she blocks your view of Alexia your heart drops in a way that it shouldn’t at this moment.

You don’t have much time to think about it before your sister is barreling straight into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs as the two of you fall to the ground.

“We fucking did it.”

She collapses directly on you like a golden lab who has just spotted its owner and wants the biggest hug a person can give. Her whole body buries itself into yours, and then about five more as the dog pile starts.

You are just as Arsenal and Leah and Lotte, every single part of your body and soul belongs to the club. But you have this underlying feeling that you shouldn’t at this moment. It’s weird to consciously know it but not be able to change it.

You’ve gotten so used to Barcelona winning, sitting in the stands for the last two finals watching your girlfriend win everything and anything that she sets her eyes on. It’s annoying how easy it all is for her, but it’s also what you love about her.

Leah says you're a puppy dog, she’s never quite gotten used to Alexia. Like any older sibling she’s protective, but Leah takes it to another level. She’s never made anything easy for Alexia, ruthless to a point that you’ve never seen her be with anybody else and yet Alexia takes it all, never complains, if anything she gives ten times more in an attempt to seek some kind of approval from your sister. She never quite gets it, but she likes the challenge, you know it.

The dog pile eventually falls off and you're left to look up at the sky. You think that it’s perfect, and that truly if you could stay staring up at the bright Lisbon blue for the rest of your life you would.

But you're brutally taken from that as a set of arms tug you off the ground. Suddenly the 90+ minutes of playing time hit you, or maybe the nausea, or guilt and you feel wobbly. Like your whole body could collapse if your teammates weren’t holding you up.

Leah kisses your head, over and over again until she moves onto having a moment with Kim and you've got Kyra plastered to your side telling you how you’re her idol and some other spur of words that don’t quite process in your brain.

It’s probably easily played off as shock due to the win, but in reality you actually are experiencing the worst guilt you’ve ever felt.

The shaking hands is worse, specifically because you have spent the last three summers with this team and have never in your life seen them all completely gutted. You try to keep it quick, but when Ingrid starts crying into you shoulder you legitimately feel like you might vomit.

Alexia is the worst, because of course she is.

It’s hard enough to approach her, sitting on the ground with Mapi squatted down next to her.

Mapi spots you first, your Spanish isn’t bad but you certainly can’t lip read it. She says something to Alexia though, because she looks up at you for a split second. You watch the hope fade into something else that looks like disgust and then she says something to Mapi which prompts Mapi to stand up.

The frown on her face tells you everything.

“She-She just needs a few minutes.”

You try not to let it show on your face, not to show the complete rejection you feel at being blocked from the one person who can probably solve your problem.

Mapi must see it though, she’s good at that you’ve learnt, good at reading people who don’t want to be.

“She’ll call you later, or come see you, I’ll make sure of it. She just needs a little bit.”

You try and convince yourself that it isn’t the worst pain you’ve ever felt.

The guard of honour is probably the worst part, she reaches out for Mariona a few steps in front of you, and then her eyes lock on you and you have hope. But she walks past, as if you’re nothing. As if you haven’t been in a public relationship for two years now and as if she isn’t the love of your life like she’s told you.

You feel Leah’s glare from beside you, her hand tightening in its place on your shoulder in a silent question. Her head ducks down, resting in your ear as if she’s going to say something.

“Leave it. Whatever you’re going to say, don’t. If you want me to keep smiling for the cameras, stay silent.”

You’re the quieter out of you and Leah, less bossy, generally more in the shadows. But your relationship is quite the opposite, it kind of has to be when you’re dating the best player in the world. You already know how many tik tok edits are already going to be made about this moment and how many rogue messages you’ll receive from people who know nothing about your life.

Leah gets the message, she’s smart enough not to prod when there are quite literally cameras at every angle recording every moment right now. She has her own relationship that she’s trying to preserve from all of the media. She knows what it means to keep some parts of a public life hidden.

Barcelona collect their medals and you try to keep a tight smile on your face as you watch Alexia walk across the stage and take her medal. She’s not used to having a silver one, it’s the first thought in your mind, not for a long time at least. All she ever does is win, she was literally the poster girl for nikes ‘just win’ campaign.

Then it’s your turn, your turn to walk through Barca’s guard of honour. Most of the girls who you’ve spent summers with open up for a hug, or a handshake at least. But Alexia looks so spaced out and out of the moment that she doesn’t even flinch when Frido elbows her in the ribs. She looks at you, like a kicked puppy and then looks at the fucking ground of all places.

It’s the twisting of the knife already lodged in your gut.

You try to smile as the confetti goes off and the trophy is lifted. You try and think about how much more upset you’ll be when you look at the pictures afterwards just for you to look upset in all of them. It does nothing though, not when the trophy is offered to you to lift, not when Lotte has her arms around your shoulders humming to ‘North London Forever’ , not when your sister tries to dance with you.

Even when your family comes down to the pitch. Even the sight of your Spurs father in an Arsenal jersey does nothing.

Mariona is the first person to bring you in for a proper hug.

“It doesn’t feel good doing it, wishing that other people would win so much that you’d rather lose.”

You’re off to the side, far enough away that you don’t feel suffocated by red. A different shade of red to the Barcelona one you were expecting to see.

“Is it bad that I was so certain they were going to win that this wasn’t a possibility?”

Mariona shakes her head, although you highly doubt she agrees. She’s as invested in this belief as everybody else, you were too. You believed that your team could win, you just somehow didn’t believe it was actually going to happen.

“Not at all, there is nothing bad about being surprised about an outcome you didn’t expect. How about you go and talk to Ale?”

You feel sick thinking about her. She’s your favourite person and yet it feels like you’re the last person she wants to see.

“She doesn’t want to see me. She’s made that very clear.”

Mariona frowns and brings you in for another hug.

“She’s never been a very good loser, give her an hour and she’ll warm back up. She’ll want to celebrate with you when she’s gotten over this.”

You hope for the love of god that Mariona is right.

You put yourself through the hell of post-game celebrations and media. Take every photo and every interview that you have to and then you’re heading straight back to the hotel.

Alexia’s hotel is the one next to yours, and you make the decision that you can’t go to the celebrations until you’ve sorted it all out. Once you get to the celebrations you’re inevitably going to drink, in the company of Katie McCabe and your sister you’ll probably drink a lot. You tend to have a pattern of your anger when you're drunk turning into a very ugly person and you’re determined to not let it happen right now. You also want to see your girlfriend.

Leah moans the whole walk over, groaning about how she could be partying and about how she could be drinking and celebration and a whole other slew of complaints that your depressed brain isn’t ready to hear.

You make it into the lobby without encountering anybody, but Alexia’s hotel hallway is full of Barcelona staff and players who look like they're ready to spit and yours and your sisters game jerseys that you’re still wearing.

“I don’t get why we have to bloody search for Putellas when she’s having a pity party, we should be partying.”

You hiss at Leah, she’s slightly tipsy on the heineken cans from the locker room and is bordering on your last nerve.

“I didn’t ask you to come Leah, I am here because I want to be, I didn’t tell you to accompany me.”

She groans again but you’re too focused as your eyes lock onto Patri at the end of the hallway.

“Oi, Patri, Patri.”

She turns quickly, her eyes downcast and puffy as if she’s been crying for hours, which your figure she probably could have.

“Williamson one, Williamson two.”

Leah laughs, as if it’s the funniest joke that could have been made.

“Glad to see that I haven’t lost my sense of humour.”

Then Leah giggles, the same way she does when she’s plastered at the pub on a Sunday night and is two steps away from forgetting everything.

“I need to see Alexia.”

Patri swallows, in the same way people tend to when they’re nervous.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.”

Leah’s giggling seizes. She steps out in front of you.

“Tell Putellas to stop sulking and come and congratulate my sister the same way she has the last two years. She can get over herself for five minutes and be gracious.”

Suddenly the possibility of a fight in this hallway doesn’t seem impossible.

“Patri, please, just let me see her. She doesn’t need to talk, I just want to see her.”

Patri shakes her head, but you assume Leah does the scary thing where she frowns and tilts her head like an animal about to strike because Patri relents.

“I will try, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Patri disappears down the hallway until she gets to a room a few doors down, she must have Alexia’s keycard because the door opens immediately and she slips in.

“Seriously, why are we here? This is your night and Putellas is ruining it. Her sob story is seriously killing the buzz.”

You’re sick of everybody else telling you what to do and what to feel.

“Leah I didn’t fucking ask you to be here, shut up or leave. This is my problem and I’m happy to fix it on my own.”

Leah mutters something under her breath and you swear you might strangle her, it wouldn’t be the first time the two of you had gotten into a tussle. Then you spot Mapi down the end of the hallway and your focus switches again. This time you don’t have to yell, she spots you immediately and pivots in your direction.

“Chica, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be partying, no? Or at least doing something better than this.”

Your strangling intention pivots to Mapi.

“This is what I’m saying, why are we here?”

Strangling back to Leah.

“Leah, final time I tell you to shut up before I throat punch you.”

You might not be as intense as your sister but when you get worked up you’d argue you’re ten times more terrifying.

“I just need Ale, okay? Five seconds is all I need.”

Mapi grimaces and it feels like you’re missing something and you hate it.

Just as you’re about to say something, Patri emerges. With no Alexia and a deep frown etched into her face.

“How about you come back tomorrow, or she’ll call you sometime tomorrow.”

You use all of your willpower to shake your head.

“No, tell her that it’s urgent, that I need her right now.”

Leah’s back behind you like a guard dog who's ready to attack at any minute.

“Look, she’s not, she can’t see you right now.”

You feel all the tears building up, all the guilt and anger from today finally coming to fruition.

“Patri, Mapi, please.”

It’s the wobble in your words that do it you think, or at least it does it for Leah.

“You two need to talk to your captain and give her thirty seconds to see my sister whilst she still has some dignity. This is fucking embarassing. She’s stood by her for all of her wins even when it’s been hard for her, she has been there for literally everything.”

Neither of the women move and it’s probably the part that breaks you the most, that these people who you have known for years now don’t have the respect to give you this.

Leah pushes past them, walking to the door Patri had walked in and out of and banging on it so loudly the sound reverberates.

“Putellas I swear to god, or dios or whatever the fuck you call it in Catalan that if you don’t open this door right now to give my sister the congratulations she fucking deserves then I will make sure that she never comes and sees you again. You think that you already have it tough with me? I will make you so miserable that you’d wish to be in hell. Open the fucking door.”

Leah keeps banging, until your ears are ringing and multiple staff members peek their heads out of their bedroom doors to see what all the commotion is.

“Leah.”

It seems like the adrenaline has gotten to her head.

“Leah, let’s go.”

Leah looks like she’s about to say something else, like she’s going to argue but your face must say it all.

“Tell Putellas she can go and get fucked and that if she ever wants to see my baby sister again she better have a pretty good apology lined up and some serious grovelling. In England. No more flying out to Spain because it’s easier for her. She wants anything to do with her she can come talk to me first.”

You don’t wait to see if Leah is following behind you, you just start walking. Down the hallway and into the elevator where Leah does join you.

She doesn’t talk even though it seems like she wants to. She brings you into a hug as soon as the doors close and you don’t even attempt to stifle your sobs.

Leah hugs you until the doors to the elevator open and then she helps you to wipe your face as you exit the hotel and make the walk two blocks back to your own hotel.

The party in the function room is in full swing. Leah forces you through the door like she knows that you’re considering bolting.

“You’re going to regret it if you leave, hate me for it now but I’m right.”

You definitely hate her for it but you don’t run away either. You let your sister tug you through the crowd of people until she finds your mom and then you're gone all over again. Leah walks off in search of Elle and you're left standing in front of your mum with new tears streaming down your face. It takes all of five seconds for her to wrap her arms around you and bring her into you.

“I don’t get why she doesn’t want to see me, I just want to see her.”

You don’t know whether or not you want to hear anything. You want to be able to celebrate with your teammates like a normal person and not be so attached to your fucking girlfriend that when shit like this happens you fall apart.

You’ve always loved hard though, loyal to the point it’s kind of concerning. It’s the one thing you do beat Leah at.

“Just give her a little bit, yeah, she’s struggling. Give her some room to breathe and then punch her a bit for being a dick and get over it. You two will get over it together.”

You want to believe your mum, she’s generally right with most things. You’re a bit hurt right now though to think straight.

“Go enjoy yourself, I promise you that if you don’t then you’ll regret it. Enjoy yourself and worry about Alexia later.”

You would say that the three tequila shots that Katie feeds you are probably what makes you start to enjoy yourself. There’s an unspoken assumption that you’re clearly not okay but everybody is decent enough not to ask. You’re given pretty much every alcoholic beverage that your teammates can find and it helps, slightly. You forget about Alexia for a little bit, for long enough for it to hurt a little bit less.

Until Vic comes up to you telling you that there is somebody from Barcelona waiting for you outside.

Your heart soars, and you all but try to stumble as quickly as you can out of the function room in search of the one person you want to be.

Your heart plummets as soon as you make it out of the doors and Jana is the one waiting for you.

Your mind is significantly more foggy than it was when you were talking to Patri and Mapi.

“She’s sorry.”

Sorry seems to be the worst thing you could be told.

“Sorry?”

Jana shrugs like she has more to say but doesn’t know how to.

“She just needs a bit of a break right now.”

You feel every positive feeling that had been starting to reintroduce itself to your body completely leave.

“A break from our relationship, or me or just life?”

Jana looks like she really doesn’t know what to say.

“So she loses one game, the first game shes ever fucking played against me for club and decides she’s just done? That she can’t stomach perfect fucking barcelona losing? Nice, love that her pride comes before me. You’d think after three years that would maybe pass but I suppose the time doesn’ matter as much to her as it matters to me.”

Jana is left speechless and that’s all the answers you need.

You drink. You drink a lot. Going toe to toe with Katie is no small feat but you manage to do pretty well. You drink until you can’t think anymore and are legless and then you drink some more.

You don’t know what time somebody takes you to bed but you do know that you wake up with Leah snoring beside you and your head so sore that it feels like your brain doesn’t belong inside of it.

“Oi, stop fucking snoring. No wonder Elle complains.”

Leah rouses next to you, a lopsided smile on her face as she blinks away the sleep. She put an arm out to hug you and you give her a shove that almost pushes her off of the bed.

“Glad to see that your charm doesn’t disappear when you’re nursing the hangover of the century. I was supposed to spend the night with Elle but you were so blind I genuinely thought you were going to choke on your own vomit in your sleep.”

You try to shove her again but she’s far away now that she’s out of the shoving vicinity.

“You’re supposed to be nice to me, y’know, little sister care or something.”

Leah rolls her eyes.

“Yeah right I’ve seen Putellas fight on the floor with her sister.”

As soon as the words leave Leah’s mouth she knows what she's done, everything you’d almost forgotten comes flooding straight back and the sickness washes over you all over again.

“Shit-I’m-Shit.”

You shake your head, it's already been said.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. We should start packing, early flight and everything.”

Leah seems to get the message, rolling out of your bed in a thud and dragging herself out of your room with a little smile on the corner of her lips.

You have peace for about five minutes, enough peace to silence the pain in your head every time you blink or move. Until your door unlocks and Kyra comes barreling in.

“So trouble in paradise?”

She’s got a lot more energy than you think anybody else does. As if she never drank to begin with.

“You can either leave or be quiet and help me pack my bag.”

Kyra wasn’t the person you thought you’d bond with. When she’d come to Arsenal you’d already cemented pretty solid relationships with girls in the team like Lotte and Kim. You all were on the quieter side. Then Kyra had come along and everything you’d heard about her and seen of her was loud and rambunctious and chaotic. Then you got to know her, got to know about how she was an extroverted introvert and 80% of the time was a lot calmer than everyone made her out to be. The two of you found a balance together.

“I’ll do your toiletries, you sort out luggage.”

You're sick of the little sorry smile people keep giving you.

Kyra battles in your ensuite whilst you throw the very small amounts of your things into your suitcase. It’s a quick process and by the time you check your phone you’re running perfectly on time. You try not to feel hurt by the lack of texts, calls or signs of life from Alexia. You’re fine, none of it really matters.

Kyra and you manage to get your things out of your room right as some of the staff are coming down and knocking on peoples door to meet down at the bus transfers to the airport. You try not to think about the fact that as soon as you get on the plane that’s another two weeks before you play Alexia again. Two more weeks without seeing her that you didn’t think you’d have.

You help Kyra pack up her own things before the two of you head down to the lobby to wait.

The lobby is already pretty full, full of teammates who look like they’re in desperate need of a bucket or some serious anti-nausea pills before they hop on a flight.

You dump your luggage with everybody else’s and find a seat mostly away from everybody else. Although nobody seems to be in an overly sociable mood.

You’re wallowing in your own depression, really. It’s a little bit pathetic but you don’t really care. You’re past the point of caring what anybody thinks of you after you pretty much confessed all of your relationship problems to half of your teammates last night and possibly coaching staff as well.

You should be embarrassed but in the grand scheme of things it doesn’t really matter. It feels like your relationship is imploding in front of you and you literally can’t do anything to stop it.

“Mini Williamson, you’re wanted.”

Beth’s voice is completely gone, raw and stringy but you hear it all the same.

“I don’t want a photo or anything else, Beth.”

Suddenly you wish that you’d gotten your sunglasses from your bag because as the sun shines in through the windows in the lobby your head hurts at a whole other level.

“I think you’ll want to see this.”

You look up at Beth and then at the direction she’s pointing in and choke on whatever air you’d been inhaling.

“Oh god.”

Alexia looks like she hasn’t slept, less than you. The part that is the most horrific about her appearance though is the arsenal jersey that she’s wearing. You’ve never seen Alexia in a jersey of yours that hasn’t been an English one, there was a weird contingency between the two of you that club jerseys were just a no. You both were one club players, and you wanted it to stay that way. Yet here Alexia is, standing in the lobby of the hotel with a bright red Arsenal jersey.

The only thought you have is that as you sister locks eyes with her that she is going to punch her. It’s the only thing that crosses your mind.

“Leah. No.”

Leah doesn’t listen, it was a hopeless attempt. She flys full force towards Alexia at a rate that you could never catch up with.

Alexia doesn’t flinch as Leah comes face to face with her, her hands digging into the stupid jersey as Leah starts to yell something that you can’t understand because your too focused on getting in between the two of them without passing out from hangover symptoms.

You manage to cross the room before Leah throws hands. Thankfully.

“Leah, no. Not here.”

You try to ignore the fifty eyes of your teammates on you.

Leah looks like an animal about to tear into her prey.

“Leah. No. Not here.”

You drag the two of them into the nearest handicapped bathroom you can find.

“You think you can just dick around my sister and show up here the next morning and be forgiven, huh? God Putellas you should be worshipping her fucking feet right now, you should be grateful that she hasn’t broken up with you ass for your dumbass behaviour. Do you realise how out of your league she is? How any person in London would break their own leg to have her, and yet you just get to have her and fuck her around however you want?”

Alexia just nods along with everything Leah says.

“Are you done, Leah? Can I talk to my partner now without my sister talking for me?”

Leah is staring down Alexia with such intensity that you think she might combust.

“Leah, out, let me talk to her, please.”

Leah relents, but then gives up.

“I will be waiting outside and if I hear anything leave your mouth Putellas besides an apology I will be back.”

The older sister act has happened your whole life, to every girlfriend, fling, one night stand and partner. Apparently it’s unavoidable.

The room is silent for a few seconds, Alexia doesn’t look like she’s going to say anything so you fill the silence.

“I’ve never seen you in an Arsenal top before.”

With the busy schedule you hardly manage to make it to any of Alexia’s club matches and vice versa. Although you do have a Barca top buried in the bottom of your dresser that you pull out when you have time to watch Alexia’s games. You never wear it but you bring it out anyways.

“You won, you deserve to be represented.”

You can’t tell how authentic it is and that hurts.

“I just didn’t deserve it last night.”

Alexia looks so broken that you almost fold, almost give up the tough persona but you’re still hurt, even as you look at Alexia’s pouty features and empty eyes.

“I-I there’s no excuse. You deserved to celebrate how you pleased last night and I ruined it for you. I was selfish and too consumed in my own emotions to see that. I don’t have anything to say but I’m sorry. You deserved better and I didn’t give it to you.”

Alexia’s lip quivers, properly quivers.

“That’s all you have? That you were too worried about yourself to care about me? Do you understand that to be in a relationship it's 50/50, you don’t get to choose when you care about me and when you don’t. You’re supposed to love me unconditionally.”

A tear rolls down Alexia’s face and you feel horrible, but you know you’re doing the right thing by not going easy.

“I’ve never lost to somebody I loved. I’ve never played on a field and wanted another person to win simply because I love them. I’ve never felt worse than I did when I was happy that you won. I was supposed to be upset about us losing and yet I was more upset about the fact that I was happy that you won. I didn’t want to ruin your celebrations by being upset, you deserved to be surrounded by people who were going to appreciate you fully instead of distract you. I wanted you to be free of me burdening you.”

It’s the relatability, the fact that you can say that everything Alexia is describing you also felt.

“I want to share everything with you. I don’t spend every spare minute on the phone with you and every other minute thinking about you to not want to spend the ups and downs with you. I would have rather sat in your hotel room all of last night crying then gone to stupid celebrations not knowing how you felt about me.”

The silence hangs for a few seconds.

“They were great celebrations, not stupid and Putellas this is when you actually apologise so I don’t kill you.”

You bang your head against the wall of the bathroom.

“Leah, Fuck off.”

Alexia shakes her head.

“I am sorry. I did not give you wanted on the night of your life. You deserved to be celebrated and I did the complete opposite. I never want that to happen again, I love your more than anything, you are my life and you are my soul. Please, let me make it iup to you. I’ll come to London, I’ll do anything. I just want you, I want to make it up to you.”

You suppose she’s the love of your life, and you aren’t quite ready for this to be the end of that.

“You’ll come to London and you’ll wear my jersey all weekend and you’ll go out for dinner with Leah and make things up and you’ll deal with me when I’m wasted or so hungover I can’t move until you have to go to Spain. Understood.”

Alexia nods dutifully.

“And she’ll take you shopping, both of us shopping, and I want the new oakley drop.”

You roll your eyes and reach out for Alexia, letting her press the most respectable of kisses to your cheek before parting.

“Leah if you aren’t gone by the time I exit I will make it so you can never play football again.”

You wait for the scamper of her feet before you fall into Alexia with the whole weight of your body, relaxing against the person you’ve needed most,

[holyblonded]

the m word | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader

summary: 3 times you accidentally called alexia mom and the one time you planned it

warings: bad parents, flu

notes: this takes place a few months to a year or two after estrella joined the team

When you first moved up to the senior team, you had no idea what to expect. You were only fourteen, the youngest player by far, and all your friends (besides Jana and Bruna) were still in the academy. Your mother, on most days, was off doing God knows what, leaving you to navigate this new world on your own.

But something you never expected was how close you’d become with Alexia. From the moment she scouted you, she took you under her wing, guiding you through the chaos of professional football, especially at such a young age. She made sure you ate properly, did your homework, and kept you in line (for the most part) during training. She even gave you rides to and from practice, looking after you in ways no one else had in your life. Tonight was no different.

The team’s plane had just landed back in Barcelona, the clock inching past midnight. You were exhausted, curled up between Jana and Bruna, their heads resting on top of yours as the three of you dozed off in your seats. The steady hum of the plane’s engines had lulled you into a deep sleep, and you barely stirred when the seatbelt sign dinged, signaling it was time to disembark.

Alexia stretched and turned back to find the three of you completely knocked out. With a small shake of her head, she reached over, nudging Jana and Bruna awake. “Come on, we landed,” she said softly.

Jana groaned, rubbing her eyes as she sat up, while Bruna yawned, slowly blinking herself awake. But you didn’t move.

Alexia poked your arm. Nothing. She shook your shoulder. Still nothing.

“She’s not going to get up,” Bruna muttered sleepily.

Jana smirked. “You know what to do.”

Alexia sighed before glancing over at Jenni, who had been watching the whole scene unfold with amusement. “Jenni,” Alexia said, tilting her head toward you.

Jenni grinned. “Oh, I got this.”

Before you even knew what was happening, strong arms scooped you up, lifting you effortlessly from your seat. You stirred slightly, groaning, but instead of fighting it, you simply curled into Jenni’s shoulder, completely deadweight in her arms.

“She’s like a little koala,” Jenni teased, carrying you down the plane steps while the rest of the team laughed quietly.

“Try having to wake her up every day,” Alexia muttered, rolling her eyes as she followed behind.

Jenni carried you through the airport, through baggage claim, and all the way to the car without you waking up once. When they finally reached Alexia’s car, Jenni shifted you in her arms. “You’re heavier than you look, mona (monkey),” she grumbled, carefully maneuvering you into the backseat. You murmured something incoherent but didn’t wake up, your head slumping against the window.

The drive home was quiet, the exhaustion of the match settling into all of them. When they finally pulled up to your apartment, Alexia got out and walked up to the door, fishing your keys from your bag. She slipped one into the lock, but it didn’t turn.

Frowning, she tried again. Nothing.

Jenni, watching from the corner, raised a brow. “Everything okay?”

Alexia’s jaw tensed. “The keys aren’t working.”

Jenni frowned and walked closer, trying them herself. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

“That’s weird,” she muttered, glancing over at Alexia.

Alexia nodded slowly. Something about this didn’t sit right with her, but she wasn’t going to push it now, not with you dead asleep in the backseat. “She can stay at mine tonight,” she said simply.

Jenni agreed, and soon, you were once again being carried, this time into Alexia’s apartment. While Jenni went to shower, Alexia brought you into the spare bedroom, pulling the covers back before carefully laying you down. You stirred slightly as she tucked the blanket around you, your eyes fluttering open just the slightest.

“Buenas noches, mami,” you mumbled sleepily, your voice barely above a whisper.

Alexia froze.

You didn’t even realize what you had said before you were already slipping back into sleep, your breathing evening out. Alexia stood there for a moment, completely speechless, watching as your face relaxed against the pillow.

She swallowed, something unfamiliar twisting in her chest, but she didn’t say anything.

Instead, she simply exhaled softly, reached out to brush a stray curl from your forehead, and whispered, “Buenas noches, Estrella.”

Then, without another word, she turned off the light and quietly shut the door behind her.

The night sky above you stretches endlessly, the stars scattered like tiny diamonds against the vast darkness. The crisp air carries the electric energy of the stadium, the thunderous roar of the crowd vibrating through your bones. Games like this— games that mattered, games that demanded everything from you, always sent an intoxicating rush of dopamine through your system.

Your pulse thrums in your ears as you take it all in, grounding yourself in the moment. You’ve been here before, but somehow, it always feels brand new. The magnitude of El Clásico never fades, never dulls. The rivalry is embedded in every touch of the ball, every challenge, every goal.

“You ready?” Mario asks, slinging an arm around your shoulders, her voice low but charged with anticipation.

You smirk, shaking out your shoulders. “I’m always ready.”

The first goal comes early, a beautiful sequence of passes that ends with you slipping between defenders, receiving a perfectly weighted ball from Alexia, and slotting it past Misa with the outside of your foot. The eruption of noise is deafening, your name bouncing off the walls of the stadium as you sprint toward the corner, fists clenched in triumph.

The second goal is a blur. Marta intercepts a wayward pass, Laia sends it down the flank, and Leila cuts it back for you at the top of the box. Without thinking, you strike it first time, curling it into the far post. Two-nil.

By the time the third opportunity presents itself, Madrid is desperate, pushing high up the pitch in a last-ditch effort to claw their way back. You see it before it even happens, one bad touch from their midfielder, a brief lapse in control. You pounce, intercepting the ball near the halfway line.

There’s no hesitation. Your eyes flick up, spotting Misa off her line, and your body moves instinctively. You pull your foot back and strike through the ball with perfect precision. Time seems to slow as the ball soars through the air, carrying all the way from midfield, past the scrambling keeper, and into the back of the net.

For a second, the stadium holds its breath. Then, an explosion of sound.

You even don’t think, you just run.

Pure, unfiltered euphoria surges through you as you sprint toward the bench, your legs burning but your heart flying. Alexia is the first person you see, her arms wide open, and you leap straight into them, wrapping your arms around her neck as she catches you effortlessly.

“Mami!” The word slips out in your excitement, a natural instinct, completely unnoticed by you as you bury your face in her shoulder.

Alexia squeezes you tight, pressing a hand to the back of your head. “Qué locura, Estrelleta,” she murmurs, laughter laced in her voice. “You’re unbelievable.”

Neither of you notice the way Mario’s brows shoot up, how Laia covers her mouth to stifle a laugh, how Leila exchanges a knowing glance with Marta. They don’t say a word, but the moment is filed away, stored for future teasing.

Right now, though, none of it matters.

Right now, you’ve just put three past Madrid. Right now, you’re weightless, wrapped in Alexia’s arms, the chants of your name filling the air. Right now, you are exactly where you belong.

The dim glow of the living room lamp barely illuminated the room, casting soft shadows on the walls. You were cocooned in a thick bundle of blankets, your limbs heavy, your body radiating unbearable heat, yet somehow you still shivered. Every breath felt like a monumental effort, your throat raw, your head pounding like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it.

“Jenni,” you croaked dramatically from your fortress of suffering. “Jenni, please come quick—I am dying.”

Jenni, who had been putting on her shoes by the door, let out a soft giggle as she grabbed her wallet. “I know, bebita,” she said, adjusting her jacket. “That’s why I’m going out to get medicine.”

“No,” you whined, reaching out a feeble, shaking hand like a character in a tragic play. “Don’t leave! It might be the last time you see me. Tell everyone I fought bravely.”

Jenni rolled her eyes, walking back over to you with an amused expression. She crouched beside the couch, brushing your sweaty hair off your forehead before pressing a kiss to it. “You’ll survive, drama queen,” she teased. “Try not to perish before I get back.”

You barely had the strength to glare at her before she slipped out the door, leaving you alone in your misery.

Somewhere in the apartment, a door creaked open. Heavy footsteps padded toward you, slow and groggy.

A shadow loomed over you before a voice, low and thick with sleep, broke through the haze of your fever.

“Estrella.”

You barely registered Alexia standing over you, her hair disheveled, wrapped in a loose hoodie and sweatpants. She blinked at you, squinting as if trying to process the scene before her.

“You’re awake,” you murmured weakly, blinking up at her with glassy eyes. “Mami, I don’t feel good.”

She frowned. “What?”

You waved a limp hand. “Never mind,” you sighed, turning your head dramatically. “I think I’m hallucinating.”

Alexia sighed, rubbing her temple. “You are not hallucinating.” She crouched beside you, pressing the back of her hand against your forehead. “Dios mío, you’re burning up.”

You nodded solemnly. “I am dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

You reached for her hand, gripping it weakly. “Promise me something.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Take care of Eli when I’m gone.”

Alexia exhaled sharply through her nose, clearly trying to suppress a laugh. “You are not dying,” she repeated firmly before standing up. “Stay here.”

“Not like I have a choice,” you mumbled into your pillow, your body too exhausted to do anything but sink deeper into the couch.

A few minutes later, Alexia returned with a steaming mug in her hands. She sat on the edge of the coffee table, watching as you blinked sluggishly at her.

“Drink this.”

You wrinkled your nose. “What is it?”

“Tea.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that will make you feel better.”

You groaned. “That sounds fake.”

Alexia narrowed her eyes. “Estrella.”

You pouted but took the mug in your shaky hands. The first sip was bitter, but warmth spread through your throat, soothing the raw scratchiness. You took another sip, then another.

“Good girl,” Alexia murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

When you finished, she took the mug from you, setting it aside before you suddenly grabbed her wrist, stopping her from moving away.

“Stay,” you murmured.

“Estrella—”

“Please,” you mumbled, your fever-dazed brain barely processing anything beyond the need for comfort. “Lay with me.”

Alexia hesitated for a moment before sighing and carefully maneuvering herself onto the couch beside you. You immediately curled into her, burying your face into her hoodie, her warmth soothing in a way nothing else was.

“Mami? Thank you,” you mumbled sleepily.

Alexia stiffened, but when you didn’t say anything else, when your breathing evened out and your grip on her hoodie loosened she simply exhaled, letting it go.

She pulled the blanket tighter around you, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“Descansa, Estrellita,” she whispered.

And for the first time that night, your fevered mind let you sleep.

You adjusted the top of your suit jacket anxiously, smoothing out invisible wrinkles as you sat between Jenni and Alexia. Your fingers tapped against your thigh in a restless rhythm, your heart pounding harder than it ever had before a game. The room was filled with the biggest names in football, the air thick with anticipation as the ceremony reached its climax.

On stage, Kylian Mbappé held the envelope in his hands, the golden Ballon d’Or trophy gleaming beside him. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as he slid his finger beneath the envelope’s flap, carefully pulling out the slip of paper inside.

“The Ballon d’Or goes to…” He paused, glancing up with a knowing smile before announcing, “Alexia Putellas!”

The room erupted into applause, cheers echoing off the grand hall’s walls. Jenni let out a celebratory whoop beside you, clapping wildly. You turned to Alexia, but she was frozen for a second, processing the moment. Then, she exhaled sharply, a bright smile breaking across her face as she stood.

You were on your feet before you even realized it, clapping so hard your palms started to sting. As Alexia made her way toward the stage, she turned slightly, meeting your eyes for the briefest moment, and you saw it, the unguarded emotion, the disbelief, the sheer joy.

She took the trophy with steady hands, then approached the microphone. The applause quieted as she scanned the crowd, her expression softening as she took a breath.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said, her voice steady yet full of emotion. “First, I want to thank my teammates, my coaches, and everyone at FC Barcelona. This award is not just mine—it belongs to every single person who has supported me, pushed me, and helped me become the player I am today.”

She paused for a moment, glancing down at the trophy, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Football has given me so much, but more than the trophies, more than the accolades, the most important thing it has given me is family.”

Your breath caught in your throat as her gaze found yours.

“To my teammates, my friends, to those who have stood by me no matter what, I love you all,” she continued. “But there’s one person I want to mention specifically.”

You stiffened slightly as she smiled directly at you.

“Estrella,” she said, voice warm, affectionate. “From the moment you walked into our team, you changed everything. You are a force of nature, a player unlike any other, but beyond that, you are one of the strongest, bravest people I have ever met. Watching you grow, on and off the pitch, has been an honor. And I want you to know that no matter what, no matter where football takes you, no matter how many goals you score or trophies you win, you will always have a home with me.”

Your throat felt tight. The room clapped again, but all you could do was sit there, gripping the arms of your chair, your chest aching with something indescribable.

Alexia wrapped up her speech, thanking her family, her late father, and everyone who had been part of her journey. Then, with one last glance at you, she stepped off the stage, the trophy clutched tightly in her hands.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. You weren’t paying attention to the other winners or the speeches, you were waiting. The moment the event concluded, you weaved through the crowd, searching for her.

And then you saw her. She was standing off to the side, trophy still in her hands, talking to a few journalists. But as if sensing your presence, she turned and the moment she saw you, her face lit up.

Without thinking, without hesitation, you ran toward her, closing the distance between you in seconds. She barely had time to react before you jumped into her arms, wrapping yourself around her. She stumbled back slightly but caught you with ease, laughing as she held you close.

You buried your face in her shoulder, inhaling deeply before pulling back just enough to look at her.

“I’m proud of you, Mami,” you said, voice quiet but firm.

It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a slip of the tongue. It was deliberate, intentional.

Alexia’s breath hitched. Her eyes widened slightly, her grip on you tightening. She smiled, something soft and unbearably fond in her expression as she rested her forehead against yours.

“Gracias, mi niña,” she whispered.

And for once, you didn’t mind the tears pricking at your eyes. Because for the first time in a long time, you felt completely, undeniably at home.

[wileys-russo]

in the blink of an eye (6) II a.putellas

part of the in the blink of an eye series in the blink of an eye (6) II a.putellas

"but i wanna say night!" posie chirped for the fourth time since you'd finally gotten her down and into bed. "you already said buenas noches to alexia nena, twice." you reminded the three year old with a smile, pinching her cheek and tucking her in a little tighter.

"i like your friend tía, will she come over again?" posie yawned as you begun to run your hands through her hair, nails scratching gently against her head causing her eyes to droop and a bitter sense of nostalgia wash over you at the memory of your sister doing the same thing when you had a bad dream and were much younger.

"maybe. now go to your special garden pequeña, with the red butterflies, and the orange ones, and the purple ones, and the special pink ones with yellow dots. where the grass is soft and green, and there is a bright blue river that giggles and talks as it runs." you spoke softly, posies eyes drooping lower and lower as your tone grew calmer and her body begun to go limp.

"your special garden where your mami and papi are ready for you to go and dance with them, and you have on your favourite dress with the little bluebells, and your bright red gumboots." you whispered, unaware of alexia hovering just outside the door having come to check all was okay.

"you dance and dance like a little butterfly until your feet feel heavy and the music starts to get quiet, then you let your mami kiss you goodnight and you can see her again tomorrow in your special garden, your special garden no one can take away from you. sweet dreams amorcita." you finished, heart heavy but spirit light at the angelic look of peace across your nieces face as her chest rode and fell, arms wrapped tightly around her favourite bear.

pressing a kiss to her forehead you very carefully stood to your feet, alexia slinking away back to the kitchen before you could catch her, a strange feeling in her chest.

a strange feeling that little did she know, had been making its way at home in your own chest since the moment she'd arrived to the front door, maybe even from the very second you'd stepped foot back in barcelona for good.

~

"alexia no you would never let me study! it is funny now you are so serious about your football." you teased, drinking the last mouthful of tea in your mug and placing it on the small table sitting between the pair of you.

you'd offered wine once you got posie down to sleep and alexia had washed up and tidied everything despite your insistence she just relax.

an offer to which alexia very politely declined explaining she didn't really drink during the season, so you'd made you both a green tea which had lead to a very longwinded but light hearted trip down memory lane.

you looked up with a confused frown at the sudden knocks at your door, not expecting anyone and buried in a mountain of revision for your upcoming exam, your first year of law school well and truly bearing down on you with all its might.

assuming it may have been a delivery or the wrong apartment your gaze flickered back down to the case study you were trying to memorize.

the end of your pen held captive between your lips you scowled down at the words which were starting to just look like gibberish the longer you stared at them, permanent tension locked in your upper body where you were hunched over the coffee table in front of you.

you had many much more comfortable and perhaps even practical places to study, but curled up on the floor with your back against the sofa and papers scattered about on the coffee table with a broken leg propped up by an old bible your mami insisted you have in your house, was your usual go to.

until the knocks sounded again and this time it had you getting to your feet, dropping your pen into your textbook to mark your page leaving the case study on the floor where you'd been sat, clicking pause on the egg timer you used to track your breaks.

not that it worked given you'd barely made a dent into your workload for today or earned any sort of break, even if you'd purposefully put your phone in another room, closed your eyes and thrown the tv remote somewhere you couldn't see, you managed to find every little other distraction you could.

the washing needed to be done, the counter had to be wiped down, your textbooks had to be reorganised into alphabetical order and pens colour coded. your bed needed to be stripped and changed over, the window sills dusted and floor vacuumed.

you were truly your own worst enemy at times, and you weren't even halfway done with your first year, with a whole lot more, a much heavier workload and a long journey ahead at law school.

but you wouldn't let it break you, you couldn't.

natalia would never quit anything least of all before giving it a proper go, and your sister was both your biggest competitor and role model even if she'd deny both and hit you over the head with a textbook for thinking that.

she'd already been past this morning too of course, bringing you a coffee, a pastry and her husband to come unclog the toilet with her.

as such fulfilling her 'landlord duties' much as you knew it wound her up to no end when you called them that, but it was true and you knew you'd still be back living at home if she hadn't let you rent this place out for next to nothing instead of just selling it.

and trying to do your studies with your mami around? you loved her dearly, you did, but still you shuddered at the thought.

you padded over to the door on sock covered feet, rubbing your eyes which ached from concentrating for so long (even with all the self inflicted distractions) but you needed to memorize this case study before you could even think about stopping.

your frown deepened when you peeked through the small hole in your door and it had gone black clearly covered by something, cautiously undoing the chain halfway you peeked out through the crack to see who was there.

"hola!" you almost fell over in shock as an eye locked with yours, a tongue poked out next making your eyes roll and unlock the door properly with a huff.

the brunette grinned happily as you did, inviting herself inside with an armful of grocery bags and striding on past you as you sighed tiredly and closed the door, locking it again.

"ale. amor we talked about this, i have to study i cannot hang out today!" you reminded, spinning around and crying out in shock as she was mere centimeters from you, practically nose to nose.

"no hola?" the girl shook her head with a fake pout, taller body collapsing into yours as she hugged you.

"hola." you laughed as she inhaled deeply into your neck, pushing her off and rolling your eyes. "i missed you." your girlfriend defended, crossing her arms and awaiting you to say it back as you stayed silent.

"oh alexia i missed you too." the footballer mocked, tutting with a shake of her head. "i have to study. which means we agreed i would see you after my final, because you are a distraction putellas." you reminded sternly as she retreated back to your kitchen.

"i came here to cook you dinner mi amor, brain food. then i will leave, and you can go back to pretending like you do not miss me. which i know, you do!" she pointed to you with a wink and a cheeky grin, starting to unpack the paper bags she'd carried in with her.

"ale this is very sweet, but i really need to memorize these flash cards and-" your protests were silenced as the footballer strode back over and stole a kiss, hands on your hips and a nike beanie sitting lopsided on the top of her head.

"then go memorize. i will be quiet as a mouse, you will not even know i am here!" the girl zipped her lips, threw away the key and held her hands up as you couldn't help but smile as she sent you another wink.

knowing just how stubborn the girl could be you knew you weren't getting out of this and really you had missed her, between your exams and her training schedule you'd hardly seen your girlfriend over the last fortnight.

so with a sigh you shook your head in defeat, moving to hug her from behind, craning your neck up to kiss her cheek appreciatively as she tilted her head backward and tapped her lips making you laugh and peck them a few times.

"go study, vamos!" the girl ordered, foot cheekily kicking your ass causing you to playfully glare at her as you retreated back to the coffee table which was covered in your flashcards and textbooks.

sitting back down on the floor you tried to tune into your studies again, grabbing a marker and beginning to highlight all of the key points you wanted to have memorized by tonight from each subsection of your cards.

it went well for around a half an hour, the only thing occasionally pulling you from your thoughts the smell of whatever your girlfriend was cooking as you sat with your back to alexia and fought every temptation to turn around and talk to her.

but of course, alexia being alexia, was only well behaved for so long before she grew bored and a little restless, all of the real work done and now just awaiting the soup she'd made to stew and cook properly before it could be served.

your girlfriend pulled herself up to sit on the counter of your island bench, snacking away on a few spare sticks of carrot she hadn't used as she doom scrolled through her social medias before that too grew uninteresting.

swinging her feet she turned her head and watched you, only really able to see the back of your head but smiling softly realizing the hoodie adorning your top half was hers.

you were deep in thought, eyes scanning one of your flashcards intently when you could have sworn you felt something wet hit the back of your neck, you rubbed it with a frown but told yourself you must have been imagining it.

only a few seconds later, there it was again, but once more you rubbed the back of your neck unable to feel anything and huffing in annoyance, glancing upward to confirm there wasn't a leak of some sort.

but then a few seconds later you jumped as something bounced past you on the table, skidding to a stop as it thumped your text book and you pulled a face seeing it was a piece of carrot.

"are you throwing carrot at me?" you spun around with a scowl, throwing it back at her as she grinned innocently. "no, not at you!" she emphasized as you narrowed your eyes at her.

but putting two and two together from the mischievous sparkle in her eyes you sighed, a hand reaching back to dig around in the hood of your hoodie and sure enough you pulled out two more little pieces of carrot.

"alexia. amor i need to study. if you're bored go watch something in my room until the food is done." you offered, dropping the carrots onto the table and turning back around to focus on your notes.

you heard a gentle thud as she dropped down from the island, and as such you assumed she was going to your bedroom.

only a few seconds later arms wound around your neck, her chin settling on your head. "what are you studying?" alexia asked curiously, tanned fingers playing absentmindedly with the A necklace that she'd gifted you which never left your neck.

"law. did you forget?" you teased, the footballer mocking you and pinching your cheeks. "take a break. i read it is good for your...endorphins?" the brunette guessed making you chuckle.

"oh really? and where did you read this?" you questioned, eyes dropping back down to the flashcard in your hand. "mmm google. so is that a yes?" she asked hopefully, ducking down to kiss your cheek a few times.

"...no. i need to study!" you laughed, pushing her off as she groaned, throwing her head back to really push the dramatics of it. "i thought i wouldn't even know you were here alexia?" you challenged with a raise of your eyebrows as the taller girl held her hands up in surrender.

"vale vale. you got me! from now, you will not even know i am here." she promised, again zipping her lip as you hummed and turned back to your notes, alexia retreating into your bedroom to watch something as you'd suggested earlier.

you were rewarded by another five minutes of peace and quiet before you jolted, startled by loud over the top laughter coming from your bedroom, shaking your head knowing exactly what the brunette was trying to do.

and then came more laughter, again, and again, and again.

"there is no way whatever she is watching is that funny." you grumbled, pushing back and out of your chair, stomping over to your room finding your girlfriend curled up in your bed watching tv.

"are you done?" alexia asked, perking up and patting the empty spot behind her, opening her arms expectantly as you leaned in the doorway. "no. are you done fake laughing to get my attention?" you cocked an eyebrow as she scoffed.

"i was not!" "you were too."

"i do not even want your attention." your girlfriend shook her head firmly, crossing her arms and staring back at the tv. "oh no? well i will go back to my books then and-" you started to turn before she cracked, flopping herself down dramatically onto her back.

"vale, estoy mintiendo! i am bored and i miss you and i need your attention and i know you need to study but just watch a movie and eat dinner with me and then i will leave!" alexia groaned, arms covering her face as you shook your head.

"this is the part where you feel sorry for me." your girlfriend reminded, words muffled against her arms as your eyes rolled at her theatrics but none the less stepped forward into the bedroom.

"honestly putellas you the most dramatic girl in spain." you teased, slipping into bed beside her and squealing as she nearly tackled you down into a tight bear hug, kissing all over your face making you laugh.

"wait! cari is something...burning?" "mierda!"

"-and i had to ask you out on a date first because you were too shy." you remembered with a grin, tucking your legs beneath you as the girl across from you scoffed and pulled a face.

"i was not shy! sucia mentirosa." the footballer grumbled but you didn't miss the pink blush which coated her cheeks at the accusation, the pair of you sat out on the small balcony talking as to not wake posie.

"you were too. you wouldn't even say hello to me you just told your teammates how pretty i was!" you grinned knowingly as alexia once more scoffed, opening and closing her mouth like a fish trying to come up with a rebuttle.

"that is not how it happened!"

you'd first met alexia by coincidence, and then you didn't even know her name.

you'd been dragged along to a local football match, hardly a sports fan, by some of your friends as two of them had brothers who played. hopelessly confused you'd spent the majority of the match asking endless questions until one of them put a hand over your mouth and you grumbled you didn't even want to come in the first place.

but even among all your confusion you'd noticed right away there was something a little different about this team which was that there was both boys and girls playing.

granted there was an obvious difference in numbers, the boys made up the majority and most of the girls seemed to wait on the sidelines for a turn to play, except for one.

at first you'd really begun to pay attention when you realised that one girl was easily better than most if not all of the boys playing, despite the fact they were clearly taller and bigger and had no issues pushing her over for the ball.

but the girl never seemed to care, jumping right back to her feet and charging off after the culprit to get it right back, she'd even scored twice before the match was halfway done.

you also learned quite fast what her name was, seemingly quite popular she had a small crowd gathered on the sidelines cheering for her, most of which you assumed to be her family.

alexia.

you hadn't said a word to one another but for the next week you couldn't seem to shake her name from your head, and much to your friends shock you seemed eager to watch the football again that next weekend, inviting yourself as no one else did assuming you wouldn't want to go again.

you were a little less enthusiastic as you arrived and couldn't seem to find the brunette anywhere in sight, paying attention instead to the crash course about the rules your friends delivered to try and avoid another match full of endless questions.

it couldn't have been more than a few short moments until kick off when finally she appeared, a car screeching to a halt by the field as she stumbled out of it, hopping across the grass on one foot as she laced her boots up and effortlessly jumped the fence in her way.

what wasn't missed was the way you seemed much more engaged once she appeared, one of your friends elbowing the other with a nod and a knowing smirk at the fact, alexia quickly throwing her bag down and pushing her way into the team huddle.

"now we get it." you felt a nudge to your side and hummed, glancing to your friend with a small frown. "get what?" you asked cluelessly as they shared a grin, clearly in on some joke you'd missed.

"¡tienes un flechazo!" one of them sang out with a beaming smile as you scoffed and quickly shook your head. "no!" you protested with a roll of your eyes, the whistle blowing as the small crowd watching on cheered.

"sí, alexia. you have not taken your eyes off of her amiga, por favor!" the other laughed as you huffed and again rolled your eyes, assuring they were wrong and turning to watch the match as it begun.

"why else would you come chica? you hate football!" your friends teased as you shoved them away. "i do not. i just have not...watched before. we are not a sports family!" you defended, both your sister and your mami would rather poke their eyes out than be subjected to any form of athletics and you knew that for a fact.

"sure amiga, sure."

you became a regular to the matches after that, your friends teasing constant but you learned to block it out, surprisingly finding now you understood the game you didn't mind watching it as much, even when alexia was on the sidelines and not actually playing.

"¡buenas noticias!" you stumbled as one of your friends crashed into you, slinging an arm over your shoulder as you shot her a frown and kept walking, natalia having dropped you off not long ago.

your sister was also increasingly suspicious of your newfound football interest, only she didn't care enough to actually investigate, rather just comment it was boring and tell you to take the bus home as she had plans this afternoon.

"¿qué noticias?" you chuckled at her announcement, your friend seemingly unable to wipe the grin off her face so it must be good. "alexia thinks you are cute." the girl smirked as you felt your cheeks heat up and pushed her away.

"i told you to leave that alone." you warned sternly before glancing upward at the incoming clouds, your mami having insisted you wear a rain jacket you'd forgone you begun to think she might have been right.

"no no, really amiga! she asked mi hermano who you were last weekend because she noticed you keep coming with us. then she told nico that you were pretty, and nico told gabriella who told carmen who told me!" the girl rattled off as your head spun trying to keep up with the chain of information.

"ask her on a date chica." your friend encouraged eagerly as the two of you spotted your other friends who waved. "que? tonta. i cannot ask her on a date i do not even know her." you dismissed with a roll of your eyes.

"so? people go on dates to get to know each other, no? ask her after the game." the girl urged and you were grateful that the conversation seemed to die off as you met up with the rest of your friends, settling into other topics before the whistle blew.

however that peace did not last as the whistle blew once more for the end of the game, the topic of your apparent crush quickly resurfacing as your friends attempted to bully you into asking out alexia.

"no! detenerlo." you groaned, trying to leave but pushed toward the pitch as your friends brothers waved warmly, and at the smiles sent your way you begun to think this was becoming an inside job as one of them tapped alexia who had her back to you.

sure enough within seconds and some more pushing you were stood beside her, the group in a huddle and purposefully ignoring the pair of you leaving you no choice but to speak.

"good uh match." you smiled a little awkwardly as the taller girl returned one equally as forced. "gracias." she nodded curtly, looking away as you shifted on your feet. "you play?" the girl asked as you shook your head and she nodded slowly, again avoiding meeting your eyeline and shifting the bag on her shoulder, not much else to say.

drowning in the awkwardness of the situation as alexia sent you a a tight lipped smile but didn't say another word you pinched the back of your best friends arm with a glare.

"i am leaving! this is stupid we are not children." you whispered to her, taking off before someone else could grab you and with another nervous glance to the sky as thunder rumbled and you knew it was moments from arriving.

"meirda!" you cursed with a huff, seeing the next bus wouldn't arrive for another twenty minutes, and there really wasn't anywhere you'd be able to wait that was protected from the incoming storm.

you tried to call your sister but the phone rang out, and you knew your mami would be at work and wouldn't answer either. you were pulled from your worries at a tap on your shoulder, jolting with surprise and turning to see alexia stood behind you.

"lo siento. your friends said you left this?" the girl held out toward you a scarf, a scarf which did not belong to you as you sighed in realisation. "that is not mine." you shook your head as the brunette gave you an odd look.

"i think, i think our friends are trying to set us up." you explained with yet another awkward smile as alexia frowned in confusion. "set up?" she questioned slowly as she lowered the scarf.

"like set up." you emphasized but still it didn't seem to land as the taller girl shook her head still not getting it. "i-well they think i have a crush on you, and they said that you said you asked who i was and that you-" you begun to explain, wincing as the words left your mouth.

"that i?" alexia frowned again, urging you to continue. "that you told nico who told gabriella who told carmen who told my friends that you said i was pretty." you rambled out, feeling your face glow red with embarassment, especially at the look of bewilderment that crossed the girls face.

"es una tontería. lo siento i will give this back to them and-" you shook your head and grabbed the scarf from her hand, contemplating walking across town to the next bus stop just to get away from her.

"you are taking the bus?" alexia interrupted, fingers rubbing the corse material of the straps of her gym bag on her shoulder right as you turned to practically run away.

"i-sí." you sighed with a nod, unable to think of a lie quick enough. "me too. 652?" she asked as you nodded again, the two of you seemingly set on the same route.

"i normally see your family." you commented, a combination of embarrassed and grateful that the girl had so easily brushed off your comments earlier and making a mental note to use the scarf to strangle your friends later.

"they had to work." alexia explained with a shrug as you nodded, a silence falling between the pair of you as you willed time to pass faster but it seemed to only still.

but before either one of you could speak the skies opened and the rain which had been brooding for the last two hours broke free, coming in hard and fast and soaking you to the bone before you could even blink.

grumbling curses under your breath you wrapped the scarf around you as an attempt at shelter, vowing to listen from now on when you were told to take a rain jacket.

you felt a poke to your shoulder and saw alexia offering you her own rain jacket. "you use it." you shook your head as she did the same, pushing it into your hands. "needs a wash anyway." she joked pointing to her grass stained uniform and urging you to put it on.

"gracias." you smiled sincerely, alexia tugging the hood out where it had gotten stuck and carefully settling it over your head, brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear which were stuck to your forehead.

"mejor." she nodded contentedly as you thanked her again, drowned in the smell of a perfume you didn't recognise but had strong undertones of cedar and vanilla, what you assumed alexia smelled like when she wasn't cowering under her own arms from the rain.

"so. you have a crush on me?" you choked on air at the statement, head whipping sideways and catching the small smile tugging at the taller girls lips as she glanced down at you.

"no. so you think i am pretty?" you quickly fired back with a raised eyebrow, alexia looking away but still with the same smile on her face as she shrugged.

"no."

"-and then after that you ran away anytime i tried to talk to you and made nico find out if i was single and into girls." you teased your ex with a grin who rolled her eyes, finishing her own tea and placing it down on the table beside your empty mug.

"he was lying!" alexia huffed, denying it as she'd done for years despite both of you knowing the truth. "you kept my jacket so i had to come and speak to you." alexia countered, pointing a finger at you accusingly causing a soft laugh to leave your lips.

"i was trying to come and speak to you so i could give you back your jacket. it took three more games before i caught you and finally asked you to get coffee with me!" you pointed right back at her as the now blonde pulled a face.

"i should have said no, saved myself the future pain." the girl shrugged as your eyes widened and you opened your mouth in shock but when she sent you a cheeky grin you knew she was only teasing, reaching across to where she sat and smacking her knee.

"imbécil!" you shot her a look as she winked, tapping her phone and sliding it into the pocket of her jeans as she stood. "i should go, i have to train tomorrow." she smiled now apologetically as you waved her off, quick to assure it was late and you didn't mean to keep her so long.

"thank you for dinner." alexia pulled you into a hug as you arrived to the front door, for a fleeting second hating how at home you still felt within her arms before she let go.

"thank you for doing the dishes. about time you learned!" you poked at her side as she flicked your ear and mumbled something under her breath.

"she is great, and very lucky to have you." alexia glanced over your shoulder, eyebrows gesturing toward posie's room, her door just askew as the two of you spoke in hushed tones already as to not wake her.

"maybe." you forced a smile as alexia cocked her head to the side, clearly about to question your tone as you cleared your throat. "i should go check on her." you interrupted as the taller girl nodded in understanding.

"maybe you could both have dinner with me again, i can cook?" she offered as you opened the door. "can you?" you mocked as alexia rolled her eyes, the two of you falling into a comfortable silence.

a silence which had her leaning in a little, then you leaning in a little, her eyes searching yours for any sign before she closed the distance all together and pressed her lips against yours.

kissing alexia felt like coming home, and with the way your mouths moved together it was obvious that both of you were exploring familiar territory, until suddenly a bitter bitter taste began to spread and you had to pull away.

"lo siento dios mio i crossed the line and i-" alexia began to panic, her cheeks glowing bright red as you were quick to put a hand on her cheek with a shake of your head.

"alexia i kissed you right back, detenerlo." you assured, thumb stroking her jawline for a second before you pulled your hand back with a sad smile.

"but i just-i just have to focus everything into mariposa, to be good enough for her, good enough for natalia. i do not have the room for a relationship right now ale and i do not want to hurt you again." you confessed, the words paining you like swallowing razor blades as you spat them out.

"i understand, the nena comes first. but maybe we can try, friends? i meant it when i said i wanted to help you amo-amiga." alexia was quick to correct with an awkward smile that you shared before she spoke again.

"friends who almost got married, sí?

[dreamauri]

Could you please write something with Fernando when you’re Ayrton Sennas daughter. When you and Fernando first started dating and finally got married you decided to keep it a secret you wanted to enjoy you’re live together without the scrutiny from the outside world which would without a doubt would come if the public found out with you’re last name and you’re and Fernandos age difference but you couldn’t careless you’re pretty sure that some people will figure it out under them Lance which made it too his personal quest too get Fernando too talk about his personal live. The speculations only get worse when Alain congratulated Fernando when you gave birth to a boy not realizing that they get filmed. Much Love❤️

♪ — 𝗔𝗟𝗟 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗘𝗧 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗦 fernando alonso x wife! senna! reader ( fluff ) fic summary . . . fernando likes to keep his life outside of an f1 paddock as private as possible, because it's not every day an Alonso gets married to Senna's younger daughter and has a boy with her.

( my master list | more of fernando alonso ) ( requests )

There’s a house in Oviedo that the press doesn’t know about.

It sits at the edge of town, near the woods, where the trees thicken and the sun spills gold through cracked shutters in the morning. It’s all quiet up here — the kind of quiet that can’t be bought with fame or fortune, only earned by sacrifice. This is where Fernando Alonso becomes just a man — not a champion, not a headline. Just a husband, a father.

Inside, you hum to yourself, barefoot on tile, a spoon of mashed avocado in one hand and a sleepy toddler in the other. Your boy — with his father’s eyes and your late father’s defiant brow — babbles nonsense through a gummy grin, fingers smearing green across the bib that says Papá’s Champion.

“Yeah? Is that so?” you laugh, brushing his hair back. He squeals, kicking, and your phone buzzes.

One message. Then three. Then ten.

The screen fills up like a warning light. Your fingers tremble as you scroll.

Did Prost really out you? Are you married to Alonso?? WTF, Y/N. YOU HAVE A BABY???

Your chest tightens. You barely hear the soft sound of your son dropping the spoon to the floor.

It happened.

You glance at the television across the room — volume low, a racing recap airing muted highlights — just in time to catch it: a blurry shot of Fernando laughing with Alain Prost, the older man’s voice still mic’d.

“Congratulations on the baby, Alonso. A son, no less. You and your wife must be over the moon,” Prost said with a soft smile. “I saw the photos. Your boy looks just like you.”

Your breath catches. The camera pans away too late. The footage is real. Raw. It aired.

You stare at it like it might change, like time could reverse.

“Fernando,” you whisper, grabbing your phone. “They know.”

It had started with stolen glances.

Portimão, five years ago. A WEC afterparty, golden wine and neon lights. You hadn’t meant to meet him — hadn’t planned to sit beside the legend your father once raced against, his legacy braided into yours through decades of track history and bloodline myth.

But he had leaned toward you with quiet curiosity, not flirtation, and asked, “Do you ever feel like your name isn’t yours?”

And you’d laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it was true.

You’d danced once that night. And then again the next time you met. He never asked for your number, only said, “I’ll find you.”

And he did.

Every city, every season. Barcelona, Tokyo, Monaco. Always quiet, always private. No photos. No red carpet.

He loved you in the in-betweens — the sleepy mornings, the grocery runs, the scar behind your knee from a childhood fall. When he proposed, it was in your mother’s garden, hands covered in dirt from planting tulips.

“Say yes,” he said, breathless. “And I swear I’ll protect you from all of it.”

You said yes.

Two years married now. One child. Zero tabloid mentions — until today.

Fernando returned to Formula 1 like a man possessed — sharp, hungry, invincible again. But even in the chaos, he stayed private. Not cold, never. Just... contained. Like he carried something precious beneath his skin.

To the world, he was the bachelor prince of motorsport. Too fast for commitment. Too busy to settle.

But his teammate, Lance Stroll, had always found that a little too tidy.

“You never bring anyone to race weekends,” Lance pointed out once, half-teasing, half-prodding. “Even Max has a plus-one sometimes.”

Fernando shrugged. “I like my solitude.”

“Mmm.” Lance sipped his coffee. “Or maybe Oviedo’s just that interesting.”

Fernando’s jaw twitched. A subtle thing. Most people wouldn’t have caught it. But Lance had grown up under scrutiny, too. He knew how to see what wasn’t said.

Later that night, he found a receipt in the simulator office. Oviedo. Children’s clothing boutique. Paid in cash.

Lance never mentioned it. But he started watching closer.

It was a Netflix crew, staying late to shoot B-roll for DTS.

They weren’t meant to catch anything useful. Just paddock shots, maybe a few driver interviews. Alain Prost had stopped by for a surprise visit, all smiles and nostalgia.

When he greeted Fernando, they embraced like old war generals. And Alain — always sharp, but not mic-conscious — leaned in with a grin.

“Congratulations on the baby, Alonso. A son, no less. You and your wife must be over the moon.” Prost said with a soft smile. “I saw the photos. Your boy looks just like you,”

“He has Yn’s eyes,” Fernando answered, so softly and quietly. “We named him Ayrton.”

The crew caught every word. Every frame.

It aired five days later — a 10-second snippet buried in a longer feature.

But fans are scavengers. They clipped it. Cropped it. Shared it with captions like:

FERNANDO HAS A BABY? FERNANDO HAS A WIFE?? WHO IS HIS WIFE???

Within hours, #WHOISTHEWIFE was trending in Spain and Brazil, the fandom going feral in real-time.

At first, no one knew. The identity of the mysterious mother was the crown jewel of F1 conspiracy culture. But then — someone made the connection. The baby’s name.

Ayrton.

And with that, the internet spiraled. Theories turned to threads. Threads turned to receipts.

“It has to be someone connected to Senna.” “What if... it’s his daughter?” “Wait. Didn’t she disappear from the public eye a few years ago?” “FERNANDO. ALONSO. MARRIED. SENNA’S. DAUGHTER??”

And just like that, you had been found. Not with a press release. Not with a soft reveal.

No.

They found you like hunters in the forest — following the breadcrumbs you never meant to drop.

You watched the storm bloom from your couch in Oviedo, one arm wrapped around your son as your whole life unraveled in pixels. Faces you'd never met were stitching together your love story like it was a puzzle box.

Your phone rang just after sunset.

“Mi vida,” Fernando said, his voice low. “I saw it. I’m so sorry—”

“I know,” you interrupted. “I know. It’s not your fault.”

You could hear him breathing hard, like he’d been running. Or pacing. “I never wanted you to be exposed like this.”

“It’s not your fault,” you said again, though your throat ached like you'd swallowed glass. “I always knew it wouldn’t stay secret forever.”

“I should’ve told them. About you. About our son. Maybe not everything, but... something.”

You closed your eyes, heart pounding under the quiet weight of it all. “What do we do now?”

A beat. Then his voice — quieter. Stronger. Like the eye of the storm.

“We stop hiding.”

Fernando wore his wedding ring for the first time on a race weekend in Italy.

Not on a chain. Not tucked into a drawer. But boldly, openly, on his left hand — gleaming in the sun as he tightened his gloves, as he signed autographs, as he stood for press photos.

There was no press conference. No prepared statement. He simply was — as if this was how it had always been.

And maybe it was. Maybe the truth had always lived in the way he smiled after races, the way he flew home the second the checkered flag waved, the way he rarely posted on Instagram but always checked yours.

The paddock noticed. The fans noticed.

And back in Oviedo, so did you — watching from your quiet living room as your son clapped and pointed at the screen, babbling “Papá” through a mouthful of banana.

You touched your own ring. Still warm.

They never fully stopped talking.

You were Ayrton Senna’s daughter. He was Fernando Alonso. Of course they speculated.

But over time, the noise softened.

Photos emerged — the three of you on a beach, grainy but sweet. The internet went insane, but it couldn’t change what you had.

Your home stayed your sanctuary. Your son learned to say fast before he learned to say car. The world kept spinning, faster and faster, but for once, you weren’t chasing it.

Fernando came home between races and kissed you like the world hadn’t fallen apart.

“You’re not mad?” he’d asked one night, after the baby had fallen asleep.

“No,” you whispered. “I’m relieved.”

Because after five years of shadows, after vows exchanged in quiet corners, you were finally seen.

And still safe.

And still in love.

[desigal-26]

Because I believe that no one acknowledges the fact that Oscar has won such beautiful trophies

Pretty Trophies

Oscar Piastri x Female!Reader

He had pretty trophies, but none compares to her

‘“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”’

Warnings: Reader gets a bit insecure—but no worries, our Osc is there to handle everything. Just Fluff.

Word Count: 1.2K (I know, it’s short)

Oscar sighed contentedly, pressing his back against the hotel room door as it clicked shut behind him. For a moment, he let his eyes fall closed, allowing the events of the past few hours to settle around him like soft, triumphant waves.

He was leading the World Driver’s Championship.

The first Australian to do so since his own mentor — and now manager — Mark Webber.

Five wins in eight races had earned him 186 points and a ten-point lead over his teammate. The numbers were surreal. Clean. Ruthless. Beautiful.

But for tonight, Oscar didn’t care about standings, margins, or strategy. Not now. Not after a day like this — a day that had meant more than just a P1.

This win had been personal.

His young sister, Eddie, had flown in for the race, her bright grin beaming down from the garage. And sitting in the paddock, heart in her hands and eyes full of pride, was the woman he loved — attending her first race of the season.

He had made sure to sign the champagne bottle in both of their names, a quiet little gesture captured on camera — though it took fans a while to decipher what it meant. And by the time they had… it was already making the rounds on Twitter, Instagram, and F1 Tumblr edits with captions like “soft launch of the century.”

But none of that mattered as much as the woman sitting on the bed in front of him now.

He opened his eyes, and the moment he did, the tired, composed exterior of a race-winning driver melted into something far more vulnerable. Something real.

There she was — his girl — perched cross-legged in one of his shirts, her gaze soft as she studied the newly acquired trophy resting in her lap. Her fingers traced the sharp, intricate lines of the Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya like it was something sacred.

Oscar’s breath caught a little. Not because of the win. But because of the look on her face.

That reverent little smile.

The shine in her eyes.

The faint pink in her cheeks from when Lando had teased her about being “Oscar’s Lady Luck” in the media pen.

She was his calm in a storm, the quiet balance in his fast-paced world. Before her, he didn’t believe in luck — only in precision, data, and consistency. But then she arrived like a quiet miracle — a soft summer breeze across his sunburnt skin, a snowfall that whispered instead of screamed. Something divine choosing to belong in his world of rubber and fire.

The bed dipped slightly as he settled beside her. He didn’t speak — he just watched. Not the trophy. But her.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the curves of the trophy.

“You’re staring too,” he countered, voice low.

“At an inanimate object,” she said with a shrug, finally glancing up — her lips curved in a smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

With a sigh, she gently placed the trophy on the bedside table, her eyes flicking back to his. “I’ve got what I really came for anyway,” she whispered, voice playful, and edged closer to him with a mischievous twinkle in her gaze.

“You’re thinking something,” Oscar observed, eyebrow raised.

“Am I?” she whispered back, nose brushing his as she pressed a featherlight kiss against its tip.

He immediately scrunched his face, caught off guard, which made her burst into a giggle — full, warm, and alive.

“You love doing that,” he groaned, though the corners of his mouth curled helplessly into a smile.

“I just love your nose scrunches,” she said matter-of-factly, her voice all sweetness and mischief. “They make you look like a golden retriever.”

He rolled his eyes, but his hands had already moved — one sliding around her waist to pull her against him. She yelped in surprise, half-laughing, half-gasping as she landed in his lap, hands pressed to his chest.

“Careful,” she warned, voice breathless. “You’re still a national treasure right now. Must protect the asset.”

“I’ll risk it,” Oscar murmured, brushing her hair gently off her face. “Besides… pretty sure you’re the one who brought me luck today.”

She tilted her head, smiling softly, eyes locked on his. “Then I guess you’ll have to keep me around till Abu Dhabi, huh?”

He didn’t even blink.

“Long after that,” he promised.

She giggled softly, still caught in his embrace, before her eyes flickered toward the gleaming silver resting on the bedside table.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she said, “You love collecting pretty trophies, don’t you?”

The question caught him mid-movement. His fingers paused where they’d been brushing the curve of her back, his brows knitting in faint confusion. He tilted his head to the side, an amused quirk in his lips.

“What?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

She grinned and gestured lazily toward the Spanish Grand Prix trophy. “I mean, just look at that. And the rest of them. Last year’s Hungarian GP, this year’s Chinese, Saudi Arabia…” She wrinkled her nose in mock frustration. “And I know I’m forgetting a few. Maybe Bahrain?”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “You’re not wrong,” he murmured, his eyes warm as they studied her.

She shifted just enough to rest her chin against his chest, her voice still playful but quieter now — edged with something she didn’t name.

“You like collecting beautiful things. Earning them.”

Oscar didn’t speak at first. He just looked at her, really looked — the way her lashes fluttered, the way her mouth tilted into a half-smile even as her eyes held something a little more fragile. A little unsure.

And then he gently tilted her chin up so her gaze met his completely.

“I do like collecting beautiful things,” he said softly, voice slow and certain. “But those trophies? They’re just metal. Stats. Symbols.”

His thumb brushed against her cheek, the gesture unbearably tender.

“You’re the best prize I’ve ever gotten,” he whispered, like it was a secret just for her. “For all the years I’ve struggled. For the pressure, the sacrifices, the doubt. For the late nights, the empty airports, the near-misses. You are the thing I never saw coming. And nothing I’ll ever win on track will feel as important as winning you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the air catching in her throat.

Oscar smiled gently, forehead brushing against hers.

“I’d give up every podium for you. No hesitation.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of meaning. Of weight. Of promises unsaid but deeply understood.

She opened her mouth to say something, but emotion clogged her voice, and instead, she leaned in — pressing her lips softly to his. It wasn’t rushed or fiery, but reverent, like she was answering with everything she couldn’t put into words.

When they pulled apart, she whispered against his mouth, “You make it very hard to stay composed, Piastri.”

He smirked. “Good. Because I’ve been completely ruined for composure since the moment I saw you in that bloody paddock sundress.”

She laughed, her face buried in the crook of his neck now, and he held her tighter, as if the world could melt around them and he’d still be exactly where he wanted to be.

With her.

His real victory.

[wosospacegirl]

Love bite - barça teen reader

Summary: Y/n's trying to hide the lovebite on her neck from Alexia and Olga but fails.

Word count: 3.1k

Notes: This was an anon request!! <3 thank u for sending it in <3

Masterlist

..

Jana, Vick and Pina had told Y/n that it would be a good idea to go to the concert of a local singer. They had told her she should ‘enjoy her teenage years’ and ‘stop acting like a grandma’.

So Y/n asked Alexia if she could go, and of course the answer was a straight up go. La Reina said it would be too dangerous, that bad-intentioned people would recognize them and try to do something bad to Y/n.

It took a lot from Y/n, the girls and Olga to change Alexia’s mind about it, but she finally caved in.

Y/n went out and enjoyed her night, although she might have enjoyed it a little too much.

Y/n had spent the last hour trying to hide the telltale mark on her neck. She had barely slept the night before, she had come back to the house late, only mumbling a good night to Alexia, who had stayed up and waited for her.

The young girl hadn't noticed the mark sitting right on her jugular when she collapsed into her bed, barely taking her shoes off.

But as she looked in the mirror that morning, the bright red hickey stood out like a neon sign, and she knew it was going to be impossible to keep it hidden much longer. 

Y/n quickly pulled on her hoodie–the first one lying around in her drawer– hoping the high collar would be enough to cover it. But as soon as she walked into the kitchen to have breakfast, she could tell that Alexia and Olga weren’t going to be fooled.

"Morning, Y/n!" Alexia greeted, raising an eyebrow when she saw the way Y/n was pulling her hoodie up around her neck, practically choking herself in the process.

Cool, act cool.

"Uh... morning," Y/n muttered, her voice higher than usual as she tried to act casual. She kept her eyes down, but she could feel the heat rising in her cheeks.

"Carinõ, why the hoodie??" Olga asked, confusion on her face. "Today’s one of the hottest days of the season!” She pointed at the window, as if the bright rays of sunshine running through their front yard would back her up on it.

Alexia, though, was worried about something else.

“Hey!” Alexia said sternly, frowning on her face, getting closer to Y/n.

Y/ froze on the spot. Alexia saw it. Somewhere she saw it under the thick fabric of her clothes. It was over for her. Alexia would never allow her to go out again.

“–Is that my hoodie?” Alexia questioned, the frown on her face deepening as she saw the little AP embroidery on the hem of the left sleeve. “I’ve told you not to take my clothes, nena!”

Y/n let out a breath in relief, her body suddenly not feeling so stiff.

“Uh, yeah,” Y/n said, rubbing the back of her neck and sitting on the table, in front of Olga and Alexia. “It’s just so comfy.”

The young girl prepared her coffee as if nothing had happened. If she acted cool enough, she would get through it.

Alexia rolled her eyes, drinking her smoothie.

“That hoodie was handmade for me,” Alexia muttered under her breath, but Y/n could still hear her.

“You always let Olga wear it, though!” Y/n shot back.

The hoodie was an exclusive piece. There was only one in the world, because the designer had made it for a campaign Alexia did for the Barcelona media team. It was blue, red and yellow, but the charm of it was that it looked old money.

Y/n fell in love with it the moment she saw Alexia wearing it, so of course, she casually borrowed it from Alexia from time to time.

“She’s my girlfriend, tio [dude]!” Alexia said as if it were obvious. “It’s different, we share the same wardrobe.”

“But–”

“Cariño,” Olga said softly, interrupting her and Y/n’s bickering. “What if you ask Alexia for her clothes before taking them, huh? You wouldn’t like it if Alexia just got into your room and took your stuff without asking.” 

“Alexia never asks for my clothes though!” Y/n argued, taking a bite of the sandwich she had just made.

Alexia turned to her comically fast. “And when did I ever wear your clothes? You wear shirts with cartoons on them, I would never wear something like that!”

“Okay, first,” Y/n pointed a finger at her. “It’s not cartoons, it's anime. Second, you did take my clothes when we went to that game in Portugal.”

“Because the airport lost my baggage!” Alexia said exasperatedly, holding the bridge of her nose. “I didn’t have anything to wear! And it was 2 years ago.”

“Well, you still took my clothes and you didn’t even ask–”

Then a tragedy happened. 

Y/n reached her hand to grab one of the fruits that were near Olga, but then she accidentally knocked her hand over the orange juice jar that was just on her left.

Her football reflexes weren’t fast enough, and the juice splashed all over the table–and on her, meaning, on the hoodie.

Alexia’s hoodie quickly became wet and turned into a weird orange-ish tone in a matter of seconds.

“Y/n! Merda [shit],” Alexia said, getting up from her seat, her eyes in horror as she saw how stained her hoodie–her personalized hood–was. “Take it off now! I’m gonna put it in the laundry machine.”

Olga, seeing it all happen, was quick to take some paper towels and try to clean up the mess on the table. Although Alexia was–again–more worried about her hoodie.

Alexia came closer to Y/n and held the hem of the hoodie, but Y/n fought her on that, taking a step back and putting her arms in front of her body.

“No, let me wear it!” Y/n said, her tone harsh.

Both Alexia and Olga stopped and stared at Y/n. Why would Y/n want to wear something wet and, well, dirty?

Okay, maybe the whole thing about being cool about it wasn’t working.

“ I-I mean I’ll go change and I’ll put it in the laundry machine myself,” Y/n said, smiling nervously as she noticed Alexia and Olga were not buying the whole situation.

Instead of waiting for them to say something, she quickly turned around, heading for the stairs. But Y/n quickly felt something tugging her back.

Alexia and her stupid arm strength.

Y/n twisted away from Alexia’s grip like her life depended on it “I said I’ll wash it later!” she yelped.

Alexia was obviously stronger, but Y/n was faster– fastest one on the team, to be more exact–no bragging though.

Y/n dodged to the side while Alexia groaned, her grip losing. 

“Come on, nena”, Alexia groaned. “I want my hoodie, not your kidney.”

Y/n was fast, but Olga? Oh, Olga was messy.

Y/n tripped over the bag Olga always left on the floor, and that’s when Alexia got hold of her again.

“Not so fast, nena,” Alexia said firmly, her tone indicating she wouldn't let her go until she got to the bottom of her awkward behaviour.

“Sit.” Olga pointed at the sofa to her left with her chin. 

Y/n gulped and sat down, looking at her feet while both Alexia and Olga looked at her sternly. Olga was never the serious one, which meant she was gonna get in trouble.

“What happened?” Olga asked, crossing her arms. “What’s this whole thing with the hoodie?”

"Nothing, it’s fine… I am fine," Y/n said quickly, tugging the stained hoodie higher. "Just, uh, you know…” Y/n looked around, grasping for an excuse. “I’m really stressed with school and… I just kinda found comfort in this hoodie, it 's-uh, so… soft?"

Alexia gave her a knowing look. "Right, of course," she said slowly, clearly unconvinced. "Since when does a hoodie help with school? And why not just take it off? I can get you a hoodie, you know. No need to go around clinging to my clothes."

Y/n’s stomach twisted with nerves. I can’t let them find out. I just can’t.

Alexia continued, raising an eyebrow. "Y/n, if you’re hiding something from us, you know we’ll find out eventually, right?"

Y/n’s face went scarlet. She instinctively reached up to adjust her collar again, but Alexia wasn’t buying it.

Olga's face softened when she noticed how nervous Y/n looked. She quickly got down to her knees in front of Y/n.

“Cariño,” she began gently. “You know that you can talk to us about anything, right?”

Y/n thought it was one of those rhetorical questions, but Olga waited until she replied.

“Yeah, um, I know that,” Y/n said, smiling shyly.

Y/n knew she could come to Olga and Alexia about anything she needed or wanted. When she messed up or did something stupid, they would give her a hard time and a lecture before fully supporting her and giving their best to help her.

But…Y/n wasn’t sure whether Olga or Alexia wanted to talk about how she got too caught up in a make-out session inside a bathroom stall.

“Look, if this is about body image issues–” Alexia began.

“Or mental health–” Olga said in sequence. 

Alexia and Olga began muttering about Y/n’s mental health and well-being, but it was like they didn’t know how to talk about it, so their words were mixing together and they were absolutely making no sense.

Y/n let them have their own monologue moment while she thought of what she could do about the whole situation. Olga and Alexia clearly thought the whole hoodie thing meant that there was something wrong with her.

“I’m gonna call her psychiatrist and tell him she needs to see him,” Olga said, turning to Alexia.

And that’s when Y/n gave up trying to hide it, she could show the hickey but maybe say it was something else?

Y/n’s mind raced as Alexia stared at her down. Maybe she could lie — say it was a burn from her curling iron or a mosquito bite she scratched too hard.

Yeah, that could work. She opened her mouth to speak but immediately shut it again when Alexia’s eyes narrowed. Nope. No way she’d buy that. Alexia had the terrifying ability to see through every excuse Y/n had ever made.

Y/n had her fair share of lies she told and got cough–’ fake stomach aches’, ‘forgot my boots',  ‘didn’t hear my alarm’. Alexia would never believe the bug bite story.

What was worse? A hickey or Alexia and Olga thinking that she wanted to off herself?

Y/n hoped they thought the mental health thing was worse.

“Okay, you two, stop,” she muttered, looking down in embarrassment.

That caught Alexia and Olga’s attention, and both women looked at her again.

Y/sighed in defeat and lowered her hoodie, revealing the bright red hickey on her neck. 

"So I went to that concert last night and..yeah, me and this girl…we kinda... kissed. And, uh, I wasn’t really thinking about where I was... You know, being kissed." Y/n mumbled, feeling her ears get red.

Olga’s eyes widened, her face changed from confusion to relief and then to amusement. "Well, well, well. Look who’s got a little love bite."

Y/n buried her face in her hands, mortified. "Please don’t make it worse."

Alexia, on the other hand, held a stoic expression on her face, not saying anything. Y/n could feel her eyes burning on her hickey, so she pulled the hoodie tight again.

“And here I was scared that we were going to have to send you to some clinic,” Olga smirked, sitting on the love seat in front of the sofa, while Alexia stood in front of her, still no expression on her face.

“Hmm, no,” Y/n mumbled, eyes locked on Olga and deliberately ignoring Alexia. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Olga seemed to have taken the whole situation in stride, Alexia, on the other hand, looked like she had just lost to Real Madrid.

"Nope, now we just have to worry about what happens the next time you go out,” Olga teased, her grin widening. 

“Look at my cariño all grown up... What’s next? Bringing your girlfriend home?”. 

Olga shot a pointed look at Alexia, her smile turning downright devilish. "Bet she’d love that," Olga added, clearly enjoying herself.

Y/n groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Olga, stop it!” 

Olga just laughed, giving Alexia a gentle nudge before tugging her down beside her. She took Alexia’s hand, her thumb brushing over her knuckles.

“Alexia, stop looking at Nena like she did something wrong,” Olga finally said, her voice softer.

“Who was the girl?” Alexia finally spoke, as if being close to Olga had settled her nerves.

“Just…someone from school,” Y/n said, playing with her hands. “We  ran into each other at the concert.”

“You didn’t tell us it was going to be a date,” Alexia said, lifting one eyebrow, Olgas hand resting softly against her thigh. “You said it was just you and the girls from the club”

“Well, that’s because it wasn’t a date,” Y/n said, feeling more defensive. “I was with Jana when I saw the girl in the bathroom line.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Did you go to her house?” Alexia pressed.

Y/n’s head snapped up. "Why does that even matter?" Her irritation flared. "I’m sixteen, not twelve."

“Nena,” Olga said calmly but firmly, sensing the tension building between Alexia and Y/n. “We just want to know what happened, we’re not accusing you of anything–we want to make sure you were safe.”

Y/n felt her cheeks blush even more.

“Oh, no! We-we didn’t… you know,” Y/n stammered. “We didn’t…nothing happened.”

“You didn’t go to her house? Or like…somewhere else?” Alexia asked again.

“No,” Y/n said. “We-we met at the concert, and we stayed there.”

“You know you can go out alone, right?” Alexia asked. “People know you. It’s dangerous, you have to let us know where you are all the time.”

“Alexia, I know!” Y/n replied, the frustration creeping into her voice. “Like I said, we met there and then Jana drove me back here, I swear I didn’t leave.”

“You don't need to swear, we believe you,” Olga said, patting Alexia’s tight. “Right, amor?”

Alexia let out a sigh, her body not so tense anymore. “Yeah, we trust you.”

“Okay, so we’re done here,” Y/n said quickly, getting up and trying to run against the very awkward chat she just had. “Nice interrogation, though.”

But before she could make her getaway, Alexia tugged at the hem of her hoodie.

“Not so fast, lover girl,” Alexia teased, her lips curling into a smile.

Y/n froze, her face going bright red at the nickname. “Don’t call me that,” she muttered.

Alexia chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Hickeys happen. They’re normal.” She smirked, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But seriously, right on your neck? A little more careful next time, yeah?”

“Necks are like…rookie territory,” Olga added, grinning.

 "Come on! I didn’t plan it! It just happened,” Y/n groaned, her face still bright red.

“You’ve got training tomorrow,” Alexia said, her tone softening with a hint of concern. “You’ll probably want to figure out how to cover that up. I’m pretty sure everyone on the team is gonna notice. Trust me, they can spot a hickey from miles away.”

“Why do you say that?” Y/n looked at Alexia out of the corner of her eyes. “You've had hickeys?”

“Of course she has,” Olga cut in, grinning wickedly. “She’s not a nun, cariño.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked back to Alexia, who was suddenly very interested in the rug Olga had bought last week.

Alexia was the most put-together person Y/n had ever met. Her capitana was focused and professional…she just couldn't picture Alexia walking around with a love bite.

Y/n had been living with Olga and Alexia for a fair share of years and–thank god– she never noticed any hickey or well…anything between the two of them.

Unfortunately, by the way both Alexia and Olga blushed at her question, it was safe to say Alexia did have her moments with hickeys, but Y/n just never noticed them.

Ignorance really was a virtue. 

“Okay…” Y/n said slowly, backing away from the living room. “Ew.”

“Hey, we didn’t ew you?” Olga protested. “Don’t ew us! Like Alexia said, hickeys are normal and–”

“Please stop talking right now,” Y/n said, already on the stairs.

“When two people love each other–”

"Nope!” Y/n blurted as Olga started talking

She practically sprinted up the stairs, her hands over her ears. “I don’t wanna hear it! I’m good! I’m fine! No life lessons, please!”

“Coward!” Olga called after her, laughing.

Y/n groaned, slamming her bedroom door shut. Maybe she could fake an injury before training tomorrow. Anything was better than showing up with her glowing red lovebite for the entire team to see.Y/n had a feeling Alexia wasn't going to be on her side on this one.

“By the way,” Olga called up the stairs,  “Next time you’re sneaking around with someone, maybe ask her to mark you somewhere less obvious. Just some friendly advice!”

“Stop talking!” Y/n’s muffled yell came from behind her door.

..

The next day, Y/n knocks on Alexia and Olga’s door.

When she heard the sleepy ‘come in’ from Olga, she opened the door, lingering in the doorway.

Olga was clearly still trying to sleep, her face half buried into the covers. But Alexia was up already, her gym clothes on while she looked at the mirror and held her hair in a ponytail.

“Here,” Y/n said, Alexia’s hoodie folded neatly in her hands, and she handed it to her.

Alexia glanced at the hoodie, then at Y/n, and took a deliberate step back. “Oh no. Keep it.”

Y/n frowned. “What? Why?”

“Because I don’t know what else you’ve been doing while wearing that,” Alexia said, eyeing it like it was contaminated. “I’m not risking whatever...teenage chaos you’ve dragged it through.”

“I didn’t—” Y/n started, but Alexia was already walking away, heading through the. “Alexia! I washed it! I literally wore it after the whole…kissing thing.”

“Keep it!” Alexia called over her shoulder. “I’m going to the gym — be ready when I get back for lunch and make sure Olga actually wakes up.

Y/n sighed, resigned to dealing with Olga, but at least she got to keep the hoodie.

Olga murmured something in response and turned around, burning her face in the other pillow.

..

Masterlist

Notes: Please let me know what u guys think <3

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you both always find your way back to each other

warning : sexual content included - minors dni

You didn’t want to be here.

You didn’t want to be wearing four inches of makeup, a dress someone else picked out, smiling for endless cameras, forced to network with people you barely knew. You’d much rather be in your Barcelona kit, cleats on your feet, running drills at training.

But tonight wasn’t about what you wanted — it was about being a face for Nike, about showing up at one of their biggest global athlete events, standing next to gold medals and championship rings and MVP trophies. You adjusted the neckline of your dress and took another sip of champagne, counting the hours until you could go back to your hotel room.

And that’s when your manager nudged you, murmuring in your ear, “There's someone you should meet.”

You blinked the exhaustion away and turned — and for the first time that night, you actually woke up.

Standing there, in a clean-cut navy suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, hands tucked coolly into her pockets, was Paige Bueckers.

You knew who she was immediately. Everyone did.

Paige Bueckers, WNBA’s next superstar, the heart of the Dallas Wings. Ice in her veins, clutch under pressure. America's sweetheart with a killer crossover. She was taller than you expected, broad-shouldered in a way cameras didn’t quite capture. She wasn’t smiling. She was just... looking at you. Like she knew you too.

You smoothed your dress automatically and offered your hand. “Hi,” you said, and hated that your voice came out a little breathless.

Paige’s lips curved into a smirk as she shook your hand — firm, a little rough, calloused fingers from years of handling a basketball.

“I know who you are," she said, voice low and casual. "Big fan.”

You laughed under your breath, a little shy, and teased, “Guess I’m a fan too. You’re kinda hard to miss.”

Her grin widened, and for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about escaping. You were thinking about staying.

The conversation flowed easily.

You didn’t even realize how long you’d been standing there until you felt a tap on your shoulder — someone from Nike needing you for a photo. You apologized, promising Paige you'd be right back.

Five minutes later, you found her again. She was standing by the bar, scrolling her phone, a drink in her free hand. As if she was waiting for you.

You slipped into the empty space next to her and nudged her arm lightly. “Miss me?” you teased.

She didn’t answer right away, just looked at you from under her lashes with a grin that made your stomach flip. “Maybe.”

The whole night was like that.

You’d get pulled away — to talk to a sponsor, to take a picture with a fan, to do a quick interview — and every time, somehow, you found your way back to Paige. And every time you did, it felt easier. Like slipping into a conversation you didn’t want to leave.

You found out she hated dressing up just as much as you did. That she loved watching football, especially Barça matches. That she hated flying but did it almost every week now. That she missed snow sometimes — real Minnesota snow — but loved the Texas sun more than she ever thought she would.

She asked you about Barcelona. About your favorite stadiums to play in, about the nerves before a Champions League final, about what it felt like to wear your country’s badge. And you asked her about Dallas. About the pressure, about the critics, about what it was like carrying so much on her shoulders and still making it look easy.

“It’s not easy,” she admitted quietly once, when you caught her off guard between topics. You nodded, understanding more than you could say.

There was something about her — something solid. Unshakable.

Even when she was teasing you, even when she was pretending not to be shy (but you could tell she was, a little), there was a strength to her that made you feel like you could lean against it.

And when she looked at you — really looked at you — it felt like you were the only two people in the room.

Eventually, late into the night, you ended up outside on the terrace together. The city buzzed around you — flashing lights, car horns, the dull throb of a DJ's bass line from inside — but you barely noticed. Paige had taken off her jacket and slung it over your shoulders without thinking when she noticed you shivering. The scent of her cologne clung to the fabric, something sharp and clean and a little addictive.

You glanced at her from the corner of your eye.

She was leaning against the railing, hands braced behind her, looking relaxed in a way you hadn’t seen all night. The moonlight cut across her jawline, catching the chain she wore under her shirt.

God, she was beautiful.

“So,” she said, without looking at you, “you think I’m hard to miss, huh?”

You laughed, ducking your head, cheeks burning. "I said what I said."

Paige chuckled lowly and finally turned to face you fully. And for a second — just a second — the air changed.

The way she was looking at you... it made your heart skip.

Like she was thinking about saying something.

Like she wanted to step closer.

Like maybe she wanted to kiss you.

You opened your mouth — to say what, you didn’t know — but the terrace door swung open behind you, a flood of people spilling out, breaking the spell. Paige straightened up, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. You blinked, trying to catch your breath.

She jerked her chin toward the door. “Wanna get outta here?”

Your heart leapt into your throat.

You smiled — soft, genuine, sure.

“Lead the way.”

The car ride was quiet but thick—every glance, every slight shift of her body brushing against yours making your skin hum.

By the time you reached her hotel, your palms were damp.

She didn’t lead you by the hand, didn't rush. Just walked a step ahead, glancing back once to make sure you were following.

You were.

God, you were.

The hotel was nice, of course—Nike athletes didn’t exactly get thrown into cheap motels—but you barely registered anything except her.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, Paige moved.

No hesitation now.

She was on you in two long strides, backing you up against the wall, her mouth crashing into yours.

You gasped, the suddenness of it knocking the air from your lungs—but you clutched at her blazer, pulling her closer, needing her just as badly.

Her hands were rougher than you expected—not careless, but desperate—skimming down your sides, gripping your hips so tightly you whimpered into her mouth.

“Been thinking about this all night,” she muttered against your lips, her voice low, hoarse.

You barely had time to nod before she kissed you again, deeper this time. Her hands slid under the hem of your dress, bunching the soft fabric up around your waist.

You were already aching for her, shifting on your toes to get closer. Paige caught your movement, growling softly in the back of her throat as she pulled back just enough to look at you.

Her pupils were blown wide, jaw tight.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty,” she rasped, almost like it hurt to say.

You flushed under the intensity of her gaze, hips rolling toward her without thinking.

“Paige—” you breathed, but it came out more like a plea than anything else.

“I got you,” she promised, her hands skimming your thighs before lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around her waist instinctively, fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of her neck.

She carried you to the bed and dropped you onto the mattress with a soft bounce, standing over you for a second to just look.

You watched her shed her blazer and toss it to the floor, leaving her in a plain white tank top tucked into those fitted slacks. Her arms flexed as she leaned down, bracing herself on either side of your body.

"You don’t even know," she murmured, nuzzling along your jawline, her voice sending shivers down your spine. "How bad I wanna take my time with you.”

You whimpered, tugging at her tank top, needing more, needing everything.

She kissed you again—rougher now, teeth grazing your bottom lip, tongue sweeping into your mouth like she owned you. And maybe she did, in that moment.

Her hands dragged your dress up higher, fingers hooking into your underwear, pulling them down slow enough to make you squirm.

When she finally touched you—fingers running through your folds with a reverent kind of hunger—you gasped, hips arching off the bed.

“So wet for me already,” Paige whispered, pressing her forehead against yours like she needed the contact just as badly as you did. “Fuck.”

You could barely respond, too overwhelmed by the way her fingers circled your clit with maddening, precise pressure.

“You’re mine tonight,” she said, more to herself than you. “Say it.”

You whined, clutching at her shoulders. “Yours. Paige, I’m yours.”

The growl she let out was low and rough, and then she was sinking two fingers into you, stretching you deliciously, setting a rhythm that had you panting almost immediately.

It wasn’t hard exactly—but there was a roughness to it. A need she couldn't hide.

Every thrust of her fingers was firm, deliberate.

Every brush of her thumb against your clit was savoring, like she didn’t want to miss a single sound you made.

You clung to her, nails digging into her arms, thighs trembling.

“That’s it,” she murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Let me hear you, baby.”

You couldn’t have held back if you tried.

Every moan, every gasp—you gave it all to her.

When your orgasm finally broke over you, it was devastating, ripping through you so hard you sobbed her name against her throat.

Paige didn’t stop. She slowed, sure, coaxing you through it, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, your forehead. Her free hand cradled your head like something precious.

You realized then, even through the roughness, even through the hunger—

She was savoring you.

Holding you like you were the best thing she'd ever touched.

When you finally blinked your eyes open, she was looking down at you, chest heaving, blonde hair sticking to her forehead.

“You’re unreal,” she whispered, like she still couldn’t believe you were real.

You pulled her down to you, slotting your mouth over hers in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Stay,” you whispered against her lips.

Her answer was a low, broken sound as she kicked off her shoes and climbed fully into the bed with you, wrapping you in her arms like she had no plans of letting go anytime soon.

And God—you didn’t want her to.

The first thing you felt was warmth.

Not the filtered sunlight pooling through the hotel curtains, not the heavy comforter tangled around your legs — but Paige.

Her arm was slung low over your waist, her face tucked into the crook of your neck, her steady breaths brushing your skin in a way that made you shiver even though you weren’t cold.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake her, but her grip only tightened.

“Mmm, don't move,” she mumbled, her voice hoarse with sleep.

You smiled, the curve of it hidden against the pillow. “Sorry,” you whispered back, not sorry at all.

You let yourself relax into her, letting your fingers trace lazy patterns across the bare skin of her forearm. She was all long limbs and quiet strength, wrapped around you like you belonged there. Like you always had.

For a few minutes, you just stayed like that, breathing in the scent of her—a mix of clean soap, her cologne, and something purely Paige.

Eventually, Paige stirred, pressing a soft, barely-there kiss to your shoulder. “Morning,” she rasped.

You hummed, turning your head slightly to look at her.

Her blonde hair was a mess, sticking out at odd angles, and there was a faint imprint of the pillowcase across her cheek.

She was beautiful. Unfairly beautiful.

“Morning,” you whispered back, unable to stop the way your hand reached up to smooth her hair down.

She caught your wrist gently, pressing a kiss to the inside of it before nuzzling your hand. The gesture made your chest ache in a way you hadn’t expected.

Neither of you moved to get up.

There was no rush, no pressure.

Just the slow, steady unfurling of something that felt a lot like home.

After a while, Paige stretched, groaning low in her throat. "I'm starving."

You laughed softly. “Big athlete like you? No way.”

She opened one eye to glare at you playfully, then buried her face in your neck again. “Gimme five more minutes to be a clingy loser, then I'll order us something.”

Your heart squeezed.

You tilted your head, letting her have more access to your skin, feeling her grin against you.

True to her word, a few minutes later she finally reached over, fumbling for the room phone. You stayed curled against her side, tracing the line of her hipbone under the sheets.

She ordered with a raspy, just-woke-up voice that made you smile into the mattress.

“Yeah, can we get... pancakes, eggs, bacon... orange juice... coffee—lots of coffee…” She glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. "Anything you want?"

You shook your head, too content to even think about food.

"Make it double,” she said into the phone before hanging up and tossing it back onto the nightstand.

She turned back to you, resting her chin on your shoulder. “How you feeling?” she asked, her voice low and careful now, like she didn’t want to scare you off.

You smiled, brushing your nose against hers. “Like I don't wanna move.”

Paige chuckled, her fingers skimming your side under the sheets. “Good.”

For a while, you just talked.

About anything.

Everything.

Football. Basketball. Travel.

How you missed your mom's cooking. How she missed Minnesota/Connecticut winters even though she’d never admit it.

“You think you’ll like Dallas?” you asked, genuinely curious.

Paige shrugged, playing with a loose thread on the pillowcase. “It’s different. But... I dunno. It feels like a start, y’know?”

You nodded, understanding more than she probably realized. “Yeah. A new chapter.”

She met your eyes then, something unreadable flickering across her face.

“I wish we had more time,” she said quietly.

You reached up, cupping her cheek. “We have this.” You let your thumb brush the soft skin under her eye. “And we have phones. Planes. Barcelona’s just a plane ride away. Same with Texas”

Paige smiled, a little sad but mostly soft.

“I’m not good at this kinda thing,” she admitted. “Relationships. Feelings.”

You kissed the corner of her mouth, lingering there. “You’re doing fine.”

Her arms tightened around you, like she needed the reassurance just as much as you did.

When room service finally knocked, Paige groaned dramatically, burying her face in your neck again. “Don't wanna get up.”

You laughed, shoving at her gently. “Go. I'm not about to starve just because you turned into a koala.”

She grumbled under her breath but finally rolled out of bed, grabbing a robe and tossing you a sheepish grin before disappearing toward the door.

You watched her go, heart full and aching all at once.

You both knew this bubble would have to pop soon.

She had Dallas.

You had Barcelona.

Different continents. Different time zones.

But right now— right now, she was laughing in the doorway, balancing two trays of food like a clumsy waiter, and you couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

You spent the morning tangled up in bed, eating pancakes with sticky fingers, passing bites back and forth, sipping coffee from the same cup.

You learned Paige liked her bacon extra crispy. She learned you had a weird obsession with mixing your syrup with butter first.

You talked about bucket lists.

Dreams.

What you were scared of.

She kissed you between bites, lazy and unhurried, like she was memorizing the taste of you.

And when it was finally time to get dressed, to face the real world again, Paige stood in front of you, holding your hands in hers, her thumbs tracing slow circles over your knuckles.

“No matter where we are,” she said, voice steady, “I’m gonna make this work.”

You believed her.

Because looking into her eyes, you realized something.

The world could pull you to opposite sides of it—but somehow, somehow, you would always find your way back.

Just like you had at the party.

Just like you would again.

You were back in Barcelona now.

Back to the grind—training, media, travel, matches—your calendar packed so tightly that your head spun most days.

But somehow, no matter how exhausted you were, no matter how many time zones separated you and Paige, you always made time.

Even if it was stupidly early for you.

And it was painfully late for her.

Even if it meant falling asleep with your phone still clutched in your hand because neither of you wanted to hang up first.

Tonight—or technically, this morning for you—you were curled up under your blanket, hair messy, voice thick with sleep as you blinked at your phone screen.

Paige’s face filled it.

Her hair was damp from a shower, loose over her shoulders, and she was sprawled on her bed in Dallas, wearing a baggy Wings hoodie that swallowed her whole.

It was just after 10PM for her.

It was 7AM for you.

Sunlight already spilled into your room, birds chirping outside your window.

And still—you stayed in bed just to have these few stolen moments.

“You look so cozy,” Paige teased, smiling softly.

You yawned, hiding it behind your hand. “I am. Or... I was. Before someone FaceTimed me at the crack of dawn.”

Her smirk widened. “Miss me that much, huh?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “You're the one who called me, Bueckers.”

“Details,” she said, waving her hand lazily. “Minor details.”

You laughed, pulling your blanket tighter around you, letting yourself just look at her.

God, you missed her.

Missed the weight of her body pressed against yours.

Missed the way she smelled, the way she mumbled half-asleep, the way she kissed you like you were air.

“You have no idea how many times I almost booked a flight this week,” you admitted quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Paige’s smile faltered, softening into something achingly tender.

“I thought about it too,” she said. “Like... what if I just showed up at your match? Sat in the front row like a stalker.”

You laughed, your chest tightening painfully. “I’d probably cry.”

Paige shifted, propping her chin on her hand. “You’d cry?”

You nodded, cheeks heating. “Yeah. And then I’d probably kiss you in front of thousands of people and destroy both of our PR teams.”

Paige chuckled, a low, warm sound that made your stomach flip. “Worth it.”

Silence stretched for a moment—not awkward, but heavy.

You bit your lip. “I miss you.”

Her face crumpled just a little, like she was trying not to let it show. “I miss you too.”

You both sat with it.

Letting it sink in.

Letting yourselves feel it.

After a long moment, Paige spoke again, her voice low and rough:

"Maybe we can figure something out.”

You blinked, heart hammering. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then shrugged, pretending to be casual even though her eyes betrayed her.

"I mean... it's not like we can't visit. Off days, breaks, whatever. I can fly to you. You can fly to me.”

You swallowed hard.

“You're serious?”

Paige smiled crookedly. “I’m serious about you.”

You couldn’t speak for a second, throat tight.

Instead, you reached toward the camera, fingertips brushing the screen like you could touch her through it.

“Me too,” you whispered.

Paige shifted again, leaning closer to the camera until all you could see was her face—so open, so unguarded.

"I don’t want this to be just some... one-time thing,” she said, almost fiercely. "You’re not just a night in New York to me.”

You blinked rapidly, willing the sudden sting in your eyes to go away.

You weren’t about to cry on FaceTime.

You sniffed once, laughing shakily. “Good. Because you're stuck with me now.”

Paige grinned, triumphant. “Damn right I am.”

You ended up talking for another hour—Paige lying sideways on her bed, you curled up with your pillow.

Making stupid plans.

Dreaming about meeting halfway in places like Miami or London.

Imagining what it would be like when one of you finally showed up unannounced.

When your eyes finally started to flutter shut, Paige noticed.

“Go back to sleep, pretty girl,” she whispered.

You mumbled something incoherent, already half gone.

"I'll text you when you wake up," she promised.

And you knew she would.

Because distance didn’t feel so scary when it was her.

Because somehow, despite everything, you could feel it in your bones.

This was only the beginning.

It’s been a few weeks.

Paige leaned her head against the plane window, watching the sunrise stretch itself lazily across the horizon, bleeding gold and pink over the Atlantic. She barely slept the whole flight. The anticipation made it impossible.

Barcelona.

God, she couldn’t believe she was actually doing this.

It was crazy, it was impulsive—but it felt right.

She missed you more than she even wanted to admit.

FaceTime was good. Hearing your voice, seeing your sleepy smile. It was enough to keep her breathing when the distance pressed down too hard.

But it wasn’t the same.

It wasn't even close.

And when she saw that Barcelona was playing Real Madrid—El Clásico—at home, she couldn’t stop herself.

She bought the ticket before she even texted her manager to clear the days off.

She hadn’t told you she was coming.

If she was being honest with herself, she needed to see you in your element.

On your pitch.

Where you were fearless, untouchable.

She wanted to be there. For you.

The stadium was massive.

Even pulling up in the taxi, Paige could hear the roar of the fans—Barcelona chants, drums pounding, scarves waving out of car windows.

She pulled the hoodie of her Wings sweatshirt up over her head, tugging a hat low over her eyes. Not exactly subtle, but she wasn’t trying to be seen.

A few people double-taked as she made her way through the crowd—some even pointed—but most were too focused on the match energy to recognize her. She got inside, climbed the steep stairs to her seat, and settled into the electric buzz of it all.

And then— there you were.

Down on the field, in that beautiful crimson-and-blue kit, jogging across the pitch like you owned it.

Paige’s heart damn near stopped.

You were warming up with your teammates, tying your hair back into a messy ponytail, a grin flashing across your face when one of the other players bumped your shoulder.

You looked radiant.

Alive.

She couldn’t take her eyes off you.

The anthem blared, the crowd roared, and the game started with an intensity that made her sit up straight immediately.

This wasn’t just a match.

It was a battle.

And you were right in the middle of it—sharp, ruthless, brilliant.

Every touch you took was confident.

Every sprint, every pass, every challenge—you played like you had something to prove.

Paige caught it—the extra fire in your movement.

Like maybe, just maybe, you could feel her there, even if you hadn’t seen her yet.

You didn’t score, not at first.

You spent the first half orchestrating play, bossing the midfield, weaving around defenders like they were standing still.

When halftime hit, Paige found herself breathless, her hands gripping her knees, adrenaline racing through her like she was the one on the pitch.

She grinned to herself.

God, she was so damn proud of you.

Second half.

The tension ratcheted higher. Madrid pressed harder. Barcelona pushed back.

And then—it happened.

A long ball over the top.

You sprinted onto it, faster than anyone else, body cutting through defenders like a blade.

One touch.

Two.

You faked the goalkeeper, shifted the ball to your weaker foot, and buried it into the far corner.

The stadium erupted.

Paige shot to her feet before she even realized it, cheering, clapping her hands above her head.

You wheeled away from the goal, arms outstretched, head tilted back in pure joy as your teammates mobbed you.

And for a second—just a second—you scanned the crowd.

Paige froze.

She knew you were looking. Searching.

Maybe hoping.

But with 60,000 people screaming, it was impossible.

You didn’t see her.

Still, she smiled so wide her cheeks hurt.

By the time the final whistle blew—Barcelona victorious—Paige felt like she’d lived a lifetime.

She stayed back as the crowd started to spill out, letting the chaos thin before she moved.

No one stopped her.

A few teenagers gawked, whispering excitedly, but she kept her head down, slipping into the private player’s entrance with the access pass she’d begged your manager to get her.

Her heart pounded harder now than it had during the whole damn game.

Down the hall.

Past security.

Closer.

And then, she saw you.

Turning the corner in your training jacket, hair damp from the post-match shower, cleats clutched in one hand.

You were laughing at something a teammate said—and then you saw her.

Everything in you stuttered to a halt.

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth parted like you were about to say something, but no sound came out.

Paige couldn’t move either.

Couldn’t breathe.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at each other across the hallway.

Crowds milling around you.

Noise blurring into nothing.

And then—slowly, carefully—you walked toward her.

Not running.

Not rushing.

Like if you moved too fast, this would shatter.

When you finally reached her, you didn’t throw yourself into her arms.

You stood there, breathing the same air, your hand finding hers in a quiet, aching link.

You squeezed first.

She squeezed back.

“You’re here,” you whispered, like you still didn’t believe it.

Paige smiled, eyes shining. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Your thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow, reverent.

Your forehead tilted forward, bumping gently into hers.

Still no kiss.

Not yet.

Just the press of your hands.

The warmth of your bodies so close but not fully touching.

The electric hum between you.

“I played harder because of you,” you said, your voice breaking a little on the edges.

Paige’s throat tightened.

“You didn’t even know I was here,” she said softly, teasing, but her heart cracked open at the way you looked at her.

“I knew," you whispered. "I always know.”

Paige squeezed your hand again, fighting the urge to pull you into her arms in front of everyone.

Instead, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering on your cheek for just a second too long.

“Come on,” you murmured, glancing around, the corner of your mouth lifting in a secret, knowing smile. “Let’s get outta here.”

Paige nodded, letting you lead her away, down quieter corridors, away from the cameras, the fans, the noise.

The next few days felt like stolen time.

Like Paige had somehow found a loophole in the universe—a pause button, just for the two of you.

Barcelona bloomed around them, sun-drenched and endless, and Paige drank in every second like she was dying of thirst.

You took her everywhere.

La Sagrada Familia, towering and unfinished and aching toward the sky. The colorful chaos of La Boqueria Market, where you shoved a slice of fresh mango into her mouth, laughing when the juice dribbled down her chin.

The winding streets of El Born, where Paige bought you a tiny silver bracelet from a street vendor without a second thought.

“For luck,” she said, fastening it around your wrist, her fingers lingering just a second too long.

You taught her how to order tapas without butchering the pronunciation too badly.

She taught you how to shoot paper straws into a cup from across the café table.

You won… barely.

At night, you sat on your apartment balcony with cheap wine and a shared blanket, pointing out constellations neither of you really knew the names of.

You talked about everything.

And sometimes, nothing at all.

You laughed so much Paige’s ribs hurt.

You touched without thinking—hands brushing, knees knocking, shoulders bumping.

It was easy.

It was dangerous.

Because the more time Paige spent with you, the harder it became to imagine leaving.

Two nights before her flight—Paige caught you staring at her across the table at some tiny candlelit restaurant, your gaze soft and heavy.

“What?” she said, teasing, nudging your foot under the table.

You shook your head slowly, smile tugging at your lips. “Nothing. Just... you.”

Paige’s heart clenched painfully.

She didn’t know how to survive this—how to let herself have you for only a few days at a time.

She reached across the table, weaving her fingers through yours without thinking.

You squeezed back.

No cameras.

No crowds.

Just you and her.

The last day crept up on them like a thief.

The morning was hazy, the city wrapped in a golden kind of melancholy.

Paige helped you pack a bag for your away match—pretending not to notice how your hands shook a little when you zipped it closed.

She didn’t say anything about it.

Neither did you.

Because if you said it—if you named the thing clawing at your chests—it might break you.

Instead, you walked to the small café down the street one last time.

Paige ordered for both of you now, stumbling over her Spanish but grinning proudly when you laughed and kissed her cheek.

You sat in the corner, sipping coffee, trying to memorize the exact way you looked bathed in Barcelona morning light.

The exact way you smiled at her when you thought she wasn’t looking.

The exact way your thumb kept running over the bracelet she gave you.

When it was finally time to go—when her car was idling at the curb—Paige stood in your doorway, bag slung over her shoulder, heart breaking so loudly she was sure you could hear it.

You looked up at her, standing barefoot in the tiny living room, oversized hoodie swallowing your frame.

God.

She didn’t want to leave.

You didn’t say anything.

You just walked to her slowly, wrapping your arms around her waist and burying your face in her chest.

Paige dropped her bag instantly, pulling you in tighter.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that, breathing each other in, memorizing the way you fit together.

Finally, you tipped your head up, blinking fast, trying to smile.

“I’m really bad at goodbyes,” you said hoarsely.

Paige cupped your jaw gently, her thumb brushing your cheek.

“Then don’t say goodbye,” she whispered. “Say ‘see you soon.’”

You laughed wetly, nodding, your forehead dropping against hers.

“See you soon,” you echoed, voice breaking.

She kissed your forehead.

Your nose.

The corner of your mouth.

Not a real kiss.

Not yet.

Because if she kissed you properly, she might not leave at all.

She stepped back slowly, hands lingering on your hips until the very last second.

You picked up her bag and shoved it into her hands with a trembling smile. “Go. Before I change my mind.”

Paige laughed, watery and wrecked.

She turned toward the door, paused.

Looked back.

You were standing there, framed by the morning light, holding onto the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

“I’ll call you the second I land,” she promised.

You nodded, biting your lip.

“And I’ll be back," she added. “Whenever you’ll have me.”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Always,” she echoed.

And then she was gone.

In the taxi, Paige leaned her head back against the seat, clutching her phone to her chest.

Already counting the days until she could see you again.

Already planning the next flight.

Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t temporary.

It wasn’t borrowed time.

It was the start of something real.

Something worth every mile.

Every ache.

Every single second apart.

Paige wiped sweat from her forehead with the hem of her jersey, trying to catch her breath as the buzzer blared for a timeout.

Dallas was up by six, the energy in the arena electric, the fans on their feet, the court buzzing with heat and noise.

She jogged toward the huddle, grabbing a bottle of water off the scorer's table, her muscles burning, adrenaline still pumping.

The world narrowed—play calls, quick hands slapping her back, coaches barking adjustments.

Paige squeezed water into her mouth, letting it drip down her chin, tuning into the chaos around her.

Until…

A shift.

A roar of the crowd.

The sound of the fans changing—lifting—roaring for something that wasn’t happening on the court.

Confused, Paige glanced up at the Jumbotron out of instinct.

And then she saw you.

Framed perfectly on the massive screen, sitting up in one of the private suites, laughing, waving shyly as the camera zoomed in.

You were wearing one of her Wings jerseys—her jersey—the #5 stretched across your chest, your hair pulled back, cheeks pink from the attention.

Paige’s breath caught in her chest.

For a second, she didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

The world blurred out, the timeout noise fading into static.

Just you.

God, just you.

You were here.

You were here.

The biggest, stupidest grin split across Paige’s face before she could stop it—pure, wide-open joy.

Next to her, Dijonai Carrington leaned in, bumping her shoulder playfully.

"Yo, Bueckers," she teased, laughing. "Why you cheesin’ like that, huh?"

Paige ducked her head, biting back a bigger smile, shaking her head like it was nothing.

But her heart was thundering.

Her hands were shaking.

She took another quick sip of water to hide her face, stealing another glance up at the screen where you were still sitting, waving shyly, mouthing something only she could understand.

“Proud of you.”

Paige felt like she could float out of her sneakers.

She played the rest of the quarter wired—lighter on her feet, sharper, hungrier.

Every bucket, every steal, every assist—it all crackled with the knowledge that you were somewhere up there, watching her.

For her.

And when the final buzzer sounded, sealing the win, Paige barely heard the crowd.

She barely felt the high fives, the backslaps, the chaos around her.

All she could think about was getting to you.

She threw on her warmups, tucked her hair into a low messy bun, and all but sprinted down the tunnel.

She weaved through the media scrum, ignoring the questions and the flashing cameras, heart hammering so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.

And then—at the end of the hallway—you.

Waiting.

Leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, your grin tugging at the corners of your mouth the second you spotted her.

Paige slowed to a stop in front of you, chest heaving, pulse rattling in her ears.

For a second, neither of you moved.

The tension stretched, taut and humming.

You dropped your arms, stepping forward.

Paige grabbed your face in her hands, pulling you down into her with a soft, breathless laugh.

And finally, she kissed you.

Full.

Fierce.

Desperate.

All the missed days and FaceTimes and whispered "I miss you’s" crashing into that kiss, spilling out between your mouths like something too big to hold back anymore.

You kissed her back just as hard, hands fisting in the front of her hoodie, anchoring yourself to her like you might float away otherwise.

When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, gasping slightly, Paige let out a shaky laugh.

“You’re actually here,” she whispered, thumb brushing your jaw.

You smiled, eyes bright. “I told you I was bad at goodbyes.”

Paige kissed you again—softer this time, lingering.

“I’m not letting you leave next time,” she murmured against your lips.

You smiled against her mouth. “Then don’t.”

And even though the world waited outside—cameras, fans, teammates—Paige didn’t care.

She had you.

And she wasn't about to let you go.

Not now.

Not ever.

[p0orbaby]

Hi ,

May i request a cute short blurb of alexia putellas x reader where the reader is pregnant but she doesn't like anyone to hover and alexia is trying to hover quietly so that the reader doesnt notice or else the reader will bite her head off

-

“You’re breathing on me.”

You don’t look up. Your hand stays suspended an inch above the polished quartz island you had imported from Valencia last spring, poised carefully over the final, meticulous flick of buttercream on the Victoria sponge you didn’t even want to bake but decided on after a week-long craving that you blamed squarely on homesickness, the hormonal kind. Somewhere between your third and fourth trip to El Corte Inglés in one afternoon, you realised nostalgia tastes faintly of strawberry jam and bitter disappointment.

“I’m not,” Alexia says. She is, obviously. You can feel it—the faintest mist of her breath, close enough that if you turned, your reading glasses would fig up with a single exhale.

You straighten slowly, with the exact measured indifference of a Michelin inspector dissecting an amuse-bouche. You catch her reflection in the brushed steel of the Miele coffee machine she insisted on buying after a two-hour row in a Sant Cugat appliance showroom. She’s standing exactly 1.3 metres away—you’ve measured it with your eyes because you’re the sort of person who knows the circumference of a football (68–70cm), the exact sugar content of a Mercadona tarta de queso (approximately 32%), and the London to Barcelona flight time down to the minute (2 hours 5 minutes).

Alexia is pretending to check her phone.

It’s upside down.

The screen is blank.

The effort is almost insulting.

“You’re hovering,” you inform her, conversationally, like announcing the weather.

“No I’m not,” she replies, voice high, too fast, guilty.

You glance at her sideways. “You’re hovering like a fucking Guardia Urbana drone.”

She flushes.

You return to the cake, smoothing the top with the flat of your palette knife—a heavy Sabatier you brought over from England because Spanish knives, in your experience, are either dangerously blunt or designed exclusively for stabbing jamón. You’ve developed a twitch lately: an overwhelming need for everything to be perfectly symmetrical. The chaos of pregnancy—skin stretching, organs rearranging, blood pumping like a dodgy plumbing system—has made you obsessed with control over the insignificant.

Matching mugs. Alphabetised spice rack. Towels folded exactly to hotel standards: tri-fold, not half.

Alexia’s presence thrums in the background like tinnitus.

You can feel her trying not to fuss. Trying and failing.

“I’m blending,” she says, without conviction.

“You’re about as subtle as Sagrada Família,” you mutter.

She shifts awkwardly, the rubber soles of her Nike P-6000’s squeaking faintly on the hand-tiled floor you both spent a month arguing over—Catalan mosaic or modern minimalism. Modern minimalism won. You told yourself it was because of practicality but secretly it was because you could imagine this child, this squalling hypothetical mass, vomiting spectacularly over terrazzo.

Alexia folds her arms, a little too tightly. She’s wearing the navy Barça hoodie she stole from the kit room last season, the one with the crest embroidered so neatly you sometimes stare at it just to feel calmer.

“I just…” she starts, then trails off.

You wipe the knife clean on a damp tea towel—Liberty print, an import because Spanish ones are too short, too thin, too prone to shrivelling like old men in the sun.

“You just… what?” you prompt, tone sharp enough to draw blood.

She shrugs, helpless. “I’m being nearby.”

“Congratulations,” you deadpan. “Shall I fetch you a medal?”

Alexia pouts, an expression that would probably have got her punched if she weren’t spectacularly, unfairly beautiful.

There’s a bottle of Solán de Cabras water on the island, the blue one you’ve been craving like it’s holy water, and you take a slow, careful sip, just for something to do. You can see Alexia itching to offer you something—toast, fruit, the moon on a plate—and you brace yourself for the inevitable.

“Are you hungry?” she blurts, like a sneeze.

You don’t answer immediately. You let the silence unfurl between you like a long, slow exhale. Barcelona silence: interrupted only by the distant yapping of a terrier somewhere on Carrer d’Aragó, the low hum of a Vespa struggling uphill.

“I’m fine,” you say eventually, with the kind of icy politeness that would make Buckingham Palace staff nod in approval.

Alexia shifts her weight from one foot to the other, chewing her bottom lip like it’s rationed. You notice she’s wearing her fitness tracker again—a WHOOP with a Tundra Superknit bisep band—obsessively monitoring her sleep, her steps, her heart rate. You imagine it buzzing quietly under her hoodie, flashing an alert: STRESS DETECTED. BREATHE, IDIOT.

You almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Do you want to feel it kick?” you offer, with all the grace of a trapdoor opening.

Her face lights up like Plaça de Catalunya at Christmas.

She’s across the room in two strides, hands out, reverent, like you’re a relic.

She places her palm gently over the slight swell of your stomach—warm, steady, the faint scent of her vanilla hand cream ghosting up to you. You remember buying it with her in a cramped Gràcia pharmacy two months ago. She spent fifteen minutes comparing brands while you sat on a plastic stool and calculated, clinically, whether divorce paperwork could be filed in Catalan.

You both wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The baby remains stubbornly, impressively still.

“I swear,” Alexia says, whispering like the baby might overhear and feel insulted, “it moved earlier.”

You nod slowly, gravely. “Maybe it’s allergic to hovering.”

[paucubarsisimp]

say it back

pairings: pedri x reader, pablo gavi x reader, ferran torres x reader, pau cubarsi x reader, hector fort x reader, alejandro balde x reader, lamine yamal x reader, marc bernal x reader

summary: in which you prank your boyfriend by not saying “i love you” back

warnings: suggestive stuff!

a/n: for my bae, @hollyf1 <33 i hope you like it gorgeous x

୨ৎ pablo gavi

it was late afternoon in barcelona, golden light slipping through the windows, warming up the little apartment you and pablo shared. he was stretched out on the couch, head resting on your thighs, one hand tracing lazy circles on your knee, the other scrolling through his phone.

out of nowhere, with no warning, he looked up at you and said it. quiet, but sure.

“te quiero.”

you heard it. of course you did. but today? you felt like causing just a little chaos.

so you didn’t say it back.

you just kept playing with his hair, eyes on the tv, like he hadn’t said anything at all.

he blinked. “¿qué?”

you hummed. “hmm?”

“i just told you i love you,” he said, already sitting up a little. “you always say it back.”

you gave him a tiny smile. “mhm.”

he stared at you like you’d just ended your entire relationship. “mhm? are you messing with me?”

you shrugged, biting the inside of your cheek.

“nah, no. don’t do this to me right now.” he sat up fully now, dramatic as ever. “you’re mad at me. i knew it. is it the thing i said this morning? because i didn’t mean it like that—”

“pablo—”

“no, wait. be honest. what did i do? i’ll fix it.”

you burst into laughter, finally cracking. “oh my god, i’m joking.”

he froze. “what?”

“i was messing with you.”

he looked at you, dead serious. “you nearly gave me a heart attack. my soul left my body.”

you were still laughing as he flopped back onto the couch, groaning like the world had ended. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m passionate,” he muttered, pulling you down with him. “and you’re evil. beautiful, but evil.”

you kissed his cheek. “i love you.”

he huffed. “too late. damage is done.”

“pablito.”

“nope.”

you rolled your eyes, then leaned in, whispering, “te amo, mi vida.”

he peeked up at you, already melting a little. “okay fine. i forgive you.”

“wow. how generous.”

he smirked. “but i am getting revenge. just so you know.”

you raised an eyebrow. “should i be scared?”

he nodded. “terrified.”

but he kissed you right after, so you figured you could survive whatever chaos he was planning.

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୨ৎ pedri

pedri was lying next to you, half-asleep, hoodie sleeves pushed up, arm slung around your waist like he had no plans to let go anytime soon. his face was buried in the pillow, voice muffled and lazy when he said it.

“te quiero.”

you heard it, and yeah… it made your heart do that little thing it always did when he said that. but today? today you felt like messing with him.

so you didn’t say it back.

you just hummed softly and kept scrolling on your phone.

he lifted his head slightly. “¿lo escuchaste?”

you smiled without looking at him. “mmhm.”

a pause.

“…and?”

“and what?”

he blinked slowly, sitting up just a little, eyebrows knitting together in the way they always did when he was confused but trying not to overthink. “i just said i love you.”

you glanced at him. “oh. gracias.”

he stared at you. silent. blinked again. “gracias?”

you bit the inside of your cheek, staying calm. “yeah.”

he didn’t move. just looked at you for a long second like he was trying to figure out if this was a prank or if his heart had actually just been broken in real time.

“wait, are you mad at me?” he asked, voice lower now, more serious. “did i say something wrong?”

you couldn’t hold the laughter in anymore — you turned to him, grinning. “pedri. baby. i’m kidding.”

he narrowed his eyes at you, lips pressed together like he was trying not to smile. “that’s not funny.”

“it was a little funny.”

“my chest actually hurt,” he said, laying back down dramatically. “i thought we were over.”

you laughed, pulling him closer again. “you’re so dramatic.”

“i’m in love, not dramatic.”

you kissed his cheek. “i love you.”

he pretended to ignore you.

“pedri…”

nothing.

you kissed his jaw. “mi amor…”

he sighed like he was giving in. “now you say it?”

“i was always gonna say it.”

“still hurt,” he mumbled, burying his face in your neck. “wounded forever.”

“you’ll live.”

“barely.”

you smiled, running your fingers through his curls. “te quiero, pedri.”

“yeah, yeah,” he said, voice sleepy again. “we’ll see if you’re laughing when i get you back.”

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୨ৎ ferran torres

you and ferran were lounging on the couch, a movie playing quietly in the background, though neither of you were really paying much attention to it. his arm was casually draped over the back of the couch, fingers brushing against your shoulder as you scrolled through your phone.

out of nowhere, ferran turned his head toward you with that familiar, teasing smirk.

“te quiero,” he said, as if it was just a casual comment, but the way he said it made it feel a little more like a challenge.

you didn’t answer right away. you kept scrolling, pretending not to notice his expectant gaze.

he raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly. “¿me escuchaste?”

you looked at him briefly and shrugged, still not making it easy. “mhm.”

ferran tilted his head, clearly not impressed. “just ‘mhm’? that’s all i get?”

you smirked and finally put your phone down, turning to face him. “yeah, why?”

his grin widened, a little mischievous now. “you’re not gonna say it back?”

you raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms casually. “what if i don’t?”

he leaned in closer, as if he was going to take you seriously, but the playful glint in his eyes said otherwise. “you really wanna do that, princesa?”

you couldn’t help but smile at his teasing tone. “maybe i do.”

ferran leaned back, clearly enjoying this little game. “well, i’m not letting you get away with that.”

he slid his hand over to gently tap your leg, like a reminder that he was still there, still waiting for that response.

“come on,” he said, voice light but with that confident edge. “i say i love you, and you’re just gonna leave me hanging?”

you chuckled and shrugged. “maybe i like leaving you hanging.”

he laughed, a deep, amused sound, then leaned in just a little closer, making sure you felt his presence. “i’m patient, princesa. but not that patient.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at his persistence. “you think i’m gonna say it just because you’re being dramatic?”

he grinned, giving you that cocky look. “oh, i know you will. it’s just a matter of when.”

with that, you finally gave in, shaking your head with a smile. “te quiero.”

ferran’s smile softened, but there was still that playful spark in his eyes. “took you long enough,” he said, leaning back comfortably, still keeping his arm around you.

you rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “you’re lucky i said it at all.”

“just wait till i get you back.”

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୨ৎ pau cubarsi

you and pau were sitting on the couch at his apartment, a movie playing in the background, though neither of you were really paying attention to it. pau was lying on his back, his head resting on your lap, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair.

the atmosphere was calm, comfortable. you had been dating for a while now, and things felt easy with pau — natural. but, of course, you couldn’t resist having a little fun.

after a few moments of silence, pau looked up at you, his eyes soft. "te quiero," he said quietly, his voice warm.

you felt a small smile tug at your lips as you met his gaze, but instead of immediately replying, you gave him a mischievous look.

he waited for a moment, clearly expecting you to say it back. you could tell he was being patient, that little glint of expectation in his eyes, but you decided to tease him a bit.

you simply nodded, a soft "mhm" escaping your lips.

pau blinked a couple of times, as if he wasn’t sure if he had heard you correctly. he straightened up slightly, looking at you with confusion. "what?"

you kept your gaze cool and nonchalant, pretending you hadn’t noticed his reaction. "i said 'mhm'," you replied casually.

he let out a small laugh, though you could see the playful frustration creeping into his expression. "no, no, no. i said te quiero, and you're supposed to say it back."

you shrugged, still pretending you were clueless. "i did say it back."

"uh-uh," he said, shaking his head with a grin. "that’s not how it works, princesa. you have to say it properly."

you leaned back into the couch, making sure to keep a neutral face. "why? i already said it… kinda."

pau’s eyebrows furrowed, and you could tell he was trying to hold back his laughter, but his patience was starting to wear thin. "come on, stop playing with me."

you let the silence drag on for a bit longer, enjoying how much it was getting to him. he shifted closer, putting his hand on your leg, eyes narrowing playfully.

"you know you want to say it back," he said with a smirk.

you met his eyes and raised an eyebrow. "oh, do i?"

he nodded, clearly confident in his charm. "i know you do."

you smiled sweetly but didn’t say a word. instead, you let your fingers gently tap his arm, pretending you hadn’t noticed how close he was getting.

pau exhaled dramatically, letting out a small, exaggerated groan. "this is torture, you know that?"

you finally couldn’t hold it anymore. your smile broke out into a grin, and you leaned in closer to him, your face softening as you whispered, "te quiero," just as he was about to say something else.

he paused, his whole demeanor shifting. a smile slowly spread across his face, and he shook his head, chuckling.

"te quiero, huh?" pau said with a playful grin. "took you long enough."

you couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped you. "you were starting to get dramatic," you teased, gently poking his side.

pau grinned wider, his hand resting on your waist as he pulled you closer. "i knew you’d say it eventually. but next time, don’t make me wait so long."

you laughed again, wrapping your arms around him. "i’ll make sure not to."

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୨ৎ hector fort

you and héctor were on the couch, the day winding down as you both relaxed after a long, busy week. he was lounging beside you, his arm casually draped over your shoulders while you fiddled with your phone, scrolling through random stuff. it was quiet, but not in an awkward way — just in the easy, comfortable silence you shared.

out of nowhere, héctor’s voice broke the stillness, calm but with a little something playful in his tone. "te quiero."

you didn’t immediately respond. instead, you kept your eyes glued to your phone, pretending like you didn’t even hear him.

he waited for a moment, clearly expecting a reply. when you didn’t say anything, he raised an eyebrow, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "¿no vas a decir nada?" he asked, sounding a bit more teasing now.

you shrugged without looking up. "what do you mean? i heard you."

"uh-huh," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "you heard me, but didn’t feel like saying it back, huh?"

you kept scrolling, acting like it was no big deal, but the mischievous glint in his eyes told you he was having fun with this. "maybe i just didn’t feel like it," you said casually, as though it was no big deal.

"oh, so that’s how it is?" he leaned in slightly, his tone playful but with a hint of challenge. "you’re really gonna make me wait?"

you shot him a quick glance, trying to keep your face neutral, but his smile was contagious. "maybe."

he leaned back into the couch, pretending to think for a moment, but you could see the smirk tugging at his lips. "you know, i’ve been pretty patient with you," he said, his voice low and teasing. "but if you’re gonna leave me hanging, i might just have to do something about it."

you raised an eyebrow, still pretending to be uninterested. "like what?"

"oh, i don’t know," he shrugged dramatically, "maybe i’ll just have to keep repeating it until you can’t stand it anymore. or maybe i’ll just—"

"te quiero," you cut him off, finally giving in with a teasing smile, "happy now?"

his eyes lit up, a triumphant grin crossing his face. "finally! i was starting to wonder if i was gonna have to resort to more drastic measures," he teased, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your cheek. "but now i know you really do love me."

you couldn’t help but laugh, rolling your eyes. "you’re ridiculous."

"you know you love me," he said confidently, his hand gently resting on your waist. "next time, don’t make me wait so long."

you smiled, enjoying how easily he could shift from teasing to serious in an instant. "fine, fine. i’ll be quicker next time."

"that’s all i ask," he replied, pulling you closer, his voice warm and content. "but if you think you can get away with not saying it back again, we’ll see how long you can hold out next time."

you chuckled, resting your head on his shoulder. "i’ll keep that in mind."

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୨ৎ alejandro balde

you and alejandro were lounging on the couch in his apartment, both of you winding down after a long day. the tv was on, but neither of you were really paying attention to it. he was lying next to you, his arm casually draped around your shoulders, his head resting against yours.

out of nowhere, he turned to you, his voice light and a little teasing. "te quiero."

you looked up from your phone, raising an eyebrow at him. you didn’t say anything right away, though. instead, you just smiled to yourself and kept scrolling.

alejandro’s grin faltered for a second, clearly expecting a quicker response. "¿qué pasa? no me vas a decir nada?" he asked, his tone already playfully accusing.

you shrugged, acting casual. "i did hear you."

"mhm, but you didn’t say it back," he said, a slight grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. you could see the challenge in his eyes. "what’s going on? you’re making me wait?"

you could feel the playful tension rising as he waited for your reply. you looked at him with a teasing smile. "maybe i’m just thinking about it."

alejandro leaned in a little, his lips pulling into a smirk. "thinking about it, huh?" he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "i see how it is. you just wanna leave me hanging?"

you let the silence stretch on for a moment longer, not replying immediately, letting him get more curious.

he shifted, propping himself up on his elbow to look at you, his eyes narrowing just a bit. "you’re not gonna say it back, are you?" he asked, sounding more amused than frustrated.

"maybe not," you said with a shrug, still not giving him the satisfaction of a full reply.

alejandro let out a dramatic sigh, pretending to be wounded. "ouch, that hurts," he said, though there was no mistaking the teasing tone in his voice. "but i’ll give you one more chance."

you chuckled at how much he was playing it up, finally putting your phone down and meeting his gaze. "why should i say it back?" you asked with a sly smile.

he leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a more playful, almost smug tone. "because you know you love me," he said, the smirk on his lips growing wider. "and i’m pretty sure you don’t want to make me beg."

you rolled your eyes, but you could already feel yourself breaking. "fine," you said, barely holding back your laughter. "te quiero."

alejandro immediately flashed a grin, his posture relaxing as he pulled you close. "finally," he said, his voice full of satisfaction. "was that so hard?"

"you’re ridiculous," you laughed, resting your head on his shoulder.

he laughed too, wrapping his arm around you. "hey, it’s your fault for making me wait. i’m just making sure you know how much i like hearing it."

you smiled, feeling the warmth of the moment. "next time, i won’t make you wait."

"i’m counting on it," he said with a grin, leaning in to kiss your forehead. "but don’t think you can get away with not saying it next time."

you chuckled, enjoying how playful he was. "we’ll see."

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୨ৎ lamine yamal

the apartment smelled like garlic and something good simmering. music played low from the speaker — something chill, maybe feid or bad bunny, one of lam’s go-tos. you were at the stove, focused on stirring the pasta sauce, and behind you, lamine leaned against the counter with that lazy little smirk of his.

he was watching you like he always did when he was in that soft mood — hoodie on, curls a bit messy, probably still thinking about training but pretending like he wasn’t.

“i love you,” he said, like it was just another thing to throw into the air. casual. natural.

you smiled a little to yourself, but didn’t say it back.

there was a pause.

“wait… did you hear me?”

“hmm?” you asked, pretending to be super focused on the sauce.

“i said i love you.”

you glanced over your shoulder, gave him a soft smile, and just said, “oh yeah. i heard you.”

he blinked. “so say it back.”

you shrugged, turning off the stove. “no need. i already know.”

he stared at you, eyes wide like you’d just told him you hated football. “nah… no, no, no. don’t play like that.”

you walked past him, brushing his arm, trying to hold in your laugh. “i’m not playing.”

he followed you into the living room immediately, hands in the air. “so that’s it? you’re not gonna say it back? after everything we’ve been through?”

you flopped onto the couch, cool as ever. “you’ll survive, superstar.”

“this is emotional damage,” he muttered, sitting down next to you like his whole world just ended. “i scored two goals last week. i deserve better.”

“you want a trophy or something?”

“no. i want my te amo back.”

you bit your lip, trying not to laugh. he was pouting now, head thrown back on the cushion, being 100% dramatic.

“fine,” you whispered, leaning close. “i love you.”

he peeked at you with one eye. “you’re only saying it ‘cause you felt bad.”

“maybe.”

“hm. fake.”

you kissed his cheek. “you still smiled, though.”

he rolled his eyes, pulling you onto his lap like he couldn’t stay mad if he tried. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

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୨ৎ marc bernal

the apartment was quiet, save for the soft hum of the washing machine and the occasional clink of your spoon against the bowl. you were both sitting on the floor — something you did often. no couch, no noise. just the two of you, sharing cereal and quiet.

marc had a blanket thrown over his shoulders like some kind of sleepy king. curls a little messy, eyes still heavy from his nap. he was always like this after long days — quiet, but not tired of you. never tired of you.

he looked up at you suddenly, like something just came to mind.

“t’estimo,” he said softly, voice low.

you glanced over and smiled, but didn’t say it back. just kept eating, like you didn’t notice.

he blinked. “hey.”

“hm?” you didn’t meet his eyes.

“did you hear what i said?”

“yeah,” you said, cool as ever.

he tilted his head, trying to read your face. “and?”

you wiped a bit of milk from your lip with your sleeve. “and nothing.”

“nothing?” he repeated, a small laugh slipping out. “you’re really not gonna say it back?”

you shrugged. “maybe you’ve heard it enough.”

he didn’t say anything for a second. just looked at you with those warm, steady eyes. the ones that didn’t rush anything. he picked at the edge of the blanket.

“you always say it back.”

you looked over at him, pretending to be serious. “maybe i’m starting a new trend.”

he smiled, slow and crooked. “you’re not serious.”

you didn’t answer — just leaned your head against the wall and looked away dramatically, like some indie film character.

he scooted closer, bowl in hand, now clearly onto you. “you’re messing with me.”

“maybe.”

he laughed again, but there was something soft behind it. “i was starting to think i did something wrong.”

you finally turned toward him, kissed his shoulder lightly, and whispered, “i love you, bernal.”

he gave you a look. one of those quiet little grins that made your chest feel stupidly warm. “you forgot something.”

“what?”

“saying it when i say it. not five minutes later.”

you rolled your eyes playfully. “you’ll live.”

he leaned in, forehead resting against yours. “barely.”

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @nngkay, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, lmk if you want to be added!

[ilovejb]

| Lip Graffiti |

Pairings : Ingrid Engen x female!reader

Summary : Ingrid and reader can’t control themselves leaving a mark and a lot of teasing

Warnings : 18+,detailed smut so MDNI, hickeys and lots of teasing

Authors note : 2 k word count

You loved early mornings with Ingrid.

The way the world was still half-asleep, the way she smiled at you when nobody else was watching — it made everything feel like it belonged just to the two of you.

You got to the Barcelona training ground early, dropping your bag on the bench, already buzzing with the secret plan in your head.

When Ingrid walked in — hair a little messy from sleep, hoodie loose around her frame — you nearly lost it.

She smiled, soft and unsuspecting, and that was it.

You closed the distance in a few strides, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in.

“Morning,” you murmured against her lips.

Her breath hitched, but she kissed you back instantly, hands finding your hoodie, gripping you close.

The locker room was cold, but her mouth was hot, insistent, urgent. You pressed her back against the lockers, relishing the soft sound she made as her body arched toward you.

The kisses turned deeper, more desperate.

You nipped at her bottom lip, grinning when she gasped, and without even thinking, you dipped your head to her neck.

She tilted her head automatically, giving you full access.

You bit down gently at first, sucking at her skin, tasting the faint salt of her, feeling her body twitch under your hands. She whimpered — a soft, needy sound — and you couldn’t help yourself.

You sucked harder, knowing it would leave a mark.

When you finally pulled back, there was a dark red bruise blooming just under her jaw.

“Perfect,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over it.

Ingrid was still catching her breath when the locker room door creaked open.

Both of you froze.

Standing there, looking far too amused, was Alexia Putellas.

“Good morning, lovebirds,” she said, folding her arms over her chest, a smug grin spreading across her face.

Before you could even step away from Ingrid, Esmee leaned around the door, giggling. “Did Ingrid get attacked?”

Ingrid groaned, hiding her face in her hands, while you bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

The teasing didn’t stop there.

During training, Frido kept nudging Ingrid. “New strategy? Distract the opponents with love bites?”

Pina shouted across the pitch, “At least let her recover before the next match!”

You and Ingrid exchanged looks — half mortified, half thrilled.

Every time you caught her gaze, you saw the smirk she tried to hide.

She liked it. She loved it.

Later, after training, Alexia handed you both matching shirts she somehow had made overnight. Ingrid’s said:

“PROPERTY OF Y/N”

and yours said:

“Ingrid’s #1 Fan”

Without missing a beat, Ingrid yanked hers on and struck a pose like she owned the world.

You stared at her — cocky, beautiful, marked — and your body reacted instantly.

She caught you looking and raised an eyebrow, smirking in a way that sent heat pooling between your legs.

“You’re gonna pay for that,” she mouthed at you.

And oh god, you couldn’t wait.

⸻

That Night

The second the apartment door closed behind you, Ingrid shoved you hard against it, her mouth crashing into yours.

“You think you can leave marks on me and get away with it?” she growled against your lips.

You whimpered into her mouth, desperate for more.

But she wasn’t gentle.

Her hands found your hoodie, yanking it over your head roughly, her nails scraping down your sides. She tugged your shirt up and off, leaving you in just your sports bra.

She attacked your neck with kisses and bites, finding your pulse point immediately.

You gasped, clutching at her shoulders, your hips bucking instinctively against her thigh pressed between your legs.

“You like getting caught,” she muttered, biting down just above your collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a deep, purple bruise.

“Fuck—” you gasped, threading your fingers through her hair, holding her close.

Ingrid slid her hands into your leggings, cupping your ass, grinding you down against her thigh.

“You’re so fucking wet already,” she whispered, voice dark with pride.

You couldn’t even speak — just nodded frantically, moving against her, feeling the delicious pressure building low in your belly.

She grabbed your chin, forcing you to look her in the eye.

“Say it,” she demanded.

“I want you,” you gasped. “Please.”

That was all she needed.

She pushed you backward until you hit the couch, making you sit down before peeling your leggings and underwear down in one rough move.

You watched her, heart hammering, as she knelt between your thighs, kissing up your inner thighs slowly, teasingly, making you whimper and squirm.

And then she finally licked a broad stripe up your center.

You choked on a moan, head falling back against the cushions.

Her tongue moved expertly, slow circles around your clit before flattening against it, sucking just hard enough to make your toes curl.

One of her hands came up, sliding two fingers inside you without warning.

You cried out, hips bucking, clutching at her hair.

“So desperate,” she murmured, tongue flicking faster. “All for me.”

She fucked you with her fingers hard and fast, curling them perfectly to hit that spot that made your vision blur.

Her mouth never left your clit, relentless and skilled, building the pressure inside you impossibly high.

You came with a ragged scream, thighs clenching around her head, body shaking with pleasure.

But she didn’t stop.

She slowed down just a little, dragging your orgasm out, licking you through it until you were begging — incoherent, wrecked.

When she finally pulled away, her lips were shiny with you.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking proudly.

“Mine,” she said simply.

You could barely move as she climbed onto the couch, pulling you into her lap, kissing you hungrily.

And god, you could taste yourself on her tongue.

The night blurred after that — kisses, touches, skin against skin, more orgasms that left you sobbing her name into the darkness.

You fell asleep tangled in each other, bruised and claimed and blissfully happy.

⸻

The Next Morning — Training

You stupidly thought maybe you could hide it.

Both of you wore hoodies zipped up to your throats, sunglasses even though it was cloudy.

But the second you stepped into the locker room, the team pounced.

Mapi burst out laughing immediately. “Dios mío, they didn’t sleep! They fucked all night!”

Aitana clutched her chest dramatically. “Look at them! Matching hickeys like battle scars!”

Even Alexia, ever the captain, just shook her head fondly. “You two are menaces.”

Ingrid, the traitor, just grinned and yanked her hoodie down to fully reveal the huge purple hickey blooming on her throat.

The locker room exploded in screams and laughter.

You tried to stay hidden, face burning —

but Ingrid leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, voice dark and promising. “Tonight, we’re making more.”

You shivered, knowing you were absolutely screwed — in the best way possible.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

[theemporium]

[3k] a f1 gossip page gets insider knowledge of what might be the paddock's best kept secret. in fact, it is so well kept that even the paddock don't know who it is about (aka a wee crack fic i couldn't get out of my head ft the papaya bunch).

series masterlist

.

It was media day at the Barcelona Grand Prix when the rumours began.

Somewhere between team media duties and the official conferences, a group had found themselves lounging in the shared canteen. It was a neutral zone, the journalists weren’t allowed inside and it was just a place for most of the drivers to relax with their family and friends outside of the garages and motorhomes. 

You were sat in the seat next to Lando, his arm sprawled over the back of your chair and his thigh pressing against yours with how close he was sitting beside you. He was looking over your shoulder, a giddy smile on his face as you went through a few of the shots he had taken on his camera that morning—including an obscene amount of ‘candid’ shots that you made him swear not to post anywhere, despite his reassurances you looked gorgeous. 

It was a startled laugh from Daniel that caught everyone’s attention.

“There’s no fucking way!” Max laughed as he gaped at Daniel’s phone screen, shaking his head as he did. “Where the fuck do they get this from?!” 

Daniel only laughed harder. 

It took a few minutes before the Aussie finally turned his screen around and display the tweet for everyone to see. It took a few more minutes of snooping to find the article that followed the bizarre rumour. 

“Alright, who’s gonna fess up?” Lando joked as his eyes glanced over all the drivers currently sprawled across the various tables. “My bet is on Carlos. He seems like the kinda guy to have a secret kid.”

“Shut up,” Carlos scoffed before he nodded to the boy on his right. “It would obviously be Charles.”

The Monegasque spluttered out a laugh, his cheeks heating up. “It’s not me!”

“That’s what someone who has a secret kid would say,” Max retorted, seeming to enjoy the way the Ferrari driver’s face began to match the colour of his shirt. “You can tell us the truth about Charlie Junior.”

“First of all, I would never name my child that,” Charles said with his nose scrunched up in displeasure. “And I wouldn’t hide my children. I would be proud of them.”

“They could be hiding the children for privacy's sake. A paddock isn't exactly the best place for a child to be roaming around. Or the safest,” another voice spoke up and everyone’s eyes fell to the younger Aussie sitting across the table from you. Oscar squirmed a little under the sudden attention. “What?”

“You wanna tell us something, mate?” Lando questioned, a grin growing on his face.

Oscar’s cheeks burned red. “I-It’s not about me!” 

“You caught him,” Logan laughed as he playfully knocked his shoulder against his friend’s. “He has three kids back in Australia. Our lil’ Oscie is a father.”

Oscar frowned. “Don’t ever call me that again.”

“I’m offended you didn’t tell us,” you joked as you knocked your foot against his shin under the table. “I expected to be the godmother of one of your kids.”

“You would be if I had any,” Oscar quickly countered, making you snort in response. 

“Well, we have some clues,” Daniel commented as he leaned back in his chair, looking far too amused with the situation. “Time to start going through possible suspects.” 

“Maybe you’re trying to throw us off your scent,” you joked.

“Shhh, sweetheart, they can’t know about our secret family just yet,” the Aussie teased as he sent a wink your way.

You felt an arm tighten around you and turned to see Lando glaring—albeit, jokingly—towards his former teammate. “Back off, Ricciardo, if anyone is gonna have a secret family with her, it’s gonna be me.” 

Daniel laughed. “Please, the two of you couldn’t keep a secret from us if you tried!”

“Uh, we so could,” you retorted.

“You two couldn’t even keep Oscar’s surprise birthday party a secret and it was your idea,” Logan pointed out, raising his hands in mock surrender when your head snapped around to look at him. 

“We got excited!” You defended. 

“And you don’t think you would be excited about a secret family?” Oscar countered. 

“I think we could hide a secret pretty damn well if we tried,” you replied with a shrug as you leaned further back into your boyfriend’s embrace.

“Especially as something as serious as a secret family,” Lando added with a nod.

“Who cares?” Max eventually said with a laugh. “The rumour is a load of bullshit anyways. There’s no way anyone is going to believe it.”

As it would turn out, the whole world believed the rumours. The rest of the race weekend was haunted by the ‘new’ piece of gossip. The paddock was full of whispers of ‘who?’, the journalists thought they were being sly as they snuck in a few questions to catch the drivers off guard, and hundreds of fan theories took over every social media platform as the weekend commenced.

Truthfully, you thought it would be one of those rumours that dragged on for a bit as a joke but died down by the next weekend. 

You were very wrong.

...

...

You didn’t realise how wrong you were until the Austrian Grand Prix came about the following weekend. 

With both McLaren drivers wrapped up in some nonsense challenge video the media team had set them up for, you had made your way towards the Williams garage to spend your Thursday afternoon with them instead. 

There was a cosy spot in the garage where you found yourself sat with Logan and Alex as the team buzzed around them, whispers and talks of the car’s potential that weekend. You were laying back in your seat, your feet thrown over Logan’s lap as you chatted away to Alex when the American caught both of your attention.

“There’s two!”

Logan lifted his head to find two matching confused expressions staring right back at him.

“There’s two,” he repeated as he turned his phone around, a single tweet sprawled over his screen with an all too familiar username on display. “Two kids! A driver is hiding two kids!”

You snorted. “You have got to be shitting me. One rumoured kid wasn’t enough so they added another?” 

“This driver has certainly been busy,” Alex mused as he took Logan’s outstretched phone, beginning to scroll through the never-ending comments under the tweet. “I guess the long term girlfriend thing does kinda narrow it down.” 

You raised your brows. “Don’t tell me you think it’s real.” 

“I still have my bets on Oscar,” Logan commented with a grin, his eyes crinkling in the way you knew they did before the boy laughed. “He’s a dodgy guy. I bet he’s Formula One’s own Hannah Montana with a whole double life.” 

“And, what? We are a part of his famous life?” You questioned. 

“It would make sense,” Alex supplied with a shrug. “He could have a normal family back home in Australia and no one would even know.”

You rolled your eyes. “Alex, don’t encourage him.”

“Hey,” Logan frowned.

“If it turns out to be true, you wouldn’t be upset that your best friend hid something like that from you?” You retorted, watching as the boy’s face slowly fell. 

Alex snorted. 

“I need to go talk to….someone about…something,” Logan said vaguely before he quickly stood up, knocking your feet off his lap and rushing out the garage with a serious look on his face. 

“Logan!” You called after him, laughing as you did so but it was a hopeless endeavour. He was a man on a mission and you knew nothing would stop him. “God, I should go before he ambushes the McLaren motorhome.” 

“Life as a parent, huh?” Alex joked, nudging your shoulder and snickering when you rolled your eyes. 

“Who would have thought I would end up adopting an American of all people?” You joked back before standing up. “Time to go stop my eagle son from throttling my kangaroo son.” 

Alex flashed you a smile. “Motherhood suits you.” 

“Oh, shut up,” you rolled your eyes. 

And little did you realise there was a certain pair of ears listening in to your playful conversation with the Williams driver, already drafting up a message before you left for the bright orange building a few garages down. 

...

...

It was odd for you and Lando to find any alone time during a race weekend and it was mostly due to the two rookie drivers you had somehow adopted. 

It started off as a comfort thing at first. Lando knew what it was like to be young and new to the sport. He knew that even if he was coming in with friends, it still felt daunting. It was the reason he seemed to take Oscar under his wings after the Bahrain race weekend, despite the boy’s initial awkwardness. 

It had been you who gravitated towards Logan. Your heart warmed at the sight of your boyfriend helping out his younger teammate, but it completely shattered when you were making your way towards the McLaren garage and spotted a certain blond rookie hidden between motorhomes. He almost looked as though he was trying to make himself seem as small as possible. 

Lando didn’t question it when you started to venture to the Williams garages in between practices and media duties. He saw the look in your eyes, the small spark that showed your determination. He knew your kindness knew no limits and he would never even try to stop you. 

Neither of you realised you were signing up for the roles of the 2023 rookies’ grid parents until Logan and Oscar had sauntered into Lando’s driver room and all but settled themselves between you both on the Thursday of the Baku Grand Prix. 

You didn’t mind it, really. Race weekends tended to be hectic and chaotic on their own, so it was rare that you and Lando would spend much time alone. Beyond the exasperated sighs and joking remarks, neither of you minded when Oscar would lay his head on your laps after a gruelling interview or when Logan would ramble about some American custom he swears all three of you would enjoy. 

It was odd not being the youngest ones on the grid anymore, but there was also something so comforting in knowing you were a safe haven for these two boys in the paddock—and sometimes, even off the track. 

So honestly, it was an utter fucking shock that you and Lando found yourselves alone with time to kill in his driver’s room, especially with it being the Silverstone Grand Prix weekend. 

Neither of you questioned your luck for very long before you found yourself straddling your boyfriend, knees on either side of his hips and ass firmly planted on his lap. His hands were shamelessly groping your ass. Your hands were tangled in his curls, tugging a little harsher than usual just to hear his little whimpers in between kisses. It was shameless and sloppy and a little more than either of you intended—but you didn’t have a single issue with it. 

“Shit,” Lando moaned, his voice a little more high-pitched than usual when your lips met his neck. “I fuckin’ missed this.”

“Yeah?” You murmured against his skin, your tongue dancing along a particularly sensitive spot just below his ear. “I missed hearing how pretty you sound.”

“You can’t say stuff like that,” Lando grumbled, his eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you closer, as he pressed his body against yours. 

“But it makes you blush and you look so cute when you blush,” you teased as you lifted your head, admiring the pink tint to his cheeks. “My pretty boy.”

“You’re a tease,” Lando muttered as he sat up on the couch, as he pulled you closer so he could press his lips against yours again. 

“You love it,” you retorted, the words mumbled in between kisses. 

“So fucking much,” he grinned into the kiss, his hands wandering down your thighs before slowly moving back up to your ass. 

In fact, it had been so long since you and Lando got a chance to utilise your time alone in the paddock that you forgot the first rule of making out like horny teens on the small couch—lock the fucking door.

“HOW COULD YOU—OH MY GOD, MY EYES!” 

“GROSS! WE DID NOT NEED TO SEE BABY NUMBER THREE BEING MADE!”

If it weren’t for the tight hold Lando had on you, you would have been flat on your ass when Logan and Oscar stormed into the room. You stared at the boys in shock, your cheeks heating up as the mortification of the situation washed over all four of you. 

You quickly moved yourself off Lando’s lap, instead sitting on the couch beside him as you stared at the two rookies who currently had their hands over each other’s eyes. 

“Have you ever heard of knocking?!” Lando sighed.

“Have you ever heard of a door lock?” Oscar retorted.

“Touche,” he muttered back with a nod. 

“You know you can look now,” you told the boys, a little amused with their theatrics. “We aren’t naked.”

Logan hesitated. “Promise?���

“Promise.” 

Both boys slowly dropped their hands and, truthfully, you were expecting for them to instantly break out into whatever excited ramble they had come to tell you both. It wasn’t unusual for them to do as much, to want to share something with you and Lando that amazed them but didn’t want to admit to anybody else in fear of seeming like…well, rookies. They knew you and Lando would never judge their excitement to the world of Formula One and all the little quirks they were discovering.

Except, there was no excited storytelling or massive grins. Instead, both boys stood in front of you with frowns on their faces and their hands on their hips. 

Lando’s brows furrowed together. “What? What happened?”

“Why did you two not tell us we are older brothers?” Logan asked bluntly. 

You blinked. “Huh?” 

“Why did you not tell us we are older brothers?” This time it was Oscar who spoke up. “Why are you gatekeeping our little brothers from us?” 

Lando frowned. “Is this a joke? Is that a punchline? Am I being stupid right now?” 

“We get the others on the grid but us? This is a new level of betrayal,” Logan said with a completely serious look on his face. 

You shook your head, utterly baffled by the two boys. “What the fuck are you guys on about?” 

“You have been hiding a secret family from us! You are the ones the tweets are talking about!” Oscar said as he reached for his phone, turning the screen around so you both could see the latest article. 

“WHAT?!”

“You have been keeping a secret from us. Families don’t keep secrets!” Logan accused, his eyes narrowed slightly. “If we even count as your family now.”

You gaped at them. “You seriously think that article is about us?” 

“There’s proof!” Oscar retorted.

“What fucking proof?” Lando questioned, his brows furrowed together in confusion. “How can there be proof for a family that doesn’t exist?” 

As it would turn out, the informant that had been feeding the gossip page the whole narrative had been also secretly recording conversations they had heard around the paddock. Along with the article, a series of 'leaked' audios were also released and they were, in fact, yours and Lando’s voice. 

This person had managed to record countless conversations you shared with Lando and even some other drivers—even the conversation you had with Alex the previous weekend in the Williams garage.

“Remember we have dinner with the boys tonight. Our reservations are at six.” 

“Did you remind them to put sunscreen on before they went out? I don’t want them to burn.” 

“Who knew being a parent was so hard, huh?”

“Your son is bullying my son for his accent again. Make him stop or you’re both getting grounded.”

“Well, he definitely takes after you!” 

Random lines of conversations taken completely out of context and, truthfully, you could understand why Twitter was going crazy. It seemed undoubtable that you and Lando were talking about your kids, it sounded like you truly were two parents discussing your children—if it weren’t for one large and missing piece of information.

“We were talking about you two, dumbasses!”

Both boys stared at you, blinking a few times. “Huh?”

“We are talking about the both of you in every single one of those clips,” you told them and you couldn’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. “There is no secret family—just you two.” 

“Oh,” Oscar murmured. 

“But—oh,” Logan muttered a few seconds later.

“So this whole rumour started because somebody thought we were talking about actual kids,” Lando noted before snorting. “Fucking hell.” 

“Everyone thinks you’re a dad,” you remarked with a laugh. “The boy who has one piece of tupperware that’s hanging on for dear life.”

Lando grinned back. “Well, I may not be a dad but I am a—”

“If you call yourself daddy, I am breaking up with you.”

Lando only laughed harder. 

“So…you don’t have secret siblings you’re hiding from us?” Logan piped up, a shy smile on his face.

You shook your head.

“Oh thank god,” he breathed out, pressing a hand on his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t betray us like that! We would obviously be the first ones you tell, right?” There was a pause. “Right?”

“Well, we walked in on them almost conceiving a child,” Oscar pointed out with a shrug before his nose scrunched up in disgust. “Please don’t conceive our little sibling in front of us.”

“You were the ones that stormed in on us,” Lando retorted.

“Still.”

“Well, consider this your warning to get out in the next thirty seconds, otherwise you’re gonna see something that will really scar you—”

Your cheeks burned. “Lando!”

“What?” Lando flashed you a cheeky grin. “If they are gonna make up rumours about me being a dad, I may as well start practising for the real deal.”

You rolled your eyes.

...

liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo and 354,762 others

landonorris does this mean i officially get the dilf status?

view all 15,866 comments

user aww cute!

user WAIT THIS IS WHO THE RUMOUR WAS ABOUT

user lando needs to pull a carlisle cullen and adopt me into the family

yourusername in my humble opinion, i think dilf suits you perfectly ;)

oscarpiastri ew

yourusername you're too young to be on instagram

logansargeant and you are too old to sexting on instagram

yourusername you're grounded

user I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS

user okay but the photos are actually so cute wtf

user THEY BECAME GRID PARENTS INSTEAD OF ACTUAL PARENTS

maxverstappen1 they had to start somewhere

danielricciardo i'm just happy the safe sex talk we gave lando actually worked. got worried for a second

yourusername you were just scared you would become a grid grandpa

danielricciardo GRANDPA???

user nothing will ever beat this rumour

user THE FACT PEOPLE ACTUALLY THOUGHT HE HAD A KID

user TWO KIDS

user FAMILY JPEG ACCOUNT WHEN

landonorris 👀👀👀

.

[holyblonded]

tutors from hell | something blue

pairings: barcelona femeni x teen!reader

summary: azulita is slacking in the education department and the team decides to help

notes: this was requested and unfortunately i lost the request but i am so happy it was omg 😭

“For such a smart person, you are acting so dumb right now,” Olga snapped, pacing back and forth like she was trying to wear a hole in the carpet. Her hands were flailing, hair slightly frizzy from how many times she’d pushed it back in frustration. You sat in the chair across from her, arms crossed, expression unreadable… at least until you threw your head back with a sigh.

“This is so dramatic,” you muttered, just loud enough.

Alexia winced from the corner of the counselor’s office, like she’d just seen a red card about to be raised. She pressed her fist to her mouth, trying not to say anything. The counselor, bless her soul, had already peaced out ten minutes ago, sensing the storm brewing and deciding that this was very much a family problem.

“You’re this close to getting benched,” Olga warned, pinching her fingers together. “You think it’s a joke? You think any of this is a joke?”

“I already have a job,” you shrugged, like you weren’t actively poking the bear. “A full-time job. School is the thing that’s optional.”

Alexia let out a low, horrified groan like she could already hear the explosion coming.

“Oh, you are so right,” Olga said, her voice going calm in a way that meant danger. “If you think school is optional, then let’s make football optional too. If your grades aren’t up by the end of the week, no more football. No training, no matches, nothing.”

Silence.

You stared at her. Alexia stared at her. The silence stretched into disbelief.

Alexia was the first to break. “Mi amor, let’s talk about this! We play Madrid on Saturday! She’s been holding the back line like a champ! You want me to play center-back? I’m going to snap like a breadstick!”

“Then I guess she should’ve thought about that before deciding to tank her education like an absolute lunatic,” Olga said, pointing straight at you. “D’s? Straight D’s, Azulita? D’s?”

You muttered something about the system being rigged, which only made it worse.

Alexia made a panicked gesture like she was conducting an orchestra. “Wait, wait, wait, just—let’s not threaten suspension! Maybe a compromise. Like…no boots until homework’s done. Or she has to write a three-page essay on defensive formations to practice. Or—or—”

“No.” Olga’s tone was final. “End of the week. Passing grades or she doesn’t step onto a pitch.”

Then she walked out.

You and Alexia both sat frozen for a moment, then turned and looked at each other in slow motion.

“We’re dead,” Alexia whispered.

You nodded. “She’s actually gonna do it.”

Alexia stood up like she was preparing to sprint the 100m. “Come on, car, now. Recovery session in ten and we are not being late, especially not today, especially not looking guilty.”

You scrambled after her, backpack half-zipped and bouncing.

In the car, Alexia had her head against the steering wheel before she even started the engine. “Okay. Okay. This is fine. We can fix this.”

You snorted. “I mean…we probably can’t.”

“No! No, no. You are going to get your grades up. I am not letting you get benched before Madrid. You know what? I’m calling Frido. She likes math. I bet she’ll make you a study plan.”

“She’s scary when she’s serious,” you mumbled.

Alexia turned to look at you. “And you need someone scary right now. Aitana will do history. Maybe we bribe Patri with snacks for science.”

“What about English?”

Alexia paused. “…You’re on your own with that one.”

You groaned, slumping down in your seat as the car pulled out of the school lot.

“Start mentally preparing,” Alexia added. “You’re about to have three teammates dragging you through academic bootcamp. You don’t pass, you don’t play. And if you don’t play, Olga’s going to revoke your football privileges and I’m going to have to explain to Pere why our defensive line collapsed. I can’t live like that, Azulita.”

You stared out the window, quietly panicking. But somewhere underneath the panic was a flicker of something else, reluctant amusement. If nothing else, you had to admit, this team really didn’t let you fall. Even if it meant turning into your personal homework army.

The gym doors burst open with a loud clang, and everyone inside turned just in time to see you and Alexia practically trip over each other. You were both slightly out of breath, bags bouncing off your backs, faces flushed with panic and urgency.

Sydney raised an eyebrow from where she was stretching. “Y’all good?”

“No,” Alexia said immediately, grabbing your wrist and dragging you forward like she was offering you as tribute. “No, she is not good. Tell them what you did.”

You blinked. “Why do I have to—”

“Tell. Them.”

The room went quiet as your teammates gathered around, sensing drama like sharks sniffing blood. Vicky stopped juggling a ball. Ingrid paused mid squat. Even Pere, leaning against the far wall with his clipboard, looked over with curiosity.

You shoved your hands into your hoodie pocket and mumbled, “I’m failing all my classes.”

An audible groan rippled through the room like a wave. Aitana literally flopped backwards onto a mat and threw an arm over her face like she’d just been hit by a car.

“Oh, come on, Azulita! We’ve talked about this!” she started, already in full rant mode. “Education is fundamental to personal growth, and statistically—”

“I’m not done,” you interrupted, deadpan. “Olga said if I don’t have passing grades by the end of the week, I’m benched.”

Dead silence. Someone dropped their resistance band.

“She’s gonna kill you!” Jana yelped.

“You’re doomed!” Ona added.

“She’s actually gonna do it, too,” Vicky muttered, horrified. “She benched me once for not eating a vegetable for three days.”

Alexia held up her hands, trying to calm the chaos. “Okay! Okay! Let’s not panic.”

“You were the one sprinting into the gym like a horror movie victim,” Ingrid said.

“I was panicking internally, Ingrid. There’s a difference.”

Fridolina crossed her arms. “So what’s the plan? Or are we all just going to sit around and let her get benched before the Madrid match?”

“I cannot defend without her,” Ona said immediately. “No offense, Jana.”

“None taken,” Jana replied.

Aitana sat up, rubbing her temple. “Fine. I’ll help her with history. Again.”

Frido stepped forward. “Math is mine.”

“Wait, wait,” Pina said, turning toward the weight racks. “Patri! Get over here! You’re doing science.”

Patri was mid-bicep curl, headphones still in. “What?”

“You’re tutoring Azulita in science.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are now!”

Patri sighed the sigh of someone who regretted every decision that led her here.

Ingrid cleared her throat. “I’ll help with English. She’s writing an essay, right?”

“Trying to write an essay,” Alexia corrected.

You held up your hands, overwhelmed. “Okay! Whoa! Everyone calm down.”

“No,” said Aitana, pointing at you like you were a criminal. “You don’t get calm. You get studious.”

Pere walked over, flipping his clipboard around and looking amused. “Well, in light of the collective meltdown, I’m shortening training for the week. Azulita, consider this an intervention-slash-academic bootcamp. The rest of you, don’t let her fail.”

“Teamwork,” Alexia said solemnly.

“Dreamwork,” Sydney added, patting your shoulder like she was prepping you for war.

You groaned and pulled your hoodie over your head. “This is so humiliating.”

“No, this is love,” Frido said, pulling out her glasses like she was about to run a TED talk. “Aggressive, slightly terrifying love.”

And so began the most chaotic tutoring schedule ever created, powered entirely by panic, guilt, and pure Barça girl drama.

Frido had commandeered one of the smaller tactical briefing rooms in the facility for your “academic rehabilitation,” as she called it. She had her hair up in a bun, glasses perched on her nose, and a whiteboard already filled with lines of numbers and equations by the time you shuffled in, dragging your backpack like a bag of bricks.

She turned to face you, marker still in hand, and gave you a tight nod. “You’re two minutes late.”

“We just finished recovery,” you mumbled, slumping into a chair. “I had to fight for the last protein shake.”

“No excuses,” she said, pointing at her self-made schedule taped on the wall with big, aggressive bullet points like “DERIVATIVES = SURVIVAL.” “We only have an hour, and we’re not wasting time.”

You groaned dramatically. “This feels illegal.”

She handed you a thick stack of worksheets. “Calculus. We start here.”

You blinked. “We’re starting with Calculus?! Shouldn’t we, like, build up to it?”

She sat down, glanced at the top sheet, and paused. “Wait a second… this is AP Calculus.”

“Yeah?” you shrugged. “I was in honors before all the truancy.”

She gave you a flat stare. “You’re doing Calculus? Like, actual Calculus?”

You gave her a look. “Frido. I’ve been smart this whole time. I’m just selective with what I care about.”

She shook her head slowly, muttering, “Wow. You’re actually smart.”

“Actually?! What the hell, Frido!”

“I’m just saying! You come off very…” she waved vaguely, “…feral.”

You rolled your eyes. “So do you!”

She smiled. “Fair.”

The session started off okay. She went full professor mode, standing in front of the whiteboard and writing down a series of derivative rules. Her accent made it sound cooler than it should’ve been.

“This,” she said, underlining with dramatic flair, “is the power rule. You’ll need it for every problem in this set. Now, what is the derivative of x to the fourth?”

You squinted. “Uhh… 4x cubed?”

She looked genuinely delighted. “YES! See? I knew you had it in you.”

You grinned and leaned back in your chair a bit, feeling good about yourself. Unfortunately, that moment of comfort was your downfall.

Thirty minutes later, she was halfway through explaining implicit differentiation when she turned around to check your work—only to find you completely slouched in your chair, eyes fluttering shut, head bobbing like a baby goat.

“Azulita,” she said sharply.

You jerked awake. “Huh? Yes? Derivatives?”

Fridolina narrowed her eyes. “Stand up.”

“What? Why?”

“Because if you sit, you sleep. Up.”

Groaning, you stood, grumbling under your breath. “This is abuse. I’m telling Alexia.”

“She’s the one who begged me to help you,” Frido said, grabbing her marker again. “Now. Chain rule.”

You stood awkwardly near the whiteboard, trying to keep your eyes open. Frido kept writing and lecturing, but your eyelids were traitorous. One second you were watching her explain u-substitution, the next your chin was resting on your chest.

“Are you falling asleep standing up?” she said, genuinely offended.

“I have low iron!” you cried, jolting awake.

She walked over and handed you a protein bar. “Eat this. And march in place.”

You stared at her. “Fridolina.”

“March.”

So there you were, chewing a protein bar, knees lifting like a sad little soldier, trying not to pass out while Colonel Frido ran the most intense Calculus bootcamp in the entire European football circuit.

“Can I at least sit for integrals?” you begged.

She thought about it. “Only if you can explain what an antiderivative is without blinking.”

You blinked.

She pointed to the floor. “Keep marching.”

By the end of the hour, you were sweaty, slightly smarter, and deeply traumatized. Frido patted your shoulder. “You did good. We’ll go again tomorrow.”

You stared at her, dead inside. “What if I just accept benching?”

She laughed and pushed you out the door. “Not happening. Go get Aitana. It’s history time.”

You groaned, dragging your feet. “Can’t wait to cry over kings and queens.”

Aitana was ready before you even walked in. She’d chosen a meeting room next to the physio suite, claiming the vibes were “conducive to intellectual flow.” There was a whiteboard, a projector (which she did not know how to use), and most alarmingly, a stack of her own handwritten notes with highlighters color-coded like a textbook on steroids.

“Sit,” she said, not looking up from her packet. “We are beginning with the Catholic Monarchs.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“The Catholic Monarchs. Isabel and Fernando. Los Reyes Católicos. Spain’s unification. Come on, Azulita, this is basic stuff!”

“Yeah, basic for you,” you muttered, slumping into the chair.

She was already pacing. “So, 1469, Isabel of Castile marries Fernando of Aragon. Boom. Political union. Not total unification yet, but close. Then, they finish the Reconquista in 1492, Granada falls—and the same year, they finance Columbus. That’s the big year. It’s always 1492.”

You stared at her blankly, eyes slightly glazed over. “Why are there so many numbers already?”

She didn’t hear you. “Then you have the Alhambra Decree, expulsion of the Jews, and—are you writing this down?”

You glanced down at your notebook. It was open to a page that said “I’m hungry” in very neat block letters.

Aitana stopped. “Azulita. Focus.”

“I am focusing,” you said, even though you absolutely weren’t. “You just talk so fast. Like… I’m not catching a single thing. Not even fragments. I think you said something about bananas.”

She stared at you in disbelief. “Bananas? I said Granada! That’s a kingdom!”

“Okay, well, the way you said it sounded like fruit.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Alright. I’ll slow it down.”

She tried. She really did. She said the words slower, drew timelines, even mimed the marriage of Isabel and Fernando using two highlighters like Barbie dolls. But you were still staring at her like she was reciting an IKEA manual in Swedish. Eventually, she threw her hands up. “Why are you like this?!”

You blinked. “Because I’m American.”

Aitana growled something under her breath in Catalan, then paused like a light bulb went off in her head. “Okay. Fine. Football terms.”

You perked up. “Now we’re talking.”

She took a deep breath. “Isabel is the captain of Castile. She’s smart, she runs the midfield, very Alexia. Fernando is from Aragon, think like Patri. Strong, solid, a little less flashy but reliable. When they get married, it’s like… combining Barça and Madrid—not as rivals, but as a superteam.”

“Ooh, okay. Superteam.”

“Exactly. Together, they ‘win’ Spain. That’s their La Liga title. And Granada—not bananas—is the final match of the season. The final point needed to clinch the title.”

You nodded slowly. “And Columbus?”

“He’s like… the wildcard signing they bet on. Like when a club spends big money on a young player who ends up changing the game.”

You gasped. “So Columbus is like… Lamine?”

“Kind of, but more controversial and with colonization,” she said dryly. “It’s a metaphor.”

“Oh. Okay. Keep going.”

She was on fire now. “The Alhambra Decree? That’s the scandal after the championship. Like a PR disaster. A very bad press conference.”

You were nodding enthusiastically now, scribbling notes. “Expelled the Jews = red card?”

“YES! For the entire team!”

“Oh my god! Aitana, this makes so much sense now!”

She dropped her marker, exhausted. “I hate that this is what works for you.”

You grinned. “Admit it, you love teaching me.”

She sighed but smiled anyway. “You are the most frustrating academic experience of my life.”

“I’m honored.”

You both looked up as the door cracked open and Alexia popped her head in. “How’s it going in here?”

“She thought ‘Granada’ was fruit,” Aitana deadpanned.

Alexia nodded like that tracked. “Yup. That sounds right.”

“She’s learning now!” you said proudly, holding up your notebook. It now read:

“1492 = La Liga win. Isabel = Alexia. Fernando = Patri. Columbus = controversial signing. Granada ≠ fruit.”

Alexia laughed and left. Aitana rubbed her temples again. “Okay. Now we move to Carlos V.”

You raised your hand. “Is he also a football player?”

She sighed. “No, but… maybe we can say he’s like Erling Haaland.”

You snapped your fingers. “Say less.”

“God help me,” she muttered, turning back to the board.

Patri had been reluctant from the start.

“She doesn’t respect science,” she grumbled when Aitana cornered her at lunch and practically shoved a study packet into her hands.

“She doesn’t respect anything unless it’s shaped like a football,” Aitana replied. “But she’s smart, just lazy. Treat her like an annoying prodigy.”

So that’s how you found yourself sitting in a conference room with Patri Guijarro, a giant periodic table taped to the wall, three notebooks, two water bottles, and exactly zero interest.

To her credit, Patri tried to set the mood.

“We’re doing biology,” she said, with the energy of someone heading into war. “Specifically cell respiration and photosynthesis.”

You nodded solemnly. “Let’s get this bread.”

She stared at you. “Bread has carbs. Not relevant. Focus.”

Ona and Pina were already seated in the back like neutral witnesses. Pina had snacks. Ona had the patience of a monk.

“I needed backup,” Patri said, adjusting her marker. “In case I snap.”

“Snap from what?” you asked innocently.

Patri didn’t answer. She launched into the Krebs Cycle.

Everything went surprisingly well. She was clear, concise, writing big diagrams on the board, and for once, you were actually following.

Until she got to the second step and mixed up the order of ATP and NADH.

You raised your hand. “That’s backwards.”

She turned around, eyebrows lifting. “No it’s—” She paused. Looked at the board. Sighed. “Okay, maybe it is. Not the point.”

She corrected it. Two minutes later, she wrote “mitocondria” instead of “mitochondria.”

You raised your hand again. “There’s an H in that.”

“I know,” Patri said, eyes twitching.

“You forgot it.”

“I know.”

She fixed it.

Ona and Pina exchanged glances but said nothing.

Then, the final straw. You were halfway through photosynthesis when Patri cheerfully transitioned to the Calvin Cycle and said, “And that’s why, in the mitochondria, the Calvin Cycle takes place after glycolysis.”

You blinked. “Wait. That’s the Krebs Cycle. Calvin is in the chloroplast.”

Patri froze mid-marker stroke.

Ona instantly moved from her seat. “Okay. That’s enough.”

Pina stood and held onto Patri’s arm as the midfielder muttered, “I swear to God, I am going to put her in the fume hood and close the door.”

You leaned back smugly, arms crossed. “Just saying. Someone needs a refresher.”

Patri gave you a look that could curdle milk.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” she hissed to Pina.

“Probably,” Pina said, tossing you a gummy worm.

“You’re so annoying,” Patri snapped.

“You love me.”

“I barely tolerate you.”

“You were the one who volunteered to help.”

“I was blackmailed!”

The room descended into bickering until Ona clapped once and everyone went quiet. “Enough. Patri. Breathe. Azulita. Lock in.”

You sat up straighter, still grinning. “Okay, okay. I’m serious now.”

Patri grumbled something under her breath but went back to the board. “Alright. Where were we?”

You looked at the diagram. “You were about to redeem yourself after the most embarrassing biology lesson in history.”

“I will throw you out of this room.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re right,” she muttered. “Because I’m a professional.”

To your surprise, she actually managed to finish the lesson without any further interruptions. And you, to everyone’s shock, actually retained information. Enough to answer questions. Correctly. On the first try.

Patri stared at you at the end like you’d just shapeshifted.

“I told you I was smart,” you said smugly.

“You are the most insufferable intelligent person I’ve ever met.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Pina tossed you a second gummy worm in celebration.

“Okay,” Patri said, dropping her marker. “You’re done with science. Never speak to me again.”

You gave her a thumbs up. “Love you too, Professor Guijarro.”

As you left, Ona patted your shoulder. “That was impressive.”

Pina just muttered, “She’s chaos. But she’s our chaos.”

Ingrid had come prepared.

She entered the media room like a woman on a mission, armed with a copy of Macbeth, three highlighters, a thesaurus, a laptop, and a look that said I will not be defeated by a teenager who thinks Shakespeare is boring.

You were already seated with your hoodie pulled up, looking like you were preparing for battle, too. The difference was: Ingrid had a plan. You had a headache.

She dropped the book in front of you dramatically. “Let’s begin.”

You squinted at the title. “Do we have to?”

“Yes.”

“Do you even know what it’s about?” She nodded confidently. “Of course. It’s about ambition, power, guilt—”

“No, no, like… plot-wise. Like, who dies?”

“Lots of people. That’s not the point.”

“It’s kind of the point.”

Ingrid sighed and sat down beside you. “Alright. Let’s do a quick rundown before we write your essay.”

“Okay.”

She pulled out a sheet of paper and started asking questions.

“What’s Macbeth’s fatal flaw?”

“His name?”

She blinked. “What internal conflict does Lady Macbeth face?”

“Being married to Macbeth?”

“What does the ‘Out, damned spot’ scene symbolize?”

“A really bad laundry day?”

Ingrid stared at you. “Have you even read the book?”

You hesitated. “…Not exactly.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

You shrugged. “I read the Wikipedia summary.”

Ingrid groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Azulita, you have to read it.”

“I tried!” you said, dramatically slumping over the table. “But it’s all in Old English! Every time I read a line, I feel like I’m decoding a secret message from 1603. Why does everyone talk like they’re in a riddle?”

Ingrid tapped her fingers, clearly thinking.

“Alright,” she said finally. “Then we’re going to act it out.”

You sat up. “We what?”

She stood, already flipping the book open. “Come on. On your feet. I’ll be Macbeth. You’ll be Lady Macbeth. Or Banquo. I don’t care. We’re going full theatre kid now.”

“God help me,” you muttered, dragging yourself up.

Ingrid cleared her throat and began in a booming voice, “‘Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand?’”

You blinked. “Why are you yelling?”

“It’s theatre!” she snapped. “Commit to it!”

She handed you a prop dagger from the physio cart… okay, it was an ice roller, but still, and pointed at you. “React!”

You raised the ice roller. “Yes, my king, I… see the dagger too?”

She groaned. “No! You’re not supposed to see it!”

“Then why am I holding this thing?!”

“You’re Banquo now. Pretend to be suspicious.”

You arched an eyebrow dramatically. “Sir, why are you talking to thin air?”

Ingrid burst out laughing. “Okay, now you’re getting it.”

The two of you spent the next thirty minutes yelling dramatic lines, sneaking around the media room, and using physio props to represent swords, goblets, and ghosts. At some point, Patri walked by, stared at the scene, and just kept walking without a word.

Finally, exhausted but victorious, Ingrid plopped back into the chair and handed you your laptop.

“Okay,” she said, panting slightly. “Now write the essay. You have to understand it now.”

You opened a blank doc and stared at the blinking cursor. Then, something miraculous happened. You started typing.

Your fingers flew over the keys as you wrote about Macbeth’s descent into madness, Lady Macbeth’s guilt and unraveling psyche, and the tragic consequences of unchecked ambition. You even used quotes. Properly cited.

Ingrid leaned over your shoulder, stunned. “Wow. That’s actually good.”

You grinned. “Told you I was smart.”

“You just needed to sword fight your way through Shakespeare.”

“Exactly.”

She patted your back. “You’re gonna pass. Maybe even get a B.”

“B for ‘blood on my hands,’” you said in your best Lady Macbeth voice.

Ingrid laughed. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“And you made me act out a ghost scene in the physio room. We’re both weird.”

“Fair point.”

And just like that, Macbeth was conquered—ice roller daggers and all.

The locker room felt like a pressure cooker.

Everyone was in their pregame rituals, headphones in, stretching, pacing, but there was a quiet tension that had nothing to do with kickoff. The whole team kept glancing at the door, waiting. You were in your locker, hunched over, retying your boots for what had to be the sixth time. Your foot had gone numb three reties ago but you weren’t stopping. Not until you knew.

Aitana, sitting on the bench across from you, whispered, “You’re going to cut off circulation.”

You ignored her and pulled the knot tighter. Just then, the door opened. Heads snapped up. Someone gasped.

There stood Olga, wearing her visitor’s badge like a press credential, and behind her, Alexia, already fully kitted, shin guards in, captain’s armband tight around her bicep. She looked like she’d walked straight out of a propaganda poster: determined, majestic, and definitely hiding nerves.

Olga held up a large manila envelope.

“Oh my God, it’s happening,” Ingrid muttered.

“Everybody gather up!” Alexia clapped, her voice firm and tinged with a smile. “Grades are in!”

There was an actual stampede. Pina tripped over her own boots. Ona shoved Aitana out of the way like it was a loose ball. Patri literally climbed over a bench. Within seconds, they’d formed a tight semicircle around Olga, who was holding the envelope like it was the final rose on The Bachelor.

“Do I have everyone’s attention?” Olga asked, dramatic as ever.

“Yes!” half the locker room yelled.

She peeled the envelope open slowly. Too slowly.

“Olga, please,” Frido said, clutching her heart. “Just open it. I can’t take it.”

She pulled out the paper with your grades and scanned it for a moment, face unreadable.

Alexia whispered, “Oh no. She’s doing the neutral face. I hate the neutral face.”

Olga looked up and cleared her throat. “First subject… History. Grade: A.”

The room erupted. Someone screamed. Patri started shaking you.

“Math,” Olga continued, “B+. Science, A-. English…”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

“…B.”

The cheers were deafening.

“A B in English?!” Ingrid hollered. “That’s my girl!”

“I’m a genius!” you screamed, even as Patri launched you into the air like a sack of flour.

“PUT HER DOWN!” Frido shouted, already grabbing at your ankles like you were a loose balloon.

“NEVER!” Patri roared, spinning you around.

Aitana burst into tears. “She was failing two weeks ago!”

“She was using Wikipedia as a source!” Ingrid yelled through laughter.

“She said Macbeth was about a haunted kitchen!” Ona cried.

You were red-faced and breathless as Patri finally dropped you onto the bench. Alexia clapped her hands loudly to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay, okay, we’re proud. We’re happy. But we also have a Clasico to win. Let’s focus up!”

Everyone grumbled and slowly began returning to their gear, re-tying boots, slipping into jackets. The energy was lighter now, buzzing with excitement and joy.

You looked over and saw Olga quietly stepping back toward the door, her visitor pass swinging on her lanyard, ready to head up to her seat in the stands. You rushed to her, catching her just before she disappeared out of sight.

You threw your arms around her without saying a word, squeezing her so tightly she made a soft “oof.”

She hugged you right back, warm and steady, hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.

“Thank you,” you whispered into her shoulder. “For caring. Not just about the grades. About… all of it.”

She leaned back and smiled at you with those familiar, gentle eyes, then pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“I will always care,” she said softly. “You’re my little sister. That means you get nagged and loved.”

You laughed a little, wiped your eyes.

“You’re still grounded if your next essay is late.”

“Olga!”

She winked and ducked out the door, leaving you standing in the hallway, grinning like a fool.

From behind you, Alexia called out, “Let’s go, genius! You’ve got a game to save.”

You turned, squared your shoulders, and jogged back into the locker room, head high, heart full, and for the first time in weeks, completely present.