#mayra ramirez x reader

[sunshine-theseus]

Translation | Mayra Ramírez x Reader

Words: 3.6

Summary: your career takes a hit but Mayra is there to lift you back up

Warnings: pitch violence, Maya le Tissier and ManU is not nice, bad Spanish – as usual, long convos will be in English but implied they’re actually speaking Spanish, sorry I feel like this one is all over the place for some reason

It was hard to hear what was being said over the chants and screams from the stands. It was harder to try and reply for both parties.

I hadn’t seen what happened. The ball was making its way down the pitch one moment and the next moment the whistle was blown and everyone rushed to the sidelines, opposing the medics rushing out. Mayra Ramírez, Chelsea’s mind-blowing new signing, was laying on the ground, clearly in pain.

I watched as the medics tried to say something to the girl, but she was clearly only growing frustrated as neither understood the other. That’s when I decided to make my way over to the group, hoping to help with whatever issue had occurred.

“¿Necesitas ayuda para traducir?” (do you need help translating?) I ask the Colombian as I kneel next to her.

I get a stiff nod in return, her eyes still clenched tightly as she tries to breathe through the pain.

“What do you need to tell her?” I turn my head to the medics across from me.

“We need to check for any signs of a concussion. We need her eyes open.”

“Ellas necesitan que abras tus ojos chica” with a few blinks, her eyes finally open.

“Mi hombro que duele mucho” (my shoulder hurts a lot) Mayra whispers in my ear, tapping her left shoulder, and I relay the message to the medic without the bag.

I offer a hand for comfort and she takes it while they manipulate her shoulder, seeing if there is any real damage or if it’s just superficial. As we wait I find myself asking what happened. She recounts the body check from my teammate, Maya, and I make a mental reminder to have a word with her after the game.

“She’s okay but that girl could have done some bad damage with the hit she made. If she feels good, she’s safe to continue. I’d ask you to keep an eye on your teammate, she’s had it out for Mayra the whole game.” I tell Mayra she’s been given the okay to continue if she feels she can, and I help her up. She thanks me and gives me a hug before making her way to the sideline, waiting to be called back on by the ref.

“What was that all about?” the named devil approaches me as we take our positions to continue the game.

“Doesn’t matter. Just don’t be a dick for the rest of the game yeah? If you can help it for once.” I continue on my way to stand in position to kick the game back off, leaving her with a dropped jaw.

~

We’re in the 72’ minute and I think my small lecture actually gets through to the defender. She hadn’t made a move on Mayra or any other Chelsea player since. But right as the ball makes its way toward the opposing pair, both fighting for possession, I watch as Maya elbows Mayra in the face. Hard. No whistle is blown, but I still find my feet marching toward her, an anger growing in the pit of my stomach. I’m sick of this shit.

“What the fuck did I tell you!?” I can feel as all eyes begin to focus on me and the commotion I’m causing.

She looks scared and I almost turn right around and continue with the game, but then I glance behind her and see Mayra hunched over, grabbing her nose.

“I said ‘don’t be a dick’ didn’t I!? So why aren’t you listening to your captain Le Tissier?” by now I’ve reached her, so I shove her to further my point.

“I’m playing the fucking game. Captain.”

“No! You’re targeting Ramírez and risking other players’ health. We’ve talked about this behaviour before, and I thought we had it sorted. I’m talking to Skinner and you’re going to find yourself on the bench for a long fucking time. Until you prove you’ve learnt your lesson. Is that fucking clear?” I continue to stalk toward her as she backs away, seething through my teeth as I whisper in her ear.

She barely nods in return, but with one more light shove to her shoulders, I turn around to check on Mayra. I don’t even get a step away before hands are pressed against my spine and I’m pushed forward. I manage to catch myself before I fall and turn back toward my teammate as I readjust myself. Her fist is already swinging at me and connects with my mouth instantly, followed by a boot to the stomach. In the back of my mind, I hear the whistles of multiple officials and screams of both Chelsea and United players and fans, but none of that processes as I punch her cheek.

Maya is pressed up against the goal post at this point, Mary watching from the box, seemingly not knowing how to break up the fight. The boot to my stomach had admittedly winded me and my lungs were struggling to fill up as I grip the collar of her jersey and push her up against the metal. My hope is that retraining her long enough will manage to calm her down enough to talk, but she manages enough leverage to headbutt me in the nose.

The blood from my definitely broken nose mixes with the blood from my split lip in my mouth and I accidentally choke on it. I let Maya’s jersey go as I bend over, retching up more blood and trying to gasp through it. I can feel players from both teams separating us and trying to help while we wait for medics to make their way over, but I collapse onto my knees before they can get me very far.

The next thing I know, my vision goes black

~~~~~

I know I wasn’t out for long because the final minutes of the game are still being streamed to the TV in the corner of the medical room. Unfortunately, my face and stomach still ache, and I’m very aware of the dried blood that has seemed to cover my chin, neck and most of the front of my jersey. I can feel the stitches that have been used to close my lip as my tongue passes over them.

I take a moment to study the rest of the room. No Maya, wouldn’t be surprised if she managed to snake her way into finishing the game. I clearly didn’t punch her hard enough. I’d do anything to escape the club at this point. A shitty coach and shitty teammates and especially shitty oversight. Send me back to Madrid at this point.

It’s always easy to know the game has ended because the hall echoes with boot studs as groups of players make their way to their locker rooms. I watch red shirts pass by first, loud chatter between them. Not a single one pops their head in to see how I’m doing. So much for being a good captain.

A sea of blue follows, and I find my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water as many of the players stop momentarily to thank me for standing up for their striker. How did one of my team’s biggest rivals care about me more than my own team?

Mayra lingers at the door as she finishes a conversation in broken English with Emma Hayes, then silently makes her way in. She takes a seat in the shitty plastic chair beside me and takes one look at my face and cringes.

“¿Es tan malo?” (is it that bad?)

“Sí.” She lets out a small laugh with her answer

“Gracias por lo que hiciste ahí fuera” (thanks for what you did out there)

“No te mereces esa mierda. y estoy harto de sus payasadas” (You don't deserve that shit. and I'm sick of her antics).

She doesn’t say anything in return, simply resting her hand on mine. That same warm feeling I felt when she held my hand as I translated for her on the pitch returns, swelling in the pit of my stomach.

I find comfort in the simple touch for as long as we sit there, before deciding it’s probably getting quite late and both of us obviously need some cleaning up. I don’t see her again before the blues get back on their bus to London and I drive back to a cold and empty apartment.

~~~~~

So I was suspended from the next match. And am still too injured for the one following that. In addition I’ve been too injured to complete any extensive training. Who knew a studs-up kick to the stomach and 2 hard punches to the face causing a relatively large amount of bleeding would be this bad?

Of course Maya served a one match ban, but she suffered no other consequences. People on twitter were outraged. At who? Well that depends on which side you look at. A lot of Chelsea fans had put aside any dislike they had for me and had been thanking me for finally standing up against the aggressive behaviour shown toward Mayra since her move. Some going as far to say they wished I realised I could do much better than United.

I wasn’t one to stroke my ego, but I definitely agreed with that.

United fans had not taken so kindly to the events. I’d been called a lot of things in my career. Slurs, misogynistic names, shit nicknames, they were all quite common. It doesn’t mean it hurts any less coming from the fans who are supposed to support you.

I’d spent the good part of my forced time off crying in bed and trying to ease some of the pain. No one had heard from me in 10 days, including family and friends asking if I was doing okay. I’d gotten DMs from players on other teams checking in and giving me their support as well. I think some of them started getting worried when they checked with my teammates, none of which had checked on me, and other players and no one had so much as heard a peep.

Then, on day 11, there was an eruption. The silent world was engulfed by blames and no one saw it coming.

Manchester United Women have just announced the abrupt and immediate departure of Captain Y/N L/N after 3½ years at the club

Boy did that have the messages rolling in, concern taking over like a plague. Concern about what went down behind scenes that would cause their captain to leave with immediate effect this close to the end of the season. Concern for what this meant for the rest of the team. Concern for where I was heading next. Concern for my well-being. Lots and lots of concern for why I had suddenly vanished from the face of the earth.

I definitely wasn’t expecting a loud knock on my door at 4 in the afternoon. Barely navigating through the packed boxes, I manage a peak through the peephole before the person knocks again.

Mayra Ramírez is stood on the other side of my door, rocking back and forth on her feet, patiently waiting for someone to answer.

I swing it open without much thought about the fact I’m in relatively shit clothes and I’ve probably gone a few too many days without washing my hair. I also momentarily forget the giant bruises that still are yet to heal all over my body as I pull her into a tight hug. I’m not sure why I do it. The first and last time we talked was that dreaded match, but having someone physically in front of me makes something deep inside of me snap.

I begin crying right there on the edge of my driveway as the Colombian just rocks us side to side in a soothing motion.

She eventually pulls away to help move us toward the living room, allowing me to rest against her as I try to catch my breath.

“¿Estas bien? ¿qué pasó?” (are you okay? what happened?).

“Allí no le agradaba a nadie, especialmente después del partido. Los superiores dijeron que tenía que irme inmediatamente. No tengo a donde ir.” (Nobody liked me there, especially after the game. The superiors said I had to leave immediately. I have nowhere to go). I’d cried so much in the past week that there were barely any tears left. I was also rather dehydrated. I had not done anything but pack my stuff into boxes and cry.

She didn’t prod any further as I leant against her again, my eyes beginning to droop.

“Todo va a estar bien” (everything will be okay) she whispers in my ear.

~

I don’t know how long I’m asleep for, but it can’t be more than an hour or two because the sun is still high in the sky and Mayra hasn’t felt the need to move from beneath me. My head resting in her lap with her hands twisting the ends of my hair as she scrolls on her phone are the only signs of passing time. When she doesn’t immediately notice my eyes staring up at her, I take a moment to admire her.

The light curls in her hair falling over her shoulder. The soft smile that seemingly always graced her lips. The way her eyes are like pools of burnt umber, so warm and kind, dragging you in. the freckles that were spaced across her face like stars in the dark night sky. A natural beauty that I couldn’t seem to get enough of.

“Why are you here?” the question is broken up by the dryness in my throat.

“No one has seen or heard from you in a week and then it is suddenly announced you are leaving Manchester immediately. I was worried.”

“But why? We’ve only spoken once.” The thought of how she find my place doesn’t even cross my mind.

“You risked a lot for me that game, clearly including your place in your team. I want to repay you. And I care about you.” Perhaps it was the drowsiness that was still blanketed over my brain, but there was something in her eyes that made it feel like her words held more meaning behind them than she’d presented me with.

I finally stand up, making my way to the kitchen. I offer Mayra a tea, but she expresses her disgust with the drink before I can finish my breath.

“Why are you packing?”

“I’m moving.”

“Where?” I pause at the question. There were a lot of things I had answers for, but this was not one of those things. I had no idea where I was heading. Maybe back home to Madrid? Somewhere else in England? I’m sure if I bothered checking my email I’ll have had multiple offers since the announcement this morning.

I can feel as her frame approaches and towers over me. Her presence is calming and I take a breath.

“I don’t know.” My eyes begin to burn again, new tears welling up against my waterline when she turns me to face her and wraps her arms around me. It’s almost identical to earlier but now I’m just tired of it all.

~~~~~

It’s not until 5 weeks later that I find myself dragging my boxes into a new place. Well new for me, relatively old now for Mayra. The classic English brick was inescapable but the girl had somehow managed to capture and essence of Colombia, and subsequentially Spain. I didn’t really care for remembering my home but there was a comfort within the space that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

“La lavandería está al final del pasillo si quieres lavar tu kit.” (The laundry room is down the hall if you want to wash your kit). Mayra points to the door after we finish unpacking most of the boxes.

In the mess of packing up almost 4 years of my life in Manchester and moving it down to London, I’d almost forgotten about the new kits folded neatly in their own box, tucked tightly into the corner of the room. Honestly the thought of even opening the lid made me uneasy, even though I would not be wearing them any time soon. It wasn’t particularly bad type of nausea, just a “I don’t know if I’m ready for this change” type. Of course Mayra could sense that.

We’d grown really close over the past month, spending a lot of time on calls. They often involved me helping her practice English and her helping me sort out the move. And a lot of dropping subtle hints.

I wasn’t stupid. I knew very quickly that I liked her a lot and I noticed her blushing and side glances rather easily. I wasn’t sure if she was clueless to her own feelings and my own or if she didn’t want to approach the subject. That’s why, on my first visit down to London to discuss contracts and to watch Chelsea’s last home game, I told her how I felt.

It wasn’t anything big, a homecooked meal and some wine that wasn’t particularly good. We were sat on the balcony, the sun barely resting on the horizon, a moment imprinted in my brain.

“Realmente me gustas” (I really like you). I had a whole speech planned, admitting what I’d been feeling over the weeks, but no other words came out. All she did was lean across the table and press her lips against mine and that was that.

That’s how we landed here. The new kit is spiralling in the washing machine as we sing loudly to the music playing over the speaker, dancing around the kitchen, drowning out the noises. The house is filled with the smell of paella de pollo and puchero santafereño and other Spanish and Colombian dishes, cooking or cooling off, as we work on arepas.

Mayra tries to show me how to flatten the dough out on the pan, then flip it with my hand. I approach the stove with a small ball of dough, ready to replicate her actions, when she wraps her arms around my waist. She places her larger hands over my own and manipulates them to follow the instructions she whispers in my ear.

“And now you flip it.” With that, I try to hook my fingers beneath it to turn it over.

With just my luck, my hand sits at the wrong angel, and my wrist and knuckles rest against the burning hot pan. My hand recoils and Mayra is dragging me to the sink to run it under cold water before I can even process the pain.

“Fucking shit! How do you do that?” the burn definitely isn’t that bad, but I continue to hold it under the tap while Mayra goes back to the pan and flips it with ease, answering me with a shrug and a cheeky side smile.

“Well you only have to make… like 45 more before the girls get here.”

“Noo mi amor just try one more time. I believe in you” She pouts her bottom lip and looks at me with those beautiful brown eyes and reaches for my hand. She presses kisses to each of my knuckles and my wrist.

“Fine, but if I burn my fingers one more time I’m sitting in the corner and letting you do all the work.” I let out a huff as I take a new ball of dough and roll it between my hands.

Mayra wraps her arms around my waist again but leaves them there, watching as I meticulously push the dough around on the pan. When she tells me it’s time to flip it, I pinch at the top edge and quickly turn it over. No contact with the pan is made.

Proud of my success I quickly spin around and kiss her. Cheshire-like grins spread across both our faces as our foreheads rest against each other, enjoying the moment.

Mayra was a lot more domestic and much more of a homebody than I’d originally thought. She enjoyed staying in and making homecooked meals together most nights, cuddling on the couch and watching a show or movie as the moon rises higher in the sky. But I loved that about her. It was never boring to just exist in the same space as her, she was too perfect.

~

The Chelsea girls begin to arrive about half an hour later. Niamh, Cat and Maika are the first, and instantly start helping me set up the table, chatting about their luck in the last game of the season. A 6-0 victory against Manchester United that won them the league.

Emma arrives not much later with Hannah, Aggie, Sam and Kristie in tow. I send Mayra out to greet and talk with her teammates and start to add finishing touches on some of the dishes.

Everyone has arrived and all the food is laid out across the tables pushed together in the garden. I sit down next to Mayra as she talks with Erin, who is trying to improve her Spanish, and link our hands together on top of the table. I play with the gold ring on her finger as I look at everyone around me. Smiles and laughs, a friendship so close it’s basically a family, feeling safe with each other.

No club I’ve ever played at was this close, but they were all so excited and quick to pull me in and love me like I’ve been here for years.

I look at Mayra again. The golden light of the sun turns her eyes into pools of whiskey and her skin glows. Those freckles I love have become more prominent in recent summer days. Her laugh makes my heart burst.

“Te amo cariño mio” (I love you my darling) I whisper in her ear as I rest my head on her shoulder, a smile glued to my face.

Her lips lightly press to my forehead.

“Te amo mucho”

[b14augrana]

Deadeye

You meet your match in the Champions League semi final

Chelsea Women x teen!reader

Part of the Scrubber universe

masterlist

Warnings: reader is a teeny bit cocky. this is not proofread!

A/N: scrubberverse rivalry 🫢 this is basically scrubber pt. 1 from the pov of a chelsea youngster, based on ‘we both reached for the gun’ because i saw a hard messi-ronaldo edit to it and got inspired! hope you enjoy :) 💝

Beating Barcelona isn’t for everybody.

However, your team managed to do it.

At 16 years old, you were a standout player in Chelsea’s youth academy. Now at 17, you were a standout player in their first team.

Unfortunately, you weren’t a consistent starter just yet, because the likes of Mayra Ramirez and Sam Kerr were other worthy contenders for the spot in the starting eleven, but you came off the bench nine times out of ten. You were widely regarded as one of the best youngsters in the game right now, with how quickly you settled into the first team and the consistent performances you put up every time you were subbed on. Slipping through tight gaps with the ball glued to your feet was a trademark move of yours, and you were basically untouchable to defenders because you were so young and agile.

Your Champions League debut technically occurred in the group stage, but you really shone in the knockouts.

You came on for Mayra in the first leg of the Champions League, and though you were only on for fifteen minutes, it was enough for you to feel the satisfaction of winning in front of a full Barcelona stadium. A few key passes here and there did the trick.

If it hadn’t been for Sam doing her ACL, you’d imagine that the score would’ve been substantially worse for the home side to come back from, even on aggregate, but that wasn’t the case and 1-0 would have to do.

Erin said to not get ahead of yourself, because there was still the second leg at home, but you were over the moon. You liked to think you were a true blue, through and through, so moments like these were what made you the happiest.

Champions League glory seemed closer than ever, now that your team had proven you could overcome possibly the biggest obstacle in the tournament. Sharing the pitch with greats like Alexia Putellas and Aitana Bonmatí was an honour in itself, but beating them? Beating them was historic.

You smiled at the idea of it; beating the best players of all time, scoring at home in front of thousands of fans, possibly taking your team to the final, taking them one step closer to a Champions League title, but above all... proving that Barcelona is human. Maybe even proving that you are the best youngster in the world, along the way. Of course that was the dream, but you couldn't get lost in your fantasy world just yet, Erin said.

Now that you were standing in the tunnel, altering history for your club seemed imminent. Your manager, Emma, had told you that you'd feature in the starting squad for the evening, so it went without saying that the match would be extremely special for you.

“Excited?” Erin asked, looking over her shoulder to see you. You nodded, but you were more scared than anything. You were grateful to be starting, but also a little bit terrified.

“You’ll do good, I know it. You’ve got the deadeye we need to beat them,” she said, and a little giggle came from you in response, “I’ll try!”

Beside you, the Barcelona players were lined up, whispering amongst themselves in what you assumed to be Spanish. Some of the words didn’t sound like regular Spanish though, which sucked, because for a moment you thought you’d be able to eavesdrop on them with the minimal Spanish knowledge you have.

The officials at the end of the tunnel signalled for both teams to make their ways out, and your ears were almost immediately slammed with the cacophonous noises of a fully packed Stamford Bridge. It was amazing, playing in an environment like this while experiencing the tournament of your dreams, and the loud supportive cheers were something you wanted to get tattooed on your soul.

The Barcelona girls walked out looking staunch. They carried themselves proudly despite the loss they previously faced against Chelsea, but you thought nothing of it. All you were focused on was your undying desire to knock them out of the tournament and show the world what the Blues were really made of.

“5.. 4.. 3.. 2.. 1!”

The crowd counted down to the first whistle blow of the match, and the shrill noise rattled the stadium as the ball got rolling and the match commenced.

You passed the ball backwards then immediately made a run. It looked hopeful when the ball was lobbed back to you, but it was quickly shut down by a well-timed intercept from…

Who?

Well, she was gone before you could see the name on the back of her jersey. As she dribbled through the midfield before pinging a through ball to Hansen on the wing, you could only hear the cries of Mapi León from behind you. “Venga, bebita!”

You did remember talks about Barcelona having a youngster of their own, and this must be her.

Whatever, you thought. You had bigger things to focus on. Dropping back into the midfield, you hunted for the ball, and when possession of the ball was finally in your hands, you felt on top of the world.

It felt like nothing could stop you, now that you had the ball at your feet, dribbling seamlessly past the blaugrana jerseys. Being smaller than others on the pitch had its advantages as you weaved between the gaps and slipped past players… until you came up against her.

She stood tall in the backline, not even giving you a moment of her vision’s time as her eyes stayed glued to the movement of the ball.

You tapped the ball forwards, and she followed, tracking backwards. Stepover after stepover, it was becoming increasingly impossible to shake her as you struggled to deceive her, and then…

One heavy touch was all it took. It was an accident, and maybe you should’ve listened to Erin’s directions to lob it overhead and pass to Lauren, but it was too late; you were on the floor, she was just getting up. The ball was gone, and you were still on the floor. Without the ball.

“Fucks sake,” you hissed, scrambling to your feet and charging after the ball. You couldn’t seem to get past her, at least not yet. You had to think smarter, be faster, push stronger, kick harder, anything to snake your way past.

“Don’t worry about it!” Erin exclaimed, jogging behind you, “Just stay focused.”

You nodded, because she was right. If you wanted to win, if you wanted to see that beautiful silver trophy adorned in only blue ribbons, if you wanted the rewarding feeling of carrying it in your arms, you had to stay focused and you needed to beat Barcelona, or more so, their youngster.

You had to admit, you underestimated her. You didn’t expect her to be a defender and therefore didn’t expect to be crossing paths with her so often, but you expected wrong. She was strong and definitely knew her stuff when it came to defending; at times, it felt like you were kicking a ball into a brick wall, trying with no avail to get through.

It pissed you off.

Running forward made you open for a cross in from Lauren, who resided on the right wing. “Lauren!” you screamed, gesturing in front of you to where you were going to run. She looked up and noticed your frantic pointing, then she lobbed the ball across the field.

It was almost inevitably coming to you. It floated over everyone, barrelling down exactly where you wanted it, but then a body cut in front of you and before you could register anything, they were up in the air and heading it out of the box.

Every blocked shot, every slide tackle, every through ball, every aerial duel, it made you want to win even more. A distasteful feeling welled inside of your stomach when you realised she wanted it the same, if not more, given the way she was flying around and determinedly defending the goal.

The last line of defence was always her — she was the one separating you and the goal, never mind Cata Coll between the posts. It was her saving your shots.

Half time couldn’t have come sooner. You trudged off the pitch, slumping onto the bench as you sprayed water into your mouth. Jess sat beside you and put her hand on your back. “Feeling okay?” she asked, and you nodded simply.

“You’re doing well. Once you get past their back, it’s all yours,” she smiled, rubbing your back reassuringly. You smiled in return, putting your head on her shoulder. “Thanks, J.”

Even Jess knew how much that centerback was troubling you. The whole lot of them irritated you because they were just so good, and they never crumbled even under pressure, but she was something else. Whether you admired her, envied her, or disliked her, was to be decided by the next half.

She was like you — a young talent — but your positions were different. You were a striker, so you could make mistakes. It was one of your many comforts. She was a defender, and there was no room for mistakes at the back. It was incredible that they trusted her so much to start her over the likes of Engen and Paredes, but you could see why they did. You had everyone else on their knees, except for her.

The defining factor, you thought, was the fact you had seen the others play so many times. Rolfö, Guijarro, Walsh, Hansen, they weren’t new phenomenons; you could anticipate their next moves, unlike their new centerback. You didn’t know how she tackled or how strong she was until you were face to face with her.

Aitana had scored in the middle of the first half. 1-0 wasn’t too bad to come back from, so you were confident that you’d get one back. Hope is a dangerous thing, but you had it.

The second half started with more intensity than the first. From kick off, the ball could barely be seen as anything but a blur zipping around the pitch. You sent the ball spinning across the damp pitch to Catarina Macario on the wing, who took one magnetic touch before exploding outwards.

Lucy Bronze had overlapped and now there was a big gap in the defence. Their midfielders were dropping, but they still weren’t quick enough to reach Catarina.

“Watch the wing!” Mapi yelled to someone. You decided to make a run into the box, preparing yourself for some sort of cross, and that’s when you saw it.

It kind of felt like a suitable muse for a renaissance painting, if the context was included — teenage girl slide tackling a world class, Champions League-winning winger to spare her goalkeeper the displeasure of saving a goal. That didn’t change the fact that you were infuriated at the dwindling prospect of getting a goal.

It was hard to hate a player that has done nothing to you except be better than you, but you felt like you were just about at that point.

Your heart raced with every telltale sign of a big chance. Lauren getting the ball seemed promising, and you trailed into the middle for support. “Lauren! Cross it!” you screamed, hoping your cries would be heard. Instead, you watched her cut inside and wind up to take a shot, your stomach swelled with dread when you saw a body in the way and the ball deflecting off someone’s back. Someone being… well, take a guess.

Hope is a dangerous thing, and you had lost it by the 80th minute. It was heartbreak for your team when the final whistle was blown and the game ended 2-0 for the away side, going down in history as yet another amazing Barcelona comeback.

You watched her get swarmed by her teammates, a smile on her face as they engulfed her in hugs and forehead kisses before she walked away with Mapi. You could only observe as you clapped for all the wrong reasons. The title was so close, yet it had always been far. It was appalling as much as it was unbelievable that the person with the most blood on their hands was a teenager. The nail in the coffin was learning post-match that she was actually freshly 16.

You two were no longer a coexisting pair of young talents. You weren’t sharing the stage anymore.

You were competing for the stage.