#world league 2017

[govikings]

Thomas Jaeschke - Three time Olympian (2016, 2020, 2024) for USA Volleyball.

thomas jaeschke, 05.07.17

[theromanticscrooge]

Rob, Gumball, and the Villain Rivalries That Belong on a Sitcom Set and in Couples' Therapy

So, the episode "Glory Hog" of the 2009 cartoon League of Super Evil follows the attempts of a lame supervillain team to net a big-time hero rival. They manage to draw the attention of Captain Glory, an even more extreme boy-scout parody take on Superman. L.O.S.E. are known for playing Ding, Dong, Ditch and jaywalking. They're a better fit as the opposite of an aspiring Scooby Doo gang vs a guy with super strength, flight, and laser vision. Captain Glory's usual nemesis is Skullosus, a skull in a jar atop a mech suit. He has a full flank of minions, a space ship, and a planet-decimating death ray.

Skullosus almost destroys Earth in Captain Glory's absence, but gives up when his beloved hero rival fails to make his timely appearance. When the two finally reunite, Captain Glory and Skullosus' rivalry carries the subtext of a romantic couple making up after one of them was caught exploring their options or emotionally cheating. They're a Rupert Holmes Pina Colada situation where Skullosus reminds Captain Glory about the mutual excitement they glean from fighting each other. Skullosus is an even match for Glory Guy's powers, might, and tenacity; just like the jaded man's wife in the aforementioned Pina Colada song hates yoga and loves getting caught in the rain as much as he does.

Another fun and more well-known take on this goofy hero-villain dynamic are Batman and the Joker in the 2017 Lego Batman movie. The Joker considers Batman a centerpiece of every villainous scheme and exploit. How the Bat will react or interact with various parts and pieces of his plan, as well as the Joker himself, are elements he actively anticipates and consciously thinks about. It's a highly personal and devastating blow when Batman asserts the Joker's rivalry is one-sided.

As Batman learns to appreciate and better understand the importance of having other people in his life, one of his penultimate "I'm learning" moments is when he finally delivers a heartfelt, genuine "I hate you" to his rival. That's all the Joker wanted. It's his equivalent to a rough, stoic sitcom husband telling his taken-for-granted housewife "I love you." That first confession opens the floodgates. From now on, the Joker can have the meaningful banter and earnest effort he deserves from his heroic rival.

More serious hero vs villain conflicts in comic books present the hero and villain respectively as opposite sides of opposing themes. In the specific case of Batman and the Joker, they can be generalized as order vs chaos. They're both the most extreme ends of a very black and white sense of morality. Both are deeply traumatized men with enough presence and power that whatever actions they take can shape Gotham for the worse or the better. Most stories focusing on the Batman vs Joker dynamic are interested in exploring the consequences of two clashing extremes in regards to social issues or exploring the psychological impact of this all-consuming obsession with each other on Batman or Joker respectively.

A huge part of what makes Lego Batman work as a satirical lens is that Batman becomes a self-obsessed narcissist and the Joker becomes an "I'm evil for the fun of being evil" villain that exists more in the realm of Saturday morning cartoons than otherwise. The Batman caricature is a subversion of the generally gloomy, dark, and severe character most modern takes are. This combines the camp of the 60's Adam West series or even the 90's live action bat credit card antics with the fixation and obsession superhero pop culture has with Batman at large. When Batman is such a self-interested figure, it makes sense to paint this variant of the Joker as more sensitive than he would be otherwise. Gotham is at the mercy of a "notice me, senpai" Joker instead of someone that wants to watch the world burn.

In a nutshell, the rivals with romantic subtext framing works beautifully in a more satirical work. If these characters can pull from a more serious framework where the characters are so fundamentally at odds they have to seriously consider whether or not they should kill each other, it's that much funnier to place them in a strained sitcom couple dynamic. The more extreme debate of this fictitious world would be a dramatically different place without this hero or villain becomes a simmering argument about whether the hero or villain is sleeping on the couch tonight.

Keep this in mind and then look at The Amazing World of Gumball episode "The Ex." Both previous examples rely on the existing library of comic books and characters as a foundation for their goofier hero and villain. The Amazing World of Gumball can similarly pull from this library but builds up the characters and story involved to the point they can and do stand alone. They present a new and deliciously bizarre template that other future stories could borrow from for setting up further hero and villain rivalries with a frustrated set of not quite sitcom spouses.

In general, TAWOG is a delightfully subversive series, whether it's poking fun at a wide breadth and depth of pop culture, delivering fantastic social commentary, or sneaking in surprisingly insightful and heart-wrenching character writing.

To set the stage, the wacky and colorful world of TAWOG relies on characters remaining unaware that they live in a syndicated TV cartoon outside of very limited, special circumstances. Its a couple of steps above how the 90's Animaniacs casually leaned on the fourth wall for jokes and comments vs the very active, deliberate part the fourth wall holds in TAWOG's world-building. The fourth wall becomes the static-filled void just on the outskirts of Gumball's reality. Characters are aware enough of the seams in their world that episodes like "The Money" use storyboards and unfinished CG rigs as parts of jokes about the world falling apart without a healthy budget.

Though, the physics and overall stability of this world rely on characters staying blissfully ignorant or outright forgetting parts of their reality that an amorphous creator, an unseen entity, or what is referred to as 'The Universe' itself deemed as unimportant. Usually, these forgotten 'parts' are jokes about how unanimously unlikeable disco music is, how unfashionable mullet hairstyles are, or bad ideas like the general construction of the Hindenberg blimp. Then, TAWOG takes this one step further and invents the tragedy behind the character Rob as a more existential dread-flavored look at the cartoon's overall relationship with its fourth wall.

Originally, Rob was just a playful background character. The Universe decides that he's a negligible part for whatever reason alongside the tertiary character Molly and mercilessly ejects both of them into this static-filled void. In show buildup to the discovery of the void follows Gumball and Darwin progressing from seeing its existence as a tin-foil hat conspiracy theory to diving into the void itself to save their friend before she's completely erased. In-cartoon logic of scrubbing any part of the world clean is a gradual process. The process can be stopped if its caught soon enough or a particular item is retrieved and reinstalled into the world at large before it dissolves or however else deletion/dissolving occurs within the limbo of the void.

Gumball and Darwin go to rescue Molly from the clutches of the static, but ignore Rob's desperate attempts to draw their attention and get their help to escape. He was already an unnamed background character, but now he's been knocked down one level below that already dubious narrative hierarchical position and doomed to oblivion. He literally clings to the back of Mr. Small's van on the tail end of the Molly rescue attempt, unseen by Gumball and Darwin, and forces the Universe to acknowledge him. When Rob does return to the 'normal' world, he's in an incomplete state. He doesn't remember who he was or what his original connection to this world was. Most of his body are rough polygons with patchy, glitched-out textures and TV static. One of his feet is an incomplete CG wire frame.

Because TAWOG is a satire series, Gumball establishes that all of the recognizable on-screen characters fill some sort of established character archetype. All of the other 'good' archetypes have been filled. Rob is assigned The Villain role and starts to fill said role in large part because he was forced into this. Depending on the episode, Rob is playing a required narrative part as much as any other character in the cartoon, but he also has moments addressing his unique frustration and fight with the construct around TAWOG as a whole. Rob is definitely a sympathetic character.

His worse actions aren't excused but his tendency towards more extreme and forceful solutions or behavior is understandable. He had to claw his way back into the world and more or less fight to maintain his right to exist. He feels unseen and unheard; this isn't helped by Gumball immediately jumping towards "what's Dr. Wrecker's evil scheme today?" vs any kind of more thoughtful and substantive discussion with Rob. There's never a moment of "How are you?" unless Rob literally steals the spotlight and tells Gumball, as well as the watching audience, where his thoughts and feelings are.

After the events of "The Disaster" and "The Rerun," Rob has successfully achieved his goal of destroying everyone Gumball loves. He destroyed Gumball's life by tearing apart his family through the right set of wrong loaded phrases or emotional manipulation and even temporarily erasing all of said family from existence. He backpedaled on and ultimately corrected these actions; as he's said, he never wanted to be the villain but he feels so forced that he has fully become the role where he was just playing at it before. After such an intense scrap with his nemesis, Rob wants something more casual and low-key. He's so locked into villainry, he's downgrading from a Level 10 threat to the more manageable Wile E. Coyote ventures he started with.

"The Ex" also immediately follows the awkward tension between Rob and Gumball at the end of "The Rerun." He isn't sure if he can hate Gumball with the same intensity as he did before and those fierce, bitter feelings were a significant motivator in his interpersonal relationship as Gumball's nemesis. Because of these more lukewarm feelings, he "breaks up" with Gumball and shifts his attention to Banana Joe. Joe is more compatible with Rob's Wile E. ventures as a promising Roadrunner. He's annoying and dim, but the lack of wit is offset by enough sheer dumb luck that helps him avoid Rob's complicated traps. There's strong potential to maintain an ongoing, evergreen unseen nemesis role that Rob had with Gumball before Gumball finally acknowledged him and strong-armed him towards something worse and more sinister.

Gumball is devastated by the breakup. He's been bragging and gushing about Rob to his girlfriend Penny ever since Rob became his official nemesis. There's personal attachment. Gumball is partly responsible for goading Rob towards the horrible, evil depths he's achieved. He was Gumball's project. This new nemesis doesn't know or deserve the results behind the fruits of his labor. As far as Gumball is concerned, there's no Rob without his lovable, rapscallion nemesis Gumball Watterson.

It's especially ridiculous how active a role Penny plays as Gumball's emotional support and advice in his misguided ploys to win Rob back. In other setups like this, such as 2017 Lego Batman, Batman does have a female love interest. The hero-villain rivalry can exist alongside an established heterosexual love interest or love story. If anything, having this dynamic exist next to a blatant, straightforward romance further drives home that the sitcom couple subtext is a comedic framing device. Penny's relationship with Gumball is a separate and distinctive thing from the unique, intimate bond that Gumball shares with Rob as his nemesis.

What's really fun about Gumball expressing such strong jealousy towards Banana Joe is that he brings the same grand gestures and harebrained desperation towards winning Rob back as he would to romance Penny. Rob has carved out a special place in Gumball's life that nobody else could fill. Gumball follows the conventions of a classic "make my ex-boyfriend jealous" story up to the mature move of trying to move on and be just friends instead.

But then he inadvertently reignites the fire of Rob's hatred towards him and gets his own shoujo-romance fireworks and goopy-eyed "I hate you!" declaration. These two have the same kind of chemistry that makes more grounded takes on the Batman-Joker rivalry work mixed with the framing that makes the more satirical takes work as well. It's a weird tight rope walk, but TAWOG has firmly established itself as a story that can swing between genuinely gripping drama and more absurd, outlandish situations. Granted, Rob and Gumball have enough of a genuine connection that there's room for Rob to segue from a nemesis to a real friend. There could be a redemption arc. Every major scene Rob has reinforces the idea that he is on the teetering edge between maintaining his villain role and an honest desire to be allowed to just exist.

Outside of the nemesis story, Rob presents interesting commentary that fits a wide variety of people considered 'other' by society that get brutally demonized, ostracized, and ridiculed. Rob is a case of someone that was pushed so hard that he becomes exactly what society expected and feels so lonely and unsupported that he doesn't see a realistic alternative. Being the Villain is his only means to survive, to protect himself, and is the only tool set he knows of to achieve any kind of results. This is why Rob resorts to kidnapping Banana Barbara and posing as Superintendent Evil in late season 6 episodes rather than trying to launch a meaningful dialogue with anyone else. He's convinced that force is the best method and has no proof of otherwise.

I'm still hoping for some kind of closure for Rob's overall character in a yet-to-happen Amazing World of Gumball series finale. He deserves it. And viewers deserve one final bro hug between Gumball and his closest interpersonal relationship outside of his family and his girlfriend Penny.

[kitnita]

★  —  jason robertson for after hours; november 4, 2023 (x)

what's it like being part of arguably the greatest draft class of all time – greatest dallas draft class of all time – with oettinger and heiskanen? so the stars took heiskanen and oettinger in the first round, you in the second round, so it was a very productive draft. is that lost on you, that class? no, I mean, it's, it's — it's truly a special moment, I mean, we always see it, uh, and think about it when it's ever brought up, how special it is. you know, you don't find a franchise goalie, a franchise d-man, and a player … a forward like me in, uh, one round very often. so, um, very — you look back on it now and uh, we hit all of the spots, and six years later we're all pretty, uh … producing, and being big parts of this team. and hopefully and ideally we're gonna be big parts through these, uh — our carers.

[furshrimps]

This year's Crufts had a distinct lack of Papillons (yeah I'm biased XD but there also was not a single Papillon in agility so...), so here's a pic of Premier League Daydream Believers, aka Simon. I took this photo in 2017 at the World Dog Show in Leipzig. He's 1 year and 4 months old in the pic if I did my math correctly.

Simon won BOB at Crufts 2020! And he's litter brother to Planet Waves Forever Young Daydream Believers (aka Dylan), who won Crufts BIS in 2019.

[chungledown-bimothy]

yeah it was 6 years ago but i maintain that if riot had actually nerfed ardent censer and not buffed it skt would have won worlds in 2017.

even if i'm wrong about that, at least it would have been an interesting and fun tournament to watch

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Willie Mays 1931-2024

Above: Willie Mays in 1956. Photo: UPI/ABC News

Willie Mays, one of the greatest ballplayers in history, died today at the age of 93. He was one of the dominant figures in the golden age of New York baseball, when the Giants, the Dodgers, and the Yankees battled for supremacy. From 1947 to the Giants' and Dodgers' final season in New York in 1957, at least one of those three teams played in 10 of 11 World Series, and won 9 of them.

His stats are astonishing. Over his 22 years in the majors, he had a .301 batting average. He had 3,293 hits, including 660 home runs. His 7,112 putouts as an outfielder rank No. 1 in major league history, and he had 657 more playing first base. He stole 338 bases at a time when base stealing was not as common as it is now. He batted in 1,909 runs. Beginning in 1957, the year the title was created, he won 12 Gold Gloves.

But more than his statistics was his infectious joy in playing. He greeted everyone with "Say hey" and became known as the Say Hey Kid.

“Willie could do everything from the day he joined the Giants,” said Leo Durocher, his manager during most of his years at the Polo Grounds. “He never had to be taught a thing. The only other player who could do it all was Joe DiMaggio.” And DiMaggio said of him, "Willie Mays is the closest to being perfect I’ve ever seen."

Above: Willie Mays slides safely into the plate in the sixth inning of a game against the Phillies at the Polo Grounds, ca. early 1950s. Photo: Bettmann Archive/Getty Images/NBC News

Above: Willie's famous catch in the 1954 World Series at the Polo Grounds on September 29, 1954. His over-the-shoulder catch made while running is considered to be one of the greatest plays in baseball history. The score was tied at 2-2, and not only did he prevent a home run, he threw the ball in to the infield, preventing runners on base from scoring. The Giants went on to sweep the Cleveland Indians in four games.

Above: Mays plays stickball with local kids in Harlem in 1954. He lived on 155th Street while playing with the Giants. In 2017, the corner of 155th Street and Harlem River Drive was renamed Willie Mays Drive. Photo: Bettmann Archive/ABC News

Mays at home in Harlem with his landlady, Ann Goosby, in 1954. A profile of Mays published that year in LIFE pointed out that Mrs. Goosby “cooks his meals, keeps his clothes clean and generally takes care of” the young star. Photo: Alfred Eisenstaedt via Life magazine

Above: Willie Mays at the Polo Grounds in 1954. Photo: Patrick A. Burns for the NY Times via Instagram

[randombush3]

ubi amor, ibi dolor

alexia putellas x reader

part one

words: 11455 (SORRY THERE WAS A LOT TO FIT IN)

summary: alexia and you as posh + becks part two x

content warnings: it’s gets a little sad but tbh the next part is the one you should be worried abt 🤘

notes: this one covers 2017-2019. i apologise if it’s a bit jumpy because if i covered EVERYTHING you’d be sat here reading for days. also, this part was so slow to be finished because i abandoned it for ages and only just decided i should probs get to finishing it. the next part is the last one!

It’s about three months later, and there is not a silence that can’t be filled with the sound of Alexia’s voice. You don’t know how to prove this, because you leave none to be filled, instead seeking to occupy every spare second granted by your tour schedule to call her, to text her; to talk to her. 

You spend your nights on balconies all over the continent. Your smoking habit is worsening but the excuse of getting some fresh air to do so is a perfect way to weasel yourself out of parties and clubs and late-night chats with your friends. You much prefer to spend your time finding out more about the woman you quickly become obsessed with. She often verbalises her disdain for your disregard for your lungs – something that transcends the language barrier with an overwhelming clarity – but she is glad that you are talking to her either way.

A few times, you go as far as to hop on a secretly booked flight. You never step outside the airport, leaving Barcelona very much stamped in your passport but not on your list of places you have explored, but Alexia is more than content to pursue your hooded figure as you lead her into hidden corners of the arrivals lounge she begins to associate with the racing feeling in her heart when she sees you. Kissing against walls and on hard airport seats is not what feeds most budding romances, but you don’t care. You happily fly to her whenever you have a spare five minutes, and she is more than content to make the time spent physically together worthwhile.

The tour is nearly over. Five shows in three weeks, and then you can traipse back to London to fight off the delayed hangover in the comfort of your own home with meals cooked by your parents to keep you going. One of the worst things about being on the road is the food (or lack thereof), and your athlete gi… Alexia, is unimpressed with your nutrition. You find that she does not agree with most of your lifestyle, yet she seems captivated by it; like she is discovering a different, scarier world, and she can’t close her eyes.

Alexia’s birthday is soon. 

She has enough dread for the event to have communicated it far more efficiently than usual, with most conversations needing to be doubled in length to get past the all-too-familiar grunts of unrecognition. The streets of Barcelona are filled with whispers of a women’s league, and she is unsure of the pressure that is starting to grow on her shoulders. A birthday is inconvenient, she claims, though you only laugh. 

You tell her about Virgil – she knows you love him, she knows you love most things to do with him – and his famous quote. “Labor omnia vincit,” you say, finding it ironic that you are only able to talk to her right now because you skipped out on soundcheck and a run-through with the backup dancers. “Work conquers all. It reminds me of you.” 

Her lilting Spanish laughter fades as she actually thinks about it. 

“Es verdad,” Alexia replies, and you are glad to understand. “Quiero ser la mejor del mundo así que ‘labor omnia vincit’.” 

“You’re speaking Latin with a Spanish accent.” 

“You love my accent.” 

You smile. It’s true. 

…

It hasn’t settled in Alexia’s mind that you, who calls her whenever you can because you miss her opinions and her jokes and the face that you can picture when she speaks, are the same person as the one she sees on Jenni’s phone as the team crowds round the screen to watch a viral video from your concert last night. 

“A birthday present for you, eh, Ale?” Jenni jests, clinging on to Alexia’s admission months ago about her crush on you. She doesn’t know about the reality of it all. No one does, as of yet. 

“Who puts them in these outfits?” asks Leila, mildly outraged at the bedazzled lingerie you’d been dressed in. “There’s nothing to them! They might as well go on stage naked.” 

“It’s fine. They get hot while they’re performing anyway,” Alexia dismisses, not wanting to delve into your issues with your stylist. Well. Her issues with your stylist, who seems to not care about dignity or have any faith in the world’s imagination. (That, and Alexia is not sure she likes this idea of sharing, though she is aware that nothing defines you as hers.)

“Oh, did they tell you that themselves?” She glares at Jenni, and shoulders her way out of the huddle. It’s not Jenni’s fault that her mood has been easily soured, because tomorrow is Alexia’s birthday and then, the next day, she has to get to Madrid for her national camp. The Euros later this year is going to be in the Netherlands, and her dreams for her country are currently far-fetched. It hurts, and you’re well aware of her misery.

In fact, you are so aware that you are on a flight from Oslo on the fourth of February. It’s too special a day to miss. You have once again abandoned soundcheck. 

Alexia receives a text as she slides into her mother’s old car, considering flinging the device out of the window at one of her teammates’ heads after they sang to her at training without the mercy of letting her forget that she is one year closer to the end of her career. At this rate, the career will be full of wasted potential. She is in a terrible mood about it. 

And then she looks at her phone. 

You have really tried to up your game with the Spanish of late, enlisting the help of a private tutor who Skypes you twice a week with new phrases and grammar that mildly resembles that of a dead language you carry more than a passion for. 

You: Estoy aquí!

The only thing she can think to do is slam her index finger on the call button of your contact, nail bending painfully on the glass of the screen. 

Your instructions are clear: “Airport. Now.” 

She drives. 

She drives at an embarrassingly desperate speed, because just over a week is too long a separation and her day has been awful and there is something so magnetic about your presence that she would be going against nature to do anything other than find you. Obviously, find you she does: right in the arrivals lounge, same black hoodie as always disguising your identity. It’s not any busier than usual, and you catch sight of her the minute she pushes her way to the front of the crowd of expectant faces. 

With a weary grin, you walk towards her, and she knows that this game is only temporary. There will be privacy close by, and you can speak then. 

She turns with a nod, and you follow as she takes the usual route, but suddenly there are fingers intertwined with her own and you are stopping her in front of everyone. 

“Feliz cumpleaños,” you say with a pronounced failure and a hilariously concentrated expression. Alexia giggles, and the storm cloud above her dissipates, but the kiss she wants to press to your lips will have to wait. There’s somewhere empty just around the corner, and she tugs your hand to get you to come with her – to match the same haste she has – but you don’t. “Al coche. So we can go to your casa.” 

Her eyebrows raise. 

“It’s your birthday,” you explain, stepping towards her so that the people around you see a couple instead of two women walking in a vague direction. Alexia swallows, body tingling at your proximity. Her body always tingles when you stand near her like this. “It’s your birthday, so I am here for the night. My flight is tomorrow.” 

She understands you entirely. 

She all but drags you to her car. 

Alexia does not even remember what it’s like to be miserable. She is set alight by your presence, by your lips, your hands, your soft greeting that you whisper in her ear when she pulls away to drive you to her flat. It’s a new place, and she is free from the fuss of her mother. 

You smile when she pulls you out, taking your bulging handbag in one hand and grasping yours with the other, and she kisses that smile as she presses you against the mirror in the lift. The bag hits the floor with a thud, your overnight things spilling out because of her carelessness, but you pay the rolling Dior lipstick no mind, too caught up in the way her tongue swirls in your mouth. How her hands grip your waist. 

She’s stronger than last time. She gets stronger every day: she is going to be the best footballer in the world. She is dedicated to her sport. 

Your palms travel up the back of her t-shirt, cold from the metal you’d previously had them pressed against. Alexia flinches as your fingers brush a particular spot, the skin there slightly raised. 

“¿Que pasó?” you ask, head tilted to the side as she draws back, panting. “Are you hurt?”

She examines your eyes. Deeply inquisitive. Full of something that may resemble love in the future. 

Alexia smiles – an expression that she wears mostly when she is thinking about you. You watch as she turns around, the lift jerking to a halt as if to hurry up her slow movements. As she lifts up her t-shirt, you eye the tattoos you are aware decorate her back. There are going to be more someday, she has always been clear about that. 

And, oh. 

You’re not usually so attached. Alexia, it’s apparent, is a complete exception.

She asks you if you like it. You lean forward, and kiss the four words (she must have researched the quote, because you excluded the last when you mentioned it), tongue running over the redness as if you are going to heal the irritation. She moans quietly, more surprised than anything else. 

“Do I get the credit for it?” She shakes her head, which you catch in the mirror opposite, and, before you can voice your protest, she is facing the right way again and kissing you as she leads you to her door. “You know, there’s another quote from him that I much prefer to that one. ‘Labor omnia vincit improbus’ is… Do you know the word workaholic?” Again, her head shakes. She backs you against the wall next to her door, lips attached to your neck as you keen under her touch. 

She slots her leg between yours, and you forget your next sentence. 

It’s a heated kiss. It promises tonight’s activities to you, and you cannot wait for her to unlock her door. 

Your lips run along her neck as she jams her key into the lock. You suck and bite, spurred on by the moans she bites back with a clenched jaw. You find it sexy: her determination to get you inside. And it’s her birthday, after all. She deserves it. You have another gift for her in your bag, but she is grateful for this anyway.

“Inside,” she gasps as you smooth your tongue over the newly-created hickey you just gave her, kicking her door wide open and hauling you through the gap. 

The flat is pitch black, but Alexia knows it well enough to chuck your bag towards the dining table and have you on your way to the bedroom without needing to switch any lights on. But your hands wander, and she gets distracted. She stops you in the middle of the flat, only half a second into your journey, and her life feels so full (especially when you moan like that). The room feels so full. 

The room is full. 

The room is…

“Moltes felicitats, moltes felici–” sings (and abruptly stops) a whole choir of Alexia’s friends and family, the lights switching to bathe the two of you in total mortification. 

Alba’s hand covers the eyes of her cousin’s six-year-old, whose mouth has formed a perfect circle.  

Silence washes over what looks to be a surprise birthday party. One which Alexia was assured yesterday was not going to happen. By multiple guilty attendees! 

Alexia looks helplessly between you, her mother, and the shit-eating grin on Jenni Hermoso’s face, remembering herself promptly when Eli’s eyes drop to the placement of her hands on your bum. She almost jumps away from you. 

“Fuck off,” you mutter under your breath, stewing in the terribly awkward silence as Alexia’s eyes only grow wider and wider. “Alexia.” 

She breaks from her frozen state, thawed by the husk of your voice. 

“Jo…” 

The crowd explodes, and you let the tsunami of Catalan wash over your ears. There is so much noise, and so many people, and you can only watch as Alexia tries to answer all of their questions. She shakes her head, nodding at the same time, switching between two different languages to cover the shrieks from Jenni and the absolute bollocking her mother is giving her in front of everyone about dignity and respect. You are famous, says Eli, and you do not need Alexia’s horny motives to embarass you like that. 

“She’s a celebrity,” Eli chides with a glare at her daughter, eyes softening as you continue to stare at the sea of faces blankly. You are backed against a wall with nowhere to run. “Alexia, introduce us to your girlfriend. Now.” 

“You guys don’t need to be introduced to her!” Alexia replies like a petulant child, nearly crossing her arms and stamping her foot. “You know her name, and you’ve seen her. So you should all leave, really. Mami, I told you I didn’t want a party.” 

Eli’s hands fly from her body to halt the departure of the guests as they catch on to how unwanted they are. “No, we are still going to have this party,” she insists. It’s the final decision. “So, go on. Introduce us.” It’s definitely not a question. 

You clear your throat, wanting to save Alexia somehow. “Hola,” you begin, and every face breaks out into a beaming grin. “Um. Soy Y/n. Y… soy de Inglaterra?” 

“Sí,” Eli says with a swell of encouragement that you can feel from two metres away. 

 “Alexia,” you plead. 

“Guys, this is Y/n. She doesn’t speak Spanish, and she definitely does not speak Catalan, so either you practise your English or we cut the cake Mami has made and then you–”

“I am a big fan!” Jenni squeals, accented words loud and piercing as she surges towards you, sparking the movement of the entire body of people. No one listens to the rest of Alexia’s declaration. 

… 

There is a reason you are so well-liked, Alexia determines. She can see it as you interact with her family and closest friends. You smile and you listen and you remember things about people that they would deem insignificant. And it helps that you look breath-taking while doing it all.

Sitting at her dining table, Alba on one side, her mother on the other, she watches you flit around her flat with a talent for socialising, charming every person you speak to. 

“She doesn’t know how you feel, does she?” Eli comments, noticing the hesitation in her daughter’s expression. 

“I don’t know how she feels,” is what Alexia replies, because there is no way you can ignore the emotion she pours into your conversations. It exceeds that of a simple crush or hormone-fuelled desire. “She is incredible. I am me.” 

“You are Alexia Putellas.” 

“And she at least likes the way you kiss her,” Alba chimes in, her contribution unnecessary but making Alexia blush at the memory. The fact that her entire family saw that, most of them knowing where you were heading, is something she might be tossing and turning about at night for a while yet. 

“Your father would love her.” 

“I think so too,” Alexia says, chin resting on her palm as the world melts away, your eyes briefly meeting with hers as one of the children giggles at the face you have just pulled behind their mother’s back. A pang of disappointment reverberates in her chest as she grieves momentarily over the loss of her favourite person on Earth, wishing he could have shared the traumatic experience of today. He would’ve laughed so hard at her face when the lights went on.  

“She seems lovely, really. Very polite. Is it because she’s English?” 

“She is very…”

“I suppose the Latin came from her?” Alba asks with a smirk, prodding the fresh tattoo over the thin material of Alexia’s t-shirt, grinning as her sister hisses in pain. 

“Next time, we can go somewhere quieter and talk properly. I know that you’ll be busy when tonight is over.” 

Both Alexia and Alba shudder. “Mami!” her little sister groans, suppressing her gag. 

“Sex is nothing to be ashamed of, Alba.” 

“Never say ‘sex’ in front of me again,” Alexia tells her smug mother.

“Well, never get so caught up in the moment that you don’t notice the balloons taped to your flat number.” 

Alexia bolts outside to check, and hates herself when she sees them. 

…

“Dance with me!” 

You grab Alexia’s hand, pulling her towards you. The party has lasted longer than she’s happy with, and you have seemingly forgotten about what you could be doing. You love to dance. You love music. 

The little boy who’d been your partner up until now sticks his tongue out at Alexia, and she reciprocates the gesture. She is the birthday girl, after all. 

You don’t understand a word of the music, but the beat flows through your hips as you move them against her. She runs her hands up and down your sides, your tank top now the only layer between your skin and her impatient fingers, hoodie having been stripped off the minute the party became interesting. 

“My mother likes you,” Alexia whispers into your ear as you sway in time to the rhythm. Her lips brush your ear lobe, and you shiver despite the growing heat between you. 

“This was very much a surprise,” you giggle in response, possibly answering wrong because her Spanish didn’t quite catch.

“Mhm.”

“I can’t wait for them to leave.” 

Her eyebrows furrow. “You are not having fun?” 

“I am,” you reply with a nod, a smirk slowly creeping into your content expression. She holds her breath, reminding herself of the presence of her family as you grind into her. “But I also can’t wait to fuck you.” 

Alexia shudders.

“I will tell them to go.” 

They cut the cake. 

They sing again, completing the lyrics this time. You are even taught them before-hand, pushed out to the side of the crowd, very much silently told that you currently hold no place in Alexia’s life in comparison to these people. They all love her. You aren’t there yet. 

But, she values your presence. 

Alexia doesn’t care much about the people here tonight. She sees them almost every day, and she knows they are constants. What she does care about is you. 

You, in that tank top. You, with your hair down, face fresh even though your day must have been exhausting. You, with a red mark on your collarbone that no one knows how to point out to you in English. 

Soon, everyone is gone, and you are panting underneath her. Her lips capture yours, muffling the groan that comes with the movement of her fingers inside you. Your legs wrap around her body tighter, heels digging into her back. 

Her hair falls around you; encapsulating you, surrounding you with only her. Her smell, her taste, her fingers. 

You moan as her determination to destroy you becomes apparent. She hits every spot that has been neglected for the past few months, and though it is the first time the two of you are doing this, it’s as if Alexia has studied your body for years already.

She breaks apart from you as you come, your back arching off the mattress, chest pressing against hers. She wants to see your face for the first time. If she had a camera, she would have used it. You look beautiful. 

Nothing on Earth compares to the cliff you have just been pushed off, and it is as if you are falling for eternity. 

She goes again, and again, and again. She’s an athlete. 

She ruins you, but her strong arms hold you together afterwards. 

You fall asleep, for the first time in a while, with someone by your side. Whose hands find purchase on her favourite part of you, pulling you on top of her as she whines at your own tired attempt to make her feel good. Alexia whispers that she has been given enough, that she doesn’t need it, and she thinks you fall asleep to the sound of her incomprehensible, breathy Spanish. You cling to her. 

…

The tour ends. 

You couldn’t be happier. The final show is a blessing, and the tears in your eyes are of joy. You, Gio, and Anya are going home at last. 

However, the well-decorated flat you walk into lacks everything possible, because there is no Alexia standing in the middle of the living room. She can’t be here, though you wish things were different. The season has been successful for her so far, and she is busy. 

You really miss her. One night wasn’t enough. It will never be enough, and you are starting to realise the gravity of your blushes. 

You like Alexia, and you have fallen hard and fast.

“You’re not coming back with us,” your brother says knowingly, skiing beside you down the picturesque blue run in Les Gets. You have come here every year since you were eight. April is a little later than usual, and the snow often turns to slush towards the afternoon – though one could argue that is simply a cue to move onto apres-ski – but it is pleasant to be on holiday with your family. People try to bother you, but it is easier to pretend you don’t see their waves when you have your ski goggles pulled over your eyes. 

Your brother coughs, not pleased that you are ignoring him, reducing him to ‘everyone else’. (His ego, far too preened, far too large, cannot handle the idea of that.)

In front of the two of you, your father turns with precision and great technique. You can’t relate: you’re drunk. You have been since this morning. 

“Sorry?” Your innocence is pretence and he rolls his eyes behind his Oakleys. 

“Your flight. I saw it was booked to take you somewhere else. Somewhere you’ve been going a lot.” 

“You’re not subtle.” 

“You’re not subtle,” he replies, skis dangerously close to yours. You have to swerve, sending you onto the off-piste section of the run much to your irritation. With the excuse of tackling the jumps, however, you are lucky to evade further questioning, watching as he glides off into the distance, reaching the banner and skidding to a halt to wait for you and your mother. Your mother prefers to drink more than ski. She is always holding up the rear. 

When you return to the chalet, bought by your parents a decade ago to solidify their roots in Les Gets, your brother seems to have remembered your conversation from earlier. Your parents have gone out for dinner, leaving the two of you to make something for yourselves. He is glad to have you alone. 

“You don’t like lads, do you?” And, in truth, it’s an insightful question by his standards. He cares; he just does not know how to show it. 

Pausing the construction of your sandwich for a moment, you allow him to see you for who you are. He’s your brother, after all. “Not at all,” comes your response. 

He hums. “Thought so. You’d have gone out with half of England’s football team otherwise. God knows that they don’t mind.” 

“England has a women’s team.” 

“Gross.” His lips purse as he thinks about his little sister’s love life, and he decides that he would like to know more about Barcelona. “Are you buying a villa?” 

“What?” 

“Well, you go to Barcelona a lot. Are you buying a villa with the girls? Is that what celebrities do?” 

You roll your eyes. “Mum and Dad buy villas. It isn’t just celebrities who splurge on property.” 

“You’re not answering my question.” 

“I wish you’d never become a lawyer.” 

He laughs – hearty and deep. His laugh reminds you of dark forests for some reason; tall trees that dwarf your body, but keep you safe nonetheless. “I wish you’d never gotten famous. My life would be so much quieter if half my mates weren’t trying to squeeze something or other out of my connections.” His pride is profound in his misery, and you smile, blushing. “You’re not buying a villa.” 

“Well done, genius,” you taunt, assembling your sandwich once again in hopes that the baguette will kill the buzz in your mind. You can’t really think when you’re drunk, and, recently, when there is nothing else to occupy you, your mind wanders to Alexia. What is she doing now? Does she miss you? Is she excited to see you in three days? 

It dawns upon his face with an amusing animation. “You’re seeing someone,” he accuses. 

“Maybe,” you shrug. “She’d be one lucky girl.” 

“One unlucky girl, you mean. I’d better find out who she is and tell her to run for the hills. You’re about two decades overdue for an exorcism, and it shows.” He swiftly appears behind you, despite his lumbering limbs, and flicks your ear as your teeth sink into your dinner. You squeal, pushing backwards to get him away from you. “What’s her name? Who is she? What does she do?”

“She is… classified.” 

He reaches for his phone. “I’m going to find a list of Spanish names and see which one turns you into a tomato.” 

“She’s still classified.” You prod your index finger into his shoulder.

“Hey.” You retract your finger, surprised by the tenderness of his tone. “You can tell me, you know. You’re my little sister. I really don’t give enough of a fuck to spread it.” 

With great shame, you absolutely do not need to be told twice to talk about your favourite Spanish woman on the planet at the moment. He actually has to beg you to stop. 

…

Things with Alexia are good. 

Not just in terms of your relationship, but in general, too. Walks are more enjoyable, and so are mornings, afternoons, evenings. She likes that you feel comfortable to chill in her flat while she goes to training. She likes that she comes home to you. She likes that you spend your days with a pencil between your teeth, a blank page set out in front of you. 

Now that the tour is over, it is clear what comes next. The new album will be the best ever made, you have decided, because you might finally understand the lyrics that you sing. They could resonate. 

They will resonate. 

Alexia asks you to be her girlfriend when she drops you off at the airport. Your plane is private and she can kiss you goodbye when you agree. 

You love being Alexia’s girlfriend. You repeat your new identity over and over as you fly back to London, and it is a mantra that plays on loop in your mind as you get on with life back home. 

The girls tease you mercilessly when you spill it. All three of you are on the balcony, though this time there is a joint placed between your fingers rather than a cigarette. Slightly high, more so giddy about Alexia, you confess. They’re happy for you, but Gio can’t help but text Anya later that night. 

Gio: Have you seen the new plan? 

Anya: What plan? 

Gio is sitting upright in her bed, ensuring that her panic is quiet so her new boyfriend does not wake up. Her fingers hover over the keys shamefully, but she has to tell someone and it can’t be you.

Gio: The publicity plan. 

It’s at your studio session the next day when all comes to light. Your manager/publicist appears, which is honestly quite rare. She’s not fond of the claustrophobia of the small room, nor the darkness it becomes shrouded in when you, Gio, and Anya are trying not to murder each other. 

Dave swivels around on his chair, bored with the bickering. You aren’t sure about a lyric, but they disagree, even if Anya knows you have a better point than the third member of your group. 

Your manager clears her throat. “Y/n, may I speak with you? It’s quite important.” 

“Do this lyric without me,” you grit out to Gio. 

“It’s your solo.” 

“I don’t care.” 

With that, you follow your manager into the corridor. 

They hear your protests from the studio, the shout of frustration piercing through the small gap underneath the door, overcoming the supposedly impregnable sound-proofing. 

There are tears streaming down your face upon your return. Fuck her, and fuck him. 

Anya and Gio can’t look at you. Their chins dip to their chest as they slump in place, succumbing to the predetermined guilt they discovered last night. 

“It’s not fair,” you cry to them as they refuse to turn around, throwing yourself onto the sofa with a heaving sob. “It’s not fair, it’s not fair. She’s going to hate me — she’s not going to love me anymore, and I… I love her.”

Anya’s mouth opens with a sob of her own. She had thought Alexia was a dalliance. She hadn’t realised. 

It’s fun to have someone, she knows, but it is painful to love them. 

You are clearly not enjoying yourself now. 

“You love her?” she asks, though she is sure of the answer as another gasp leaves your body with a chilling desperation. 

“Yes, I fucking love her. It was obvious.” 

“But you—”

“Because I’m not out!” 

“So what did she tell you?” 

“They want it to last a few months. Enough to draw the attention away from my aversion to men and his relationship with some blogger.” 

Anya gulps. A few months is a lot to endure, especially for the footballer whose heart you’ll be breaking. “You’ve said no, right?” she tries, paling as she grips onto the mic stand, trying in vain to remember the harmony she is supposed to sing. “You’ve told them… You’re you, of course you’ve said no!”

“Of course,” Gio adds, equally in denial. 

You can only shake your head. 

You were not given a choice. 

Telling Alexia is hard, and not just because of the tears running through your words as you try to get them out over the phone. 

In Barcelona, her head hangs in disappointment. She is never going to be good enough for you, she tells herself. The world will soon slot you by the side of another celebrity, and you will be pictured together as many times as humanly possible. No one will know that she is the one you call when you need to talk to someone, or that it is her rose that is pressed between your favourite copy of Little Women, saved from Sant Jordi. No one will be any the wiser to the girlfriend you keep in Spain, nor assume that you are visiting the country for a reason other than tourism and partying with your favourite foreign men’s football team. 

It goes like this for months. 

It sours the second- place finish in the league even more; makes the Champions League semi-final exit soul-destroying; and completely ruins her joy about winning the Copa de la Reina (worsened by a picture of you and him released the morning of the final). 

She is still your girlfriend, but she is always one step behind you. She is in the shadows of the crowd when you sell out Wembley for the first time, and is just out of frame in the picture captured backstage of you and your lover embracing. His muscles do not feel the same as Alexia’s, but he becomes a friend, you guess. He isn’t fond of the arrangement either. 

Then, when Alexia feels as though she might explode from the jealousy she harbours, she is tested once more as you go radio silent for a day. It’s unbearable. You usually text her every hour. 

She misses hearing you greet her with ‘I took a smoke break’. She misses the taste of your lips, and the heat of your breath, and the swell of emotion you cause inside of her when you show her that you really care. 

It’s a hard day. The Euros have started, and Spain has won their first two group stage matches. Vilda is terrible as usual, but it is nothing in comparison to the cavity left in her chest where you have carved out your notifications. Alexia has never wished to be distracted from football before, but today is clearly Judgement Day. 

“Is this about your girlfriend?” Jenni pesters, mocking Alexia’s frown by exaggerating it on her own face. “She’s not pinging your phone every five minutes and now you’re inconsolable.” 

“I have many things to be upset about,” Alexia replies moodily, though Vilda’s earlier berating has had no effect on her mood because it simply cannot get worse. “Our coach is shit, and we don’t get treated like England or Holland does.”

“And your girlfriend hasn’t texted you.” 

“Yes, Jenni. She hasn’t texted me.” 

She sighs. 

Jenni is repulsed by the fire in Alexia’s belly seemingly having been put out. Her grimace is noticeable as she bends down to unlace her boots, glancing around the shoddy locker room, imagining what Alexia claims a few of the other teams have. 

“Maybe she’s busy. She is, like, famous. She could be out for lunch with Shakira!” 

“No, that was last month.” 

Jenni pauses for a moment, awestruck at her friend's seriousness, before collecting herself and trying another approach. “Why don’t we do some shooting practice while you wait for her to call? That way, Spain gets more goals, and you’re…” 

She doesn’t get to finish, cut off by the alarming brrrp of Alexia’s phone. Her friend saddens at the volume, pitying Alexia for how loud she has turned her ringer up just in case she had been missing your notification all along. 

Alexia swipes her phone up from the bench, and hurries into the toilets. 

Throughout the five months you have been dating, Alexia has become increasingly more aware of your intense reactions to emotional situations. You feel when you feel. She admires you for your work ethic, as you do her, because you fly from Barcelona to London and back again, all while writing songs, humming melodies, and holding together your high-profile life. Unfortunately, your determination and tendency to give everything and more has bled into every aspect of your life. And you are a wreck when she finally gets a word out of you. 

“Tranquila, cariño,” she tries as you suck in a pathetically shallow breath. She knows exactly how many kilometres away from her you are, and she wishes she could sprint the distance. “Tranquila. What has happened?” 

“I… I fired her.” 

“Who?” 

“My manager.” Alexia’s hand balls into a fist and she quietly celebrates. Well, until you sob again. “I mean, we all fired her. But now we have no manager and Dave is concerned about the structure of our group and the album sucks and it’s shit and HE tried to kiss me yesterday, even though he’s got a girlfriend too!” 

“Búa, más slower, por favor. I’m not inglesa!” 

Life, even if you are upset right now, starts to look up. You even get to spend a month with her, practising your Spanish (mejor-ing your nivel de español), meeting her family in a more appropriate context, and even watching the first match of the 2017-2018 season. Which Alexia is adamant they will win. 

…

She proposes in November; a year after you kissed. 

It’s not a hard decision to make. Not when you have built IKEA furniture together, and spent a week in Menorca with her, her mother, and her sister. Not when her English is littered with your vocabulary and references to Virgil and the like, and your family can all shout at you in Spanish because they’ve heard her do it so many times. Not when ‘I love you’ is the easiest sentence she’s ever said. Every minute of her life that she gives you is like exchanging part of her soul for pure, complete bliss. 

You’re fucking freezing, and befuddled at the fact that Alexia has requested to take a walk in the park near your flat. Your Spanish girlfriend, the same woman who finds summer too temperate in England, has somehow turned into a snow-lover, even if there is only damp grass and a biting wind. Alexia wishes England had white Christmases, but it’s a myth, she has discovered. 

The ring sits in her coat pocket. She chose it with Alba before she left the warmer climate of Barcelona, and her sister did not ask her whether she was rushing into things. It’s not too soon; if anything, she should’ve asked a year ago. 

“Fuck me, it’s cold,” you groan as you shiver. She takes your hand, her woollen gloves itchy against your bare skin, but it warms you up. “We could be inside, in bed. There’s a new series we could start, or, I don’t know, don’t you have some football game to watch?” 

“I hate watching football with you.” 

You part your lips to respond, but she is not lying and she has said it before. Some bullshit about you supporting all the wrong teams. 

“Well, I hate it when you drag me out into the freezing cold for no reason. If you want a dog to bring on walks, just say so. We can go to Battersea before you leave tomorrow.” 

“Don’t,” she murmurs, halting you both near the inky water of the lake you have been circling for the past five minutes. It sucks that her visits are temporary, even if you are technically moved into each other’s homes (she has your keys, you have hers). With the remaining time left before her flight tomorrow at noon, she has worked up the courage to do it now. 

It’s like scoring a goal: receive the pass; dribble; gear up for it; shoot. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Her free hand reaches into her pocket. “Nada.” 

“No, you’re acting weird…” You blink a few times as if to adjust better to the dim light coming from the distant lampposts. A plop sounds from the water, and she jumps. She’s on edge.

“No.” 

“Yes. Jesus, you haven’t decided to break up with me in the middle of a park at night, have you?” Your question packs an unnerved insecurity, and she feels a little guilty about the suspense. She fiddles with the ring in her pocket, and then she takes a deep breath. “Hey,” you try tenderly. “Seriously, Ale, what’s wrong?” 

“Te lo dije. Nothing.” 

“So what’s in your pocket?”

“Nothing.” 

“Are you sure?” 

She sighs, “here,” and she grabs your hand to press it into the soft warmth inside. And there’s a piece of metal, heated by her fingers. With a chunk of rock on top of it. It feels like an engagement ring. You’re probably not getting broken up with tonight. 

“Are you proposing?” 

“Are you saying yes?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hòstia.” She frowns, and you consider pushing her into the lake. “I am going to say it now.”

“But you already—”

A quick display of her athleticism, for the muscles exist despite being buried underneath all those layers, and she is down on one knee. Her joggers will have wet patches, and she hates the squelch of the mud beneath her, but she has a perfect view of your surprise. Your tears. 

“Bueno. Your brother helped me to… write the speech,” she starts, and her rehearsal is adorable. Although, honestly, you don’t hear what she has to say because you have already made up your mind. 

You tell her yes in as many languages as you can. 

And she thanks you with breathy moans into your mouth as you guide her towards a bench, and then your flat, and finally your bed. 

When you are finished, well into the early hours of the morning she will have to leave, you climb out of bed, missing the firm grip of her toned arms the minute you’re out of it. There is a burning, overwhelming sureness inside of you that you can’t escape. You know it is soon – probably too soon for most – but there is a person out there for everyone, and yours is right in your bed. 

Your guitar, slightly dusty from the neglect because of your frequent visits to Barcelona, rumbles when you pluck it from its stand, collapsing into the armchair beside your bed with a groan, feeling the ache of your muscles that only affirm just how good a time you’ve had with your fiancée. 

You don’t play anything interesting, but the noise is enough to rouse Alexia from her heavy slumber. She lifts her head from where it has been buried within the silk pillows of your bed, and watches as your fingers pluck the nylon strings with vague allusion to one of your older songs. The weight of her ring – your engagement ring – does not seem to affect your playing: in fact, Alexia realises your hand was naked without it. You hum, fingers beginning to itch for a cigarette the minute the guitar starts to bore you, and she clears her throat. 

Her grin is self-satisfied and certain. “Me voy a casar contigo,” she says into the dark stillness of your bedroom.

“I love you,” you reply.

…

Being engaged is fun. 

Like, really fun. 

You stay in Barcelona in December, hiding from the bitter chill of England. No one questions it, and the absence of a manager grants you so much freedom. The girls pop to the city one weekend to brainstorm a song, but, other than that, you are content to forget your own identity and become Alexia’s fiancée, one of the regulars at the increasingly more popular Barça Femení games (only the team know you’re there, able to see through the caps and sunglasses). 

There are still rumours circulating about you and him, though their credibility has lessened ever since he revealed himself to have been in LA for a while. To the world, you’re sort of MIA. They catch you occasionally when you return to London for photoshoots or just to chat with your friends and family, but they get nothing more. Your Instagram posts are few and far between, and the most recent paparazzi picture is of you leaving Gio’s house to buy her a pregnancy test. 

When the test is positive, something is tweaked inside of you, and you return to Barcelona – a place that is now your home too – carrying a lead-ish guilt. 

Alexia loves her football, and Alexia is obsessed with her career. You are too, but you have done what you can, really. The BRIT nominees will be announced tomorrow, and you know that you and the girls are on that list. You have your fame, you have your money. But Alexia has neither, and she should. Especially when her male counterparts are raised high and mighty on large, golden platforms. 

You know just how ambitious she is, and that is why you lack surprise when you enter her flat to find her hunched over her iPad at the dining table, replaying the same twenty-second clip over and over until she has identified every single fault and created a plan to correct them. 

She barely registers your presence, but you don’t mind how absorbed she is in her footage. It is nice to make the ever-composed Alexia jump when you slink up behind her, pressing your lips against her neck. She dissolves herself in the fuzzy feeling you give her.

“Hola,” she says, regaining control when she spots another mistake, grasping her pen tightly as she scribbles down Spanish words you can’t be bothered to read. 

“Hola,” you reciprocate, though you are a lot more enthusiastic about it. “Tengo una pregunta.” 

“Oh no.” You wrap your arms around her shoulders, and she relaxes. Your ring reflects the light from her screen as if to remind her that you are hers, and that softens her previous sternness slightly. Another kiss to the skin behind her ear, and she is more open to talk. 

Clicking your tongue, you think of where to start. “Okay, first, I have news.”

“About Gio? Is she okay?” 

“She’s… pregnant.” The emergency you were recalled to London for was actually a pleasant surprise for her and her boyfriend. You’re unsure about how committed they are to each other, and whether a baby is a great idea, but you held your tongue when Anya shook her head at you. 

“Uf. Pobrecita, ¿no? She loves tequila.” 

“She does love tequila,” you agree with a chuckle. You extend your hand slightly and press pause on the footage. Alexia pushes back against you. Her chair scrapes against the wooden floorboards, but there is a gap between her and the table now. She motions for you to sit in her lap. 

She tilts your chin up and kisses you gently: a welcome home kiss. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor?”

“What would you do if I told you that I was pregnant tomorrow?” 

“I would ask you if you have been cheating on me with a man,” she replies instantly. You laugh, head falling forwards, resting on her shoulder. She runs her hands up your sides, fingers firm, thighs tensing underneath you. 

“But hypothetically. If it were possible,” you continue, a smirk working its way onto your lips, guilt forgotten. You may have spent your plane journey scrolling through pictures of Alexia with the various babies in your life. It was a self-indulgent act, and it has very much led you to now. 

Her eyebrows furrow with the adorable crinkle in between them, and she is seriously trying to work out if she is missing something. You go to London, you come back, you want a baby? 

But she loves you. And she is very intrigued. 

“Is it mine?” 

“Yes, it’s yours.” 

She watches the smirk on your face blossom into a smile, and she feels a matching one tug her lips upwards. “Is it going to support España or England?” The latter is pronounced in your accent, and you make a mental note to ask Jenni if she has been doing impressions of you to her teammates. 

“It can choose when it’s older,” you say, waving off her stupid football question. Since dating her, your interest in football has decreased. She has sort of put you off. You only really watch it to watch her now, or when United are playing an interesting game and your father is antsy enough to text you every minute. 

“No, it can’t.” You blink. She pulls you into her. “It chooses now. Spain or England, and Manchester United or Barcelona. There are right answers.” 

“Manches–”

“Wrong! I think I will have to make sure the baby is not brainwashed.” 

You panic for a moment. “Wait, you do know I’m not really pregnant, right?!” 

Alexia is not the most ready for children, but she is always prepared to give you everything you want. “If you want a baby, mi amor, let’s make a baby. Sin chicos.” You giggle coyly as she hoists you up – the display of strength exuding an unbearably sexy cockiness. “And after,” she says in between kisses as she stands, “we can look on the Internet for options.” 

“¡Vamos!”

…

The Barcelona women’s team congas its way back into the Home team changing room of the Joan Gamper, following a 7-0 win. Alexia kicked off the goal-laden game in the sixth minute, and she is on cloud nine. Victory is the sweetest taste in her mouth, and one where she knows you are watching is even better. 

Mapi flicks her shoulder as they dance to the music bursting from someone or other’s speaker. “You’re so happy,” she says, her grin wide and eyes shining. They dance topless, most of them, but Alexia has subtly been rushing to get dressed and find you. Barcelona is a beautiful city, and she has promised that you can take her to dinner somewhere now that your morning sickness has subsided and only started to affect you when it is supposed to. 

“We just won,” she explains over the shouts of joy from her teammates. 

María León joined from Atleti this season, but she has known Alexia longer than that, and she can tell when there is something more to football in her emotions. Though it is a well-kept secret, Alexia has two obsessions, and you are one of them. 

“Yo sé. But you have been very happy recently, in general. Except, you don’t come out for team nights or hang back to practise more after training, so it is definitely to do with Y/n.” Alexia’s absence in her teammates’ lives is actually unusual, seeing as you are very encouraging and a firm believer in the ‘work hard, play hard’ mentality. Your urging is what sends Alexia to bars and clubs with the girls, though she has neglected all of these outings ever since you showed her your positive pregnancy test (best belated birthday present ever). “So… what’s going on?” 

“You’re so nosy.” 

“I’m interested. I love her, and I want to know how she has made it so that you haven’t had a bad day for the last three months, even when we lost to Bilbao. Is it sex? Does she suffer through–”

“No!” Alexia interjects, cheeks reddening. Mapi smirks at the twenty-four-year-old, proud to have embarrassed her. She still claims that she is not a prude. Her phone buzzes on the bench – you’re asking how long she is going to take.

Mapi swipes Alexia’s clean clothes from her grip, holding them behind her back as she giggles at her friend’s exasperation. “Tell me, or go outside like that.” 

“Good thing it’s May,” Alexia shrugs, grabbing her phone and bag, knowing you won’t at all mind spending time with her in just her sports bra. She is pulled back by Mapi, who has hooked her finger into the waistband of Alexia’s shorts and yanked hard enough for them to have stretched. 

“Ale, tell me.” 

“No. You’re a gossip.” 

“I’m not a gossip.” 

“You so are.” 

“Am not.” 

“So it wasn’t you who told Leila about Patri’s crush when I made it clear that we weren’t even supposed to know?” Mapi shifts uncomfortably, letting go of the shorts. “And it definitely wasn’t you who let everyone find out about my engagement because you don’t know what an inside voice is?” 

“Hey, you never specified that you were going to be sneaky about it!” she defends, as she has done ever since the entire canteen went silent in shock and then, two seconds later, broke out into a clamour of pleas to be bridesmaids and to get Bad Bunny invited to the wedding. 

“It was implied,” Alexia shoots back with a glare. 

“Fine. Be annoying. I’ll just ask Y/n.” 

“She doesn’t want to talk to you. She’s got better things to do.” 

“Ouch,” Leila says, patting Mapi on the back as she shoves her way into the conversation. The two are partners in crime, and Alexia hates that she is now outnumbered. “But tell us. Please, Ale.” 

“We’ll even not nutmeg you for a week.” They love to try. It’s their highest priority mission.

“A month,” Alexia negotiates. 

“Yes! Just tell us.” 

“Y/n is pregnant.” Three months down the line is not necessarily when she wants to announce her personal business to the entirety of Spain, but you both know that it’s safe to tell people now.

Mapi laughs. “Ay, Alexia, you don’t have to lie to us.”

She looks at her friends blankly, having not expected this reaction. When she told her mother, the woman at least had it in her to take it seriously (albeit with quite the cautious ‘are you sure?’). “I’m not lying,” she then says, more to Leila than the giggling Mapi in front of her.

“You’re not…?” Leila tries, grappling with it. Two pairs of eyes drift down to Alexia’s crotch, squinting at the material as though some previously concealed appendage is going to jump out at them.  

Alexia clears her throat. 

“I’m sorry. How?!” 

“The normal way most lesbians–”

“She’s, like, actually pregnant? Like, de verdad, she is pregnant?” 

“Or she’s smuggling a lime under her shirt.” Her nod is small and she has the glimmer of a smile on her face despite Leila and Mapi’s gobsmacked expressions. Her phone buzzes: it’s you again. “And, if you two don’t mind, I don’t want to leave her waiting for me outside.” 

“Because she’s…” 

“Exactly.” 

When she finally escapes the changing room, she climbs into her car. With heartbreak from both you and your dad, you have sold your i8 in favour of getting Alexia a Land Rover. Most of your money is in savings. You earn loads, but it is hard to find things you want to spend it on, and a lot of it goes towards private jets to get you to and from Alexia. 

You are sitting in the passenger seat. “Jugaste bien,” you say as her hand moves up from its instinctive resting place on your thigh, settling on the growing swell of your stomach. “I’m so hungry. I could eat a horse.” 

“A horse?” 

“Or a house. Or, I don’t know, an entire cavalry. Feed me.” Her alarm — a mistranslation — causes her to almost run over the steward directing her out of the car park. “Tengo mucha hambre, Ale.” She nods with a roll of her eyes. She’s been warned about pregnant women. 

…

In the bustling excitement of Estadi Johan Cruyff, which has slowly filled with more and more fans in the time you have known the plastic seats and improving pitch, you find yourself in the midst of an unexpected turn of events. With your due date approaching and Alexia’s insistence that you are surely made of glass, you have been forced to part from your sisters (Gio and Anya) and live in Barcelona. She wants the baby to be born here. You’ve negotiated that the next one will be had in London. 

Alexia’s mother notices the deep breath you take in, well-acquainted with the horror on your face having worn that same expression twice before. ¿Estás bien?” she asks you, the steadiness of her voice comforting to the flurry inside your head. 

The whistle blows and the game kicks off. This can’t be happening now. 

It’s too early. There’s a… What are they called? Braxton-hicks? 

“Sí,” you affirm with a curt nod. The not-contraction doesn’t hurt that much, you tell yourself. You settle in the seat and focus on the match in front of you, using the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers (it can now be called a crowd!) to keep you grounded. With a reassuring smile, Eli offers you her hand. You take it and try not to crush her metacarpals. 

It’s definitely possible that you are in actual labour, considering the increasing intensity of your contractions, but you are not about to leave the match. Alexia would notice your absence. This game is important for her team – it’s the last before the Christmas break. 

At halftime, Eli quietly reassesses you, tricking you into seeing the team’s medic when guiding you to the ‘toilet’. Already briefed on the situation, the medic asks you a few questions in accented English, much like that of your newly trilingual fiancée. “Don’t tell her,” you beg quietly through a huffed sigh, gladly taking the seat offered to you. “I’ll wait until it’s finished.” 

“There is another hour left.” 

Your ears burn and another contraction shoots through you. You shake your head, fending off the pain while you do so. “He can’t be a Barcelona fan,” you insist. Eli grins at the knowledge that her first grandchild will be a boy, but you do not see it, too focused on convincing the medic to keep the child’s other mother in the dark about what is currently happening in the Barcelona medical room. “I’ll wait.” 

Eli hands you your phone per your request. You call Gio, whose daughter is only two months old. “Don’t tell me,” she starts when you fail to greet her. The sound of her voice, her accent, her tone is relieving, though you are incredibly grateful for the woman who continues to hold your hand as though you are her own daughter. “Nah, nah. Where are you? I’m gonna jump on a flight, alright? I’ll call Anya and we’ll be there soon.” 

“Don’t… rush,” you groan. 

“Babe, we are going to rush. Where are you?!” 

“A match!” You try to remember the breathing exercises you learnt for this exact moment. “Her match. Second half’s only just started. She… She doesn’t know.” 

Gio’s loud, boisterous laugh rings out, and you can tell that she is not at home. No one with a newborn baby can afford to make noise at that volume. “Fucking hell. Ever heard of sense?” You don’t respond, embarrassed that you are in too much pain to think of a comeback. “I’ve left Mia at my mum’s, so don’t you worry. Want me to bring anything from home? Cadbury’s, maybe?” 

“One of those massive bars?” 

“Yep, done deal.” She pauses. “Hey, babe, I’m gonna ring Anya now, alright? Call your mum – or your dad, if you two haven’t yet made up. I’ll see you soon. Tell Alexia her baby’s on the way!” 

Your protests are cut off by the final beep of her hanging up, and your head drops back as another contraction, your body squeezed as though some giant rubber band has just snapped back into place. Eli stands up, worried now. 

Before you can tell her that you are alright, a gush of water hits the sterile floor with an unnerving splatter. The prospect of having to care for another life suddenly becomes very real. “Tenemos que ir al hospital.” 

“No.” 

“Soy la abuela. Yo sé que hacer.” Even the medic, who has nervously stayed by your side, much more experienced with ACLs than broken waters (and stubborn pregnant women), looks intimidated by the firmness of Eli’s words. “Por favor”: she softens her blow. 

You glance around the room, slowly descending into agony and helpless against the wrath of rationality from your fiancée’s mother. “How long’s left of the match? ¿Cuántos minutos quedan?” 

The medic holds up all ten fingers. You grapple with your body, begging the baby to sit tight for a moment. “Let her finish. We can go when the whistle blows.”

Your contractions get closer together. 

Eli’s frustration leads her to ask God for the baby to not have inherited your stubbornness. She also loves you more for it; admiring your insistence to keep Alexia from missing everything. 

You don’t call your own mother. You simply type out a shaky text to the family group chat; blunt and to the point. ‘Baby. Now.’

Half of your universe storms the web, booking flights to Barcelona. Anya and Gio are almost at the airport already — a few steps ahead of your panicking parents and your brother, who has been enjoying dinner at the Savoy with his clients. Those who serve as your planets, revolving around you like you are the sun, do you a favour, letting Dave know that you probably won’t make it to the Skype call scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dave, in turn, now expanding into management, informs your newly-hired publicist (good riddance to the old one). The world has expected a pregnancy announcement ever since you failed to appear at your most recent awards show, despite winning in your category. 

It's almost an eternity later that Alexia, football boots clacking against the floor, flings open the door of the medical room. Eli calls out, warning her daughter about slipping on the sizable puddle that has spread out beneath you. 

Your fiancée is valiant in her attempt to mask her sheer panic. 

“Have you called an ambulance?” she asks her mother, stepping over your amniotic fluid and placing her hand on your shoulder. You squint, trying to open your eyes though this contraction has been the most excruciating so far. 

“We were waiting for you. She was adamant that you finished your match.” 

“No football match is more important than her!” If you understood Catalan (and weren’t in labour), you’d have teased her for being a sap. “Call an ambulance, Jesus Christ. Look at her — she needs a doctor.” Her composure revisits her fleetingly, and she turns to the medic. “Thank you for looking after her.” There is no answer because it is drowned out by her barking more orders her mother’s way. 

“No ambulance,” you declare before your mouth opens in a silent sob. “Drive me. Not an ambulance.” 

The last glimpse the Estadi Johan Cruyff gets of Alexia Putellas in 2018 is her carrying you to her mother’s car, your face buried in her team-issued jacket in case anyone is waiting outside to take pictures of the players. 

Eli drives; something she doesn’t like doing often but feels is necessary with the nervous bounce of her daughter’s legs in the backseat enough to convince her that they’d speed like the Flash if anyone else ended up behind the wheel. She knows Barcelona, can navigate it with her eyes closed, and you are at the hospital before you can begin to tell Alexia how much you think you can’t do this. 

“I really fucking can’t do this!” you cry out, situated in the delivery room. Sweat rolls down the side of your face, already dampening your hair. Alexia thinks you look beautiful, and she has been made proud of the last two hours. You’ve also helped her a lot with English swearwords. 

“You can.” 

“I can’t.” You’re told to push again. “Alexia, you are having the… next… fucking… beach ball.” Each word is punctuated by a guttural moan. 

Waves of intense pain contort your face in agony, and the midwife continues to talk you through your task as though instructing you how to park a car. “Estás haciendo muy bien, mi amor,” she tells you, ignoring the possibility that you may have rendered her left hand boneless. 

“There’s a baby coming out of my vagina,” you shout, “don’t even try to test my Spanish, you twat.” 

The midwife shoots your fiancée a pitiful look. “She’ll take it back,” she says in Catalan. 

“She’s getting quite inventive.” 

“There’s been worse.”

You can imagine the conversation taking place in the middle of you delivering her literal child. “No, I won’t! It’s breaking me in half.” You grip her hand harder. “Never. Again.” 

But, with a final, visceral (and heavily encouraged) push, the room is filled with the sound of life. Nico comes into the world screaming at the top of his lungs. All Alexia can think to say is, “definitely yours.” 

…

Life is a lot more tiring trying to juggle being a mother and a pop star. 

The press have a field day when you announce the birth of your son with a simple Instagram post, your engagement ring second only to the swaddled lump on your chest. The caption (‘ours’) sparks debate on who exactly is the other parent. Well, father. Alexia’s teammates, while waiting to finally be allowed to meet your bundle, spend a good two months teasing her mercilessly about it. Most notably, Alexia almost loses La Reina to Papi. 

2019 comes with change — a lot of it. 

You hire a new manager so that Dave can focus fully on the last album 2sday will produce. The group has been together for six years, and you have made your millions.You seek neither money nor fame, but it comes knocking on the door of your quaint apartment in Barcelona anyway, along with a record deal only for you. A solo act.

Between Nico crying, Alexia playing football, and you trying to write songs that don’t end up criminally depressing, the contract on your dining table slowly becomes forgotten about. Alexia is too stressed about the impending World Cup to grant you a moment to breathe. You spend your days in Barcelona with a baby attached to your hip, the question of his parenthood still a mystery to the public, and, ever so slowly, you begin to resent your life. 

It could be postpartum depression, but you have no time to really investigate the symptoms. 

Alexia, two weeks before she needs to leave for her national camp and then the World Cup in France, comes home to an eerily silent apartment. 

She calls out your name, wondering if you have perhaps gone to her mother’s house. The terrible sinking feeling comes with your reply. “Can we talk?” you ask. 

She finds you perched on the Egyptian cotton sheets that cover your double bed. The sheets are out of place here, greatly exceeding the original budget of the decor, and, where Alexia sees this as you adding to her life, you feel you are somewhere you don’t belong. It is fine when she is next to you, holding your hand, claiming the other half of the now six-month-old baby boy gurgling in his carseat. When she isn’t there, though, the vacant space taunts you. 

“I have no friends here,” you tell her quietly. The gravity of the mood settling over you pulls her onto the mattress, not caring if the sheen of sweat she wears as her outermost layer of clothing dirties the expensive creamy white beneath her. “I have no friends, I don’t speak the language, and I think that I have played at being a normal person for long enough. I mean, it’s great to watch you and to be there for you, but, darling, that’s not who I am. This,” you gesture to the loungewear you have on, stained with dribble, “is not who I am.” 

Alexia hears what you are saying. She understands; she remembers the nights where you’d call her, a cigarette rasping your voice, sparkles shining in the valley between your breasts. She has seen this coming. It would be impossible not to notice the dimming of such a strong love between you: still present, yet slowly fading away. 

“They want me to sign a new deal. Alone.” The suitcases lined up in the corner of the bedroom become glaringly obvious. Nico is in his carseat for a reason. “I think it would be good for me to go back to London. I need to feel like myself again, and my parents are willing to watch him. I sold my flat – I’ve bought a house in Highgate.” Tears sting your eyes as you speak, and you know where Alexia’s shoulder is without having to look, resting your head against it. “I love you. I love you so much, but I just can’t do this anymore.” 

It’s as if the ground crumbles away beneath her. Your words hang above Alexia’s neck like an axe, waiting to execute her, waiting to end everything. She can’t look at Nico, whose face crumples at his mother’s clear heartbreak. 

The world, once vibrant, lays in ruins. Her funny story from training dies on her tongue, and her question of whether you wanted to visit her mother before she left for camp disintegrates, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. 

“Do you still want to marry me?” she asks, and you hate the way her voice cracks with uncertainty. “Are you moving permanently?” 

“I haven’t called anything off. It’s still going ahead as planned.” She senses the but. “But I… I can’t think here. I can’t be here. I want – I need – to go home.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

She is going to be at the World Cup anyway. You and her will always find your way back to each other. She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

She is going to be busy. 

“Yeah. It’s okay. Take all the time you need.” 

She is going to fall apart without you. 

[slytherinn-xo]

Swim Tryouts at 7:30- Danielle Van De Donk

Danielle Van De Donk X USWNT Player! Lyon Player! Reader

Synopsis: When Daan has football at 7:00 and swimming practice at 7:30, while at the world cup.

851 words

Being a US player that plays outside of the US is rare, like extremely rare, but being the only one to have never played in the NWSL, now that's rare. 

I was born in the USA, raised in Memphis Tennessee, but when I was 14, I moved away to Germany as that's my father's home country. When I spent the next three years before I started off my career in the German Women's top League.

I've played for four leagues, now, starting off my career in the German League with Bayern Munich in 2017 for just one season. Getting to play with the greats over there, learning so much from Frido, Sara Dabritz, Jill Roord, Leupolz, and Leah Galton.

Before I signed with Arsenal in 2018, for the next three seasons, until 2021. Where we won the WSL title once, in my first season.

Which was where I met Daan, I fell in love to say the least. But she was already in love, with Beth Mead, so I watched on from the side lines, like I was waiting to be subbed on now.

But she was my best friend, it was her, me, Viv and Jill when she finally came and joined us. The Dutchies and the American.

But they were my family.  

And then I moved to play for Barcelona for just one season after they won the Champions League in 2021 til 2022. Before I moved, and I got the chance to be with the girl I was in love with. 

Daan. 

So I joined in 2022, which was where we reconnected, and to say we both fell in love was the truth. We've been dating now for 10 months, and we do hide it, but we don't at the same time. 

We're private people but not a secret.

So facing here now in the group stages of the Women's World Cup, it was hard. 

But with less than 3 minutes to go of extra time was on the clock, and I turned back after the whistle was blown. 

I just saw an orange shirt on the floor. "Who is it?" I asked Lindsay, my Lyon teammate, as I couldn't read from that far away. Well that and I'm dyslexic and can barely read myself.  

"Daan." She muttered before I ran over to my girlfriend. I couldn't hide all of this, I was scared, my girlfriend is on the floor not bloody well moving. 

"Schatje." I told Daan standing by her as she was led on the floor not moving, crouching by her as I had my hand on her shoulder. 

"Poepie." Daan muttered back to me. 

"Not that name." I told her with a smile, that was one good sign she could still understand me and knew who we were around her. 

When the Dutch medics made their way over to Daan you saw the first showings of blood slowly coming out of her hair, but you had no idea how much there would be under there. 

I wasn't given a choice but to move away from her as the Dutch staff moved me out of their way, pushing me back away from my girlfriend. 

"No, stay!" Daan told me as she locked eyes with me, trying to reach her hands out to grasp onto me. 

"I'm right here." I told her as I kept eyes with her. 

I watched as they placed some gauze over her wound, before just placing a swimming cap over it. 

I laughed at her. 

"Not a word!" Daan told me, pointing that finger at me, wagging it at my face. 

"You look like you've got swimming practice in half an hour." I told her with a smile. 

"Oh shut up." Daan told me as she stood up. 

"Make me!" I told her walking away from her backwards as she was escorted of the pitch before she could return to play. 

~~

"Are you two doing okay, it looked rough on the pitch?" The interviewer switched to English seeing me walk up to Daan, and I stood a bit behind my small gal. 

"The best players are always the most competitive." I told the interviewer as I interrupted Daan's interview. 

"Best friends?" The interviewer asked us both, as my arm was around Daan's shoulders but Daan's was holding onto my waist. 

"The best." Daan answered like clockwork for us, squeezing my waist twice, doing our code, for when we wish we could say our feelings. 

"Go get that checked out properly." I told Daan raising one eyebrow up at her, as she nodded, looking deep into my eyes. 

"I will, ik houd van je." Daan told me, trying to politely kick me out of the interview. 

"Ik houd van je." I told her back quickly kissing her before walking off to Lindsay who was gasping at my actions, before I froze. 

"You didn't mean to do that?" Daan asked me. 

"No I didn't!" I said shaking my head, before running back to kiss Daan one last time before running away back to Lindsay as we were both bright red in the face now. 

[celaenaeiln]

whatre ur thoughts on superbat !!!

I like them! I don't actively ship Bruce with anyone but I so passively ship him with people and Clark pushes the passivity.

I don't like Batcat or Brutalia but I can go with superbat

Sometimes it feels like Superbat is the ship DC secretly wants us to ship them together.

I swear it feels like Bruce and Clark are having a parental argument and we just asked a question to which Bruce and Clark are like "what?" and the rest of the Justice League is glaring at us as if to say shut up don't you dare interfere.

Also the way Clark holds Bruce and talks to him

Dark Nights: Metal Issue #2

...is this supposed to be brotherly?

In the Superman: Up in the sky comic where Supes has to go find that kid, the other heroes are fighting an alien invasion they lose against. But the heroes he displays are only heroes that Superman loves the most or is closet to. There's 5 and guess who's the main panel:

Superman: Up in the Sky Issue #6

The other four are:

Superman: Up in the Sky Issue #6

Also the world's finest comics are all Dick, Clark, and Bruce going on adventures together. Dick is like the love child between Clark and Bruce. He has all of Bruce's intelligence, tactical abilities, and fighting skills, and he has all of Clark's charisma, warm-heartenedness, and good standing. He literally the mix of the two of them.

They're already a family. I think there are way bigger reasons to ship superbat than there are for batcat or brutalia. I still love Clois though but if you wanted a canon reason for why they should exist, well, DC is offering them up on a silver platter. Besides they have like three entire comics titled Superman/Batman.

The super-sons comic!

If Dick is their blood son then Jon and Dami are shared custody.

Super-sons (2017) Issue #5

They're kinda more like brothers here but still. Even if you don't ship them together, you still have to admit they care deeply about the other. Their banter's funny.

Also can't forget this

Superman/Batman Annual #1

DC literally went "...and there was only one bed."

[lowerach]

xenon. skt t1 & faker making worlds history.

We'll remain the world's best team until the end of League of Legends. - Bang, 2017 Worlds Championship Semifinals Teaser

T1 is the past, the present, and the future. - Faker, 2024 Worlds Championship Semifinals Teaser

a list, in no particular order, of some records that they hold:

Most Wins (Individual)

Most Wins (Organization)

Back-to-Back Worlds Wins (2x Same Org, 1x Same Roster)

Oldest Worlds Winner

Youngest Worlds Midlane Winner

Most Worlds Appearances (Player)

First to 500 Kills (Most Kills)

First to 100 Wins (Most Wins)

the lolelements series / @enarratives

[hunterrrs]

Evgeni Malkin said he's always felt slightly overlooked.

One of the premier centers of his generation, the 37-year-old has played his NHL career as the second center on the Pittsburgh Penguins behind longtime teammate Sidney Crosby. He was the No. 2 pick in the 2004 NHL Draft. Alex Ovechkin, possibly the only Russia-born player more statistically accomplished, went No. 1 to the Washington Capitals.

Malkin doesn't mind. Actually, it's just the way he likes it.

"I'm not the kind of guy that wants media around me. I like to be quiet a little bit," Malkin said. "I want to just play the game. Probably, people want, like, my private life a little bit more. But I'm, like, a little bit closed.

"Maybe my English is not good before, not talk too much with media. Again, this is kind of myself. I'm OK with that because I know I'm a good player."

Numbers do talk, though. In his 18th season, Malkin is third in Penguins history with 1,261 points, 485 goals and 776 assists, trailing Mario Lemieux (1,723 points; 690 goals, 1,033 assists) and Crosby (1,540 points; 571 goals, 969 assists).

Ovechkin reached out after Malkin eclipsed Fedorov.

"He's a star in the League," Ovechkin said. "I think he's a tremendous player. He knows how to win. He knows how to play. It's not a surprise he has so many points, so many goals and assists."

"People are talking about Ovi a lot. They talk about (Connor) McDavid. They talk about (Nathan) MacKinnon," Letang said. "You don't hear Geno's name a lot. What he's been able to do in this league for that long and at this age still, being the goal scorer that he is, it's just special.

"I think it's always been (that way), except maybe the year he won the Hart and everything. I think it's always been a little bit like that. He's not seen to his true color."

Without Malkin, Crosby said his NHL career would have been more difficult. That pair, along with Letang, has won the Stanley Cup three times (2009, 2016, 2017). They qualified for the Stanley Cup Playoffs in 16 consecutive seasons together before missing them last season.

"There are nights where you don't feel great or have your best," Crosby said. "You're watching Geno do his thing out there. That's happened a lot. I think we've pushed each other over the years, but he's a guy that has always stepped up when he needs to. I think that's just the competitive nature in him.

"I think the consistency is the biggest thing. You don't have that kind of consistency without being as competitive as he is. He's been amazing for a lot of years. The stats show it."

"I think the biggest thing for me that I admire about Geno is how competitive he is," Penguins coach Mike Sullivan said. "Just his competitive spirit is off the charts. His will to win, his want to win, and his will and want to score and produce offense. I don't think anyone likes scoring goals more than 'G.' You can see it in his raw emotion when he scores.

"Sometimes, I don't think Geno gets the credit that he deserves in the hockey world for the body of work that he's put together in this league and how talented he is. He's without a doubt one of the greatest players of all-time."

love a good geno lovefest

[mydaddywiki]

Joe West

Physique: Husky Build Height: 6′1″

Joseph Henry West (born October 31, 1952), nicknamed "Cowboy Joe" or "Country Joe", is an American former baseball umpire. He worked in Major League Baseball (MLB) from 1976 to 2021, umpiring an MLB-record 43 seasons and 5,460 games. He served as crew chief for the 2005 World Series and officiated in the 2009 World Baseball Classic. On May 25, 2021, West broke Bill Klem's all-time record by umpiring his 5,376th game.

He’s the most polarizing man on the Hall of Fame ballot. Fans have been screaming at him for 44 years, managers and players cursing him, and he has a personality bigger than virtually every player who steps onto the field. All I have to say about this this guy is… DAT ASS.

Born in Asheville, North Carolina, he grew up in Greenville and played football at East Carolina University (ECU) and Elon College. West entered the National League (NL) as an umpire in 1976; he joined the NL staff full-time in 1978.

West has been married twice. After the death of his first wife, West remarried.

Career Highlights and Awards Special Assignments All-Star Game (1987, 2005, 2017) Wild Card Game (2013, 2014, 2020, 2021) Division Series (1995, 2002, 2005, 2008, 2009, 2011, 2012, 2016) League Championship Series (1981, 1986, 1988, 1993, 1996, 2003, 2004, 2013, 2014, 2018) World Series (1992, 1997, 2005, 2009, 2012, 2016) World Baseball Classic (2009) MLB record 43 seasons umpired MLB record 5,460 games umpired

[doudouneverte]

Secret Wife?

a/n: let's start this world cup with a little thing...

*not my GIF*

Pairing: Fridolina Rolfo x NORWNT!Reader: NORWNT + SWEWNT x Reader

Summary: You have a secret realtionship with a certain Swedish player and you come out public after her final against Wolfsburg

Type: Fluff

Warning: nothing

word count: 2154

-----------

Opposites attract each other; that is what a lot of people say. In your case, it was totally true. You married a woman who was your opposite in every aspect, even the professional one, Fridolina Rolfö. You both play football, but since you first met at a professional level, you have never played together.

You faced her for the first time in your first season in the Swedish league; she played for Linköping and you for Rosengråd. It was surprising how quickly you became friends after your first match and more a few months later. Except for some teammates, nobody knew about you two; they just assumed you were good friends because you didn't show too much in public, but that didn't mean you weren't there for her. To be honest, you were her number-one fan. Always here when she played, not so far from Malmö, and always cheered for her.

Then 2017 came, and you both received an offer to play for a different championship, the Frauen Bundesliga. It was a great opportunity, but you were a little sad when you learned that Fridolina wouldn't play with you again because she chose Bayern München, where you chose to play for Frankfurt. Even if you were always enemies on the pitch, when you were off, nothing could be better than when you asked her to be your wife one season after she moved to Wolfsburg.

After three years in Germany, you left the country to join one of your favorite clubs when you were younger, Real Madrid. Your first season, even if it had been interrupted, was very great, and you were ready for the next part of history until your wife joined your rivals, FC Barcelona.

Two wives playing for two rival clubs but also playing for two different countries, and that leads us to this day. A friendly game opposing Sweden and Norway—honestly,  you loved this type of match; you always found her very attractive when you played against her, but it was on another level when she wore her national colors.

You were in the locked room, preparing yourself for the match in a few minutes, when your phone buzzed next to you. It was a text from Frido. A few moments later, you were so focused on your conversation with your blonde girl that you didn't notice that everyone was waiting for you for a captain's speech. Maren Mjelde cleared her throat, but you just giggled, visibly whatever the Swedish said was more interesting than this.

"You giggle like a schoolgirl," Ada Hegerberg commented, and you finally looked at your teammates.

"Oh, shut up, Hegerberg," you replied, rolling your eyes. "So, are you finally ready?" you dared to ask.

"Are we....?" Guro Reiten repeated a little offended "I swear I'll..." She didn't have time to finish before she got interrupted by Maren.

"We were actually waiting for you." the defender said, and you looked at everyone.

"Oh sorry. So let's go," you said, standing up and extending your arm, waiting for them to form a circle to start your usual speech.

In the other locker room, the Swedish team was impatient to play—a certain player more than others. "You looked excited." Magda commented, and Frido looked at her, confused.

"Yes, I mean, aren’t you?" Your wife asked.

"Yes, of course I am; I like to play against Guro even if I prefer to play with her." the captain replied.

"I totally understand you; it’s really cool to play with Ingrid, but I don't like to play against her, even if it’s fun," the forward said.

"Oh, I’m a little disappointed. I thought you were talking to Y/n." Kosovare commented.

"What do you mean?"

"We saw you glued to your phone when Magda was doing her usual captain's speech. Great speech, by the way." Zećira said this time getting a little ‘thank you’ from her Chelsea teammate.

"I think it’s Y/n!" Kosse said across the changing room, gaining the attention of everyone. "What? It’s true," she added when she felt every gaze on her. 

"Yes it’s true, but—" The forward tried to defend herself but was cut off by Sofia Jakobsson.

"Why don’t you ever think about playing together? We wouldn’t have to support you missing each other."

"You’ve got a point." Zećira said.

"It’s not that easy. It’s not like she can play with us suddenly." Your wife said.

"Yes but you can always play for the same club. And I don’t want to force you to do anything, but I heard that a Londonian club wouldn’t mind having a new power couple in her team." The goalkeeper commented.

"I need to stop you right now; if they need to play for the same team in London, they will definitely play for Arsenal." Stina protested.

"And why?" Magda asked, raising her eyebrow.

 "Because we all know that Y/n considers Frida like her little sister, and according to that, she’d choose Arsenal." Unfortunately, the conversation couldn’t go further because it was already time to enter the pitch.

The match went pretty well; well, it ended in a draw, but 3-3 is a pretty draw. After the game, you thanked the supporters and made your way to the Sweden team. Even if your relationship wasn’t public, it was not uncommon for the fans to catch you being touchy with the Swedish player; honestly, they loved it. That's one of the reasons they loved when you faced her, of course there was also the sportive part, but they couldn't help themselves every time you interacted together, and it didn’t take a lot of time before some edits shipping you two appeared online.

After a little session of sweaty hugs with Ingrid, much to her dismay, you finally made your way to the third Barcelona player in this match. Some cameras were still recording, and they didn't miss the goofy smile the tall forward gave you—definitely good content for the fans later. "Hey pretty girl," you said, and the captain of Chelsea next to you two rolled her eyes.

"Good game, girls. You played very well." Ingrid said, giving her club teammate a little side hug.

"You too, even if I'm better." Fridolina replied, and you playfully hit her arm. "What? It's true."

"Your only goal was when I didn't defend on you." You reminded her.

"Yeah, I know, but it's still a goal," she said while she opened her arms, and you fulfilled the gap. "You played very well." she whispered before landing a quick kiss on your head.

"Even when you try to be sneaky, you are still so obvious." Frida said.

"Are you jealous?" You joked, "You can come here." You opened your arms, and even if the midfielder tried to resist, she knew she could never deny your hugs. You looked like a little family, and you obviously knew that the fans would edit it, but you were too comfy between your wife and your claimed little sister.

When you broke the hug, you made your way to the changing room with Ingrid and Rolfö, not too far from Frida and Stina. You were talking about anything and everything when the Arsenal forward called you. "Y/n do you ever think about playing with Frido on the same team?"

"Uh uh, don't start that." Zećira said, coming out of nowhere.

You looked at the Sweden players confused. "Don't listen to them; they're just arguing about which is the best team between Arsenal and Chelsea." Fridolina said.

"It's more than that." the keeper protested.

"Let me guess, you just want us to join Arsenal or Chelsea?" you asked.

"Yes." Magda and Sofia said rolling their eyes.

"No!" Stina and Zećira countered, "It's more than that; imagine being with your wife 24/7, training with her, playing with her, and just wearing the same jersey."

"Okay let's not talk about it right now because I'm exhausted, but we'll think about it." you said before heading to your locker room.

The next few weeks you came back to Spain, and you managed to spend a lot of time with Frido after the end of the season before her final at Eindhoven. You tried to not attract attention in the stadium, but it was almost impossible. You couldn’t enter the stadium before some fans of both teams recognized you. And there you took some pictures with them, some of them questioning you about who you were supporting. You were wearing a light jacket, so they couldn’t see your Rolfö’s national jersey. Of course you were there to support your wife, but as a Real Madrid player and fan, you couldn’t say it loudly.

"I’m just here to see some teammates play." You replied with a little smile. Thankfully for you, they let you leave rather quickly. In your seat, you were mentally preparing for the next ninety minutes.

After those ninety minutes, FC Barcelona were sacred European champions for the second time, and Frida scored a goal. You were ecstatic in your seat during the game, acting like a groupie when your blondie touched the ball. When a member of the security came to escort you on the pitch, you were a little shocked because you didn’t really think the Swedish forward would spot you in the crowd, but she definitely did.

On the pitch, you came to congratulate your national teammates, and Ingrid gave you a sweaty hug, making you quickly pull away with a grimace. "You look good in yellow," the midfielder commented.

"But something tells me she would look better in blue and red." Caro Hansen added, and you rolled your eyes.

"Let’s not start it now." You didn't have time to say anything else until you felt arms wrapping around your waist from behind you. you didn't have to turn to know who they belonged to.

"Oh no, the lovebirds are reunited again," Caro said, faking annoyance.

"Hey, don’t you have some Spanish girlfriends you want to see?" You said making them leave, but not before they mimicked how the Swedish player was clinched to you.

"Why do you wear my national jersey?" Your wife asked while her head found her space in the crook of your neck.

"Are you kidding me?" you asked, a little offended.

"I’m rather on the girl’s side this time."

"Oh no, we’ll not start that, not today." You groaned and turned around to finally face her.

"But I really think about what the girls said the last time, and, well, it’s been like, what, six or seven years since we started to play against each other. I know you would rather die than wear a Barcelona kit, but if one day I leave, would you come with me?" She asked with a pout.

"Honey, one day I asked you if you wanted to marry, and you made the mistake of saying ‘yes’ so unfortunately for you, you’re stuck with me wherever you go." You joked.

"Even if I receive a proposition from Chelsea?" she tried.

"Okay don’t push your luck, Mrs.Rolfö." You replied dramatically, pushing away from her grip. The tall woman obviously didn’t give up and wrapped you close to her again.

The two of you were so much in your little bubble that you forgot that her team was celebrating and that the stadium was not totally empty when you pushed your toe to land a passionate kiss on her lips. When you heard some wolf whistles from Catalan players and the public cheering loudly, that's when you came back from your trance and remembered that you were not alone.

"Oh my..." you mumbled, hiding your face in your wife’s chest, who was laughing at your action.

"Don’t be shy, I think most of them already knew; it’s not like we’re good at hiding our behavior every time we’re together." Frido joked, "And at least now, everybody would know that you’re off the market, Mrs. Rolfö."

This night, like you assumed, you broke the internet, and a photo of you and Fridolina kissing was on almost every Woso fan’s Instagram stories and some of your teammates’ too. You received a lot of support from some teammates and even other celebrities. Magda and Pernille shared a cute picture of the four of you on a double date just after the Euro, and things went more crazy when Z posted almost all the cute pictures she took of you when you didn’t notice.

"I think that after today, if someone decides to sign one of us, they will definitely have to sign the other." The Swedish player said while she came to lay beside you.

"I still think we could have announced it in a better way." you said after you left your phone on the nightstand.

"Yes, maybe, but right now it’s just the two of us." she said, pressing a shy kiss on your head.

"I love you, Frido."

"And I love you more."

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

a list of some spring movies/series 🌷

spring is here!! and so is your friendly neighbourhood little organisation freak of a goblin to give you a list of some spring movies and series. as always, just close your eyes and point somewhere on this little list, or even put the numbers in a generator and go with whatever the result is ♡

summer | autumn | winter

🐝 ‧₊˚ ⋅ movies ⋅˚₊‧

mary poppins (1964)

the sound of music (1965)

aristocats (1970)

alla vi barn i bullerbyn (1986)

my neighbour totoro (1988)

kiki's delivery service (1989)

a league of their own (1992)

the secret garden (1993)

pride and prejudice (1995/2005)

whisper of the heart (1995)

clueless (1995)

my best friend’s wedding (1997)

parent trap (1998)

10 things i hate about you (1999)

notting hill (1999)

she's all that (1999)

but i’m a cheerleader (1999)

bring it on (2000)

miss congeniality (2000)

spiritied away (2001)

the wedding planner (2001)

legally blonde (2001)

princess diaries (2001 + 2004)

spy kids (2001-2003)

maid in manhatten (2002)

bend it like beckham (2002)

tuck everlasting (2002)

school of rock (2003)

how to lose a guy in 10 days (2003)

something’s gotta give (2003)

13 going on 30 (2004)

finding neverland (2004)

howl’s moving castle (2004)

saving face (2004)

the notebook (2004)

imagine me and you (2005)

nanny mcphee (2005)

penelope (2006)

miss potter (2006)

step up (2006)

she’s the man (2006)

bridge to terabithia (2007)

enchanted (2007)

atonement (2007)

stardust (2007)

ps i love you (2007)

wild child (2008)

made of honour (2008)

ondine (2009)

bride wars (2009)

valentine’s day (2010)

tangled (2010)

leap year (2010)

easy a (2010)

from up on poppy hill (2011)

jane eyre (2011)

crazy, stupid, love (2011)

what to expect when you’re expecting (2012)

remember sunday (2013)

saving mr banks (2013)

about time (2013)

now you see me (2013 + 2016)

love, rosie (2014)

testament of youth (2014)

kingsman (2014-)

paddington (2014 + 2017)

far from the madding crowd (2015)

burnt (2015)

brooklyn (2015)

cinderella (2015)

the man from u.n.c.l.e. (2015)

lady chatterley's lover (2015/2022)

creed franchise (2015-2023)

me before you (2016)

mother’s day (2016)

this beautiful fantastic (2016)

the light between oceans (2016)

paterson (2016)

how to be single (2016)

hidden figures (2016)

gifted (2017)

dunkirk (2017)

ocean’s eight (2018)

life itself (2018)

peter rabbit (2018)

christopher robin (2018)

tomb raider (2018)

set it up (2018)

crazy rich asians (2018)

spider-verse movies (2018-)

1917 (2019)

the art of racing in the rain (2019)

can you keep a secret? (2019)

booksmart (2019)

someone great (2019)

endings, beginnings (2019)

emma (2020)

enola holms (2020-)

the last letter from your lover (2021)

the world to come (2021)

🌼 ‧₊˚ ⋅ series ⋅˚₊‧

little house on the prairie (1974-1983)

moomin valley (1990-1992)

greys anatomy (2005-)

gossip girl (2007-2012)

skins (2007-2013)

the great british bake off (2010-)

new girl (2011-2018)

brooklyn nine-nine (2013-2021)

the fosters (2013-2018)

the 100 (2014-2020)

jane the virgin (2014-2019)

outlander (2014-)

grace and frankie (2015-2022)

poldark (2015-2019)

critical role (2015-)

howards end (2017)

girlboss (2017)

she's gotta have it (2017-2019)

the bold type (2017-2021)

mr. sunshine (2018)

queer eye (2018-)

crash landing into you (2019)

the witcher (2019-)

dickinson (2019-2021)

sex education (2019-2023)

bridgerton (2020-)

ted lasso (2020-2023)

nevertheless (2021)

abbott elementary (2021-)

flatshare (2022)

[sergeifyodorov]

every active first overall pick | 2017, nico hischier

The first Switzerland native to be selected first overall in the NHL, Hischier was selected sixth overall in the CHL Import Draft by the Halifax Mooseheads in his age-sixteen season, where he led all QMJHL rookies in scoring and won CHL Rookie of the Year. He would also win silver with Switzerland at the 2024 World Championships. In February of 2021, Hischier was named captain of the New Jersey Devils, becoming then the youngest captain in the league.

2016 | 2018

[averagewriter-inthedark]

You Got It Bad 🏸 | Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd Headcanon

Edit posted on 2 Sep 24: omg when I posted this a few days ago America had yet to win a medal in badminton (Olympic & Paralympic) and today Team USA’s mixed doubles in badminton won the silver medal!! Congrats to Jayci Simon & Miles Krajewski for their win and making history!! The first ever medal in badminton for USA!!

Being married to Bob & becoming Olympians for the sport of Badminton would look like:

You and Bob met in flight school following your respected commissions into the Navy in 2011, became friends and colleagues, which them bloomed into lovers about a year later. You were the pilot, and he was your back seater---so it is no surprise your relationship worked so well considering you two were partners in the sky. After about two years of dating, Bob popped the famous question and you guys were wed within the year--the Navy sending you guys to bases as a package deal.

As most military instillations, there's a community gym and recreation center where active, reserve, and their families go to participate in intermural sports and activities. Many go for the typical bowling league and softball team or try a hand at flag football and ultimate. For you and Bob, badminton called yall's name.

Originating in British India and popular among countries in Europe and Asia, badminton made its Olympic debut in 1992 in Barcelona, Spain. Now while at first glance badminton may look easy in comparison to other court sports with a net like tennis and volleyball, but badminton requires just as much speed, agility, and precision. Especially when the shuttlecock is flying at record speed from one opponent to the other. The better the motor skills, the better you are.

Of course in the beginning you guys were a little rusty. Figuring out the rules and the best way for you and Bob to coordinate moves. You were the better server, but Bob was better handling the back while you stayed close to the net.

What started as a fun, leisure activity became more serious as you continued to play. Like we're talking you put up a net in your backyard. Whenever you hosted gatherings, you can expect that at some point in the night people migrated to the backyard to play a game or two. And boy would it get intense whenever you and Bob were on opposite sides of the court. "I hope you enjoy losing, pretty boy." "Darling, I know you're always right....but tonight you are wrong."

Not only did you build a sweat when a game got intense, but you looked forward to spending time with your husband outside of work. Not having to deal with the stress of flying or anxiety of running missions. Badminton was a great way to relive the tension and stay active. After every game you shared a sweet kiss with your husband, exchanging praises of 'Great job,' and 'We'll get 'em next time."

You both were competitive and roughly a year after playing you drew attention when you decided to join a local circuit outside of intermural on base. Winning match after match, you guys came in second in your first tournament. A great introduction to the start of your athletic career in mixed doubles badminton---which by the way, shoutout to RedBull and Dunkin Doughnuts for the caffeine supply when balancing a military and sports career.

Now the Olympic Games....the greatest sporting stage the world has ever scene...was never something you envisioned when you and Bob picked up your rackets for the first time. You'd only been playing badminton for a few years, having started in 2014. By the time the Rio Games came around, you guys were no way in Olympic level standings. Sure you'd been in a handful of local tournaments, making the podium in all, but you'd only recently won your regional title for mixed doubles, set to compete in nationals. You had yet to play an international tournament.

That time would come in 2017, and while you came home with third place at you guys were motivated to do better. You wanted to win a World title. Especially to prove to people who thought badminton was not a sport of high popularity like tennis or volleyball--and something you only play as a unit in high school P.E. You and Bob were motivated to bring more eyes to badminton in America. And what better way than to dominate a world tour.

So, when you guys weren't in the sky you were on the court. In the gym. Coaching each other, studying competition, working on technique, rewatching matches from previous Olympics. The Tokyo Games became a goal. And you were determined to make them. The pressure was on considering the United States has never won a medal in any event in badminton. "So, the Olympics...pretty darn big if you ask me." "Baby, you should know that when we put our mind to something, we make it happen."

It got to the point where your family members and friends were asking y'all about progress and even buying you equipment as birthday presents. And with the amount of shuttlecocks you go through monthly it was a blessing to a whole bucket of them in your garage. Your rackets had y'alls callsign's on them and of course you had matching outfits. And soon you guys had to invest in a nice cabinet to display your medals, plaques, and trophies from your competitions. Having the 2018 BWF World Championship right in the center.

You and Bob became a household name in the sport in the American circuit. Not only because you two were dominated the competition, but also the fact you guys were married and Naval officers brought a lot of attention. People who followed the sport became fans and viewed you guys as a love story out of romance books. Friends/coworkers-to-lovers who become teammates and an unstoppable duo in their sport. Yeah, it wrote itself.

When the 2019 detachment came though that became the priority. As much as it pained you to put training for the Sudirman Cup on hold, you had an obligation to the Navy. Nonetheless, you packed up your equipment and made the drive down from Lemoore to San Diego. Once settled, you both were spending any free time at the base rec center, practicing even for 30 minutes if you had it.

Soon the rest of the team picked up your love for the sport and became intrigued. Natasha especially, who became invested in watching you two play against each other. Shocked to see how heated it got and the fact you were able to move so fast to save a rally. "You guys are really into this, huh?" "Yeah. We just started for fun years ago and well..it took off."

After the whole shit between Jake and Bradley where Mav did damage control by taking y'all to the beach for dogfight football, you and Bob whipped out the equipment and soon all 12 of ya paired up to play games. It pretty much turned into a bracket situation where duos were eliminated until two remained for the final round.

And who's suprised....you and Bob won. And because you guys were so good, the team practically interrogated you two to which the reveal of your side career surfaced.

"You mean to tell me," Jake squinted against the sun, "You two are pretty much famous badminton players and are on the road to making the Olympics next year?" "Yep, that's about right. We want to be the first Americans to win a medal in the sport."

Fast forward to the success of the Uranium mission and unexpected world pandemic that followed, you and Bob are homebound due to the Navy restricting all work to remote settings, leaving you all the time in the world to perfect your craft. You won the Sudirman Cup, putting your names once more as contenders for the Tokyo Games and had one more year to train due to the postponement. In that time you and the rest of the Top Gun detachment transferred to Fightertown permanently, further bonding the friendships formed and the team became y'alls biggest supporters.

Qualifying for the Olympics had to have ranked in your top three moments in life. Right in the middle between marrying Bob and the Uranium mission. You jumped in his arms, screaming in joy while he spun you around and let the tears flow, bringing his lips for a passionate kiss not caring who watched. Never had you thought picking up a random badminton racket to pass time and relieve stress after a long work day would lead you to competing in the greatest sporting event alongside the love of your life. Experiencing it with Bob made it all the better. "We're going to the Olympics, baby!!'

Stepping onto the court in Tokyo officially titled you and Bob as Olympians, and while you competed for the gold across the pacific, back home your friends and family gathered to watch it unfold decked in red, white, and blue. The Hard Deck, your hometown, Bob's hometown, the rec center back in Lemoore where you first began playing badminton, the entire damn Navy was cheering you on.

Goal #1: Become Olympians - Achieved. Goal #2: Become the 1st Americans to win a medal in badminton - Achieved. Goal #3: Become the 1st Americans to win a gold medal in badminton - Achieved.

Yeah, you read that right. Not only did you and Bob accomplish everything you set your eyes on, but you cemented yourself in history as the first Americans to win a medal in any event in the sport of badminton and it was the gold. You guys became Olympic champions. And you can best believe the whole world was shocked to their core during the intense, heart pounding, sweat inducing, on the edge of your seat gold medal match against the #1 team in the world. You had already proven yourself to be the team to watch out for after knocking out the other leading pairs in the quarter and semi-finals, but to walk away with the gold after losing the first match, winning the second and tying the score each time until it ended with you scoring the golden point of 30.

Put it in the history books.

And three years later in a sold out crowd with your friend and family in the city of love, you and Bob continued your romantic journey of love, dedication and partnership when you defended your gold medal, adding a second to your cabinet with the promise of a third when the Games return to the Los Angeles 😉