Archive of Our Own

“Oh my god, it’s out.” 

“Now?”

“Yes, now. Oh my god.”

“Will you let me read it now? After making me wait so long?”

“Yes! Wait, no– I don’t know!” 

Her laugh. The one that sent goosebumps over your skin the first time you met her, a common theme that had stuck since. 

“Cariño, let me read it. It’s me. All about me. It’s only fair.”

“But I wrote it, it’s different.”

She still looked at you the same, too. Apart from the glint in her eyes that was there in glimpses previously but now a permanent piece to her appearance, because now you were hers and she didn’t shy away from reminding you of that. Especially when she wandered over, clad only in a bikini, to where you floundered by the glass doors you’d just rushed out of. Her hands found your hips with ease, like it was second nature. And the flutter in your stomach answered like instinct, as if it had always known the feeling of her.

“Let. Me. Read. It.” 

The only thing she seemed prouder of than her own confidence was the fact she had you to show for it, and the look in your eyes when she used it on you. Each word she spoke was rife with cockiness, dripping with charm, every syllable curving around her Spanish accent that rendered you speechless far too often. The final blow? Her smirk. Broken only when her lips pressed into your neck to punctuate her sentence.

“You can read it.”

And like that first day, you were merciless under her presence.

—

“Play nice with the journalists, Alexia. No double meanings and stifled eye rolls.”

That lasted all of a millisecond, because her eyes were already rolling at the futile warning. Media day was far from her favourite and everyone knew that.

The locker room had been temporarily redecorated for the event, though it looked less like a fitting setting and more like a filming room for the interviews of a Netflix reality series. It took all she had to hold in her scoff. Her chair was ready and waiting, harsh box lights casting shadows across the room, fluorescent white beams that would scatter spots across her vision for the next six hours afterwards.

There was a group of video crew and some team staff behind the cameras, but the first interviewer of five had yet to enter. Five boring, bleak journalists that would drone on and on about her ACL, about her Ballon d’Ors, about trophies, salaries, contract renewals. None of which that actually cared about the sport. ‘That’s their job, hija,’ her mother so often reminded her every time she complained, but Alexia just didn’t see the point in it. At all. It was humiliating, to her, to stoop so low to social media drama when her performance on the pitch should do all the talking the world needed.

Three came and went. Each face blurred into the next, a combination of temporary blindness from the lights and the people having souls like a damp sock. By the fourth, she could hardly sit still. Her legs screamed for her to stand out of the stupid plastic chair that no athlete should be subjected to due to risk of injury, her mind cried for something more stimulating than an unusually lifeless room (it was the heart of the team normally) and people that Alexia was sure did nothing but sit and watch paint dry when they went home. 

Until the fifth walked in. Alexia didn’t see her face initially, she could have been anywhere in the world, the lights meant she couldn’t see past them into the otherwise dark room. She didn’t catch her name either, too busy looking at her smartwatch and calculating whether she could make it to her favourite restaurant before they closed if she answered the last questions quick enough.

You introduced yourself, reached a hand out for the footballer to take, and that was when she finally looked up. The first thing she noticed about you was your eyes. Sharp, inquisitive, curious. Then, she blinked once. Recalibrating herself back into the ‘I hate journalists and everything to do with them’ mindset that hadn’t ever faulted until then. Her hand met yours, you shook hers with a firmness yet grace to it, as if you knew exactly who you were and exactly what you wanted to get out of that meeting.

It took no time at all for Alexia to realise that you did.

Question after question came and passed, each one catching her by surprise more than the last. Intriguing ones that she met with genuine answers instead of some forced honesty. You held her gaze the whole time and it made her stumble over her words more than once. Even when the interview was over, she stayed glued to her seat, taking no notice of the way everyone started packing up around. The two of you went nowhere, enraptured by the other and blaming it on the conversation topic. 

The cameras were packed away, box lighting gone, people leaving with suitcases of equipment one by one. They took no notice, and if they did, they didn’t say a word. It’d probably be break room gossip the next day, certainly at your office. And definitely amongst the Barça staff. But those things couldn’t be further from your minds, even when it was just the two of you left.

Alexia in her training gear that was freshly washed and doused in perfume, not a hair out of place. You in front of her, notepad in your shaking hands, wondering if you’d disguised your nerves well enough. 

Five minutes after everyone left, Alexia’s ringtone broke the two of you out of whatever trance you had fell into. She flinched, as did you, looked at the caller ID, and cursed in her mother tongue under her breath. She apologised to you, stood abruptly in her chair, stuttered in her step as if she had something she wanted to say, before slipping out of the room. You got up when the door swung shut, following her out, only to find she was gone, leaving you wondering if you would ever get such a chance at feeling seen ever again.

That interview didn’t manifest into much. Your boss had a habit of making you feel unimportant, and half an hour with the world’s best footballer where you got more words out of her than anyone ever had before didn’t change that. He dragged his feet organising the publication of it, until it was forgotten at the bottom of the website, a quarter of the reads on it than you dreamed it would. 

—

“Where is my iPad? Have you hide it?” 

“God, you and your fucking iPad. No, I haven’t hid it. Just hurry up and find it, you had it last, dumbass.” 

Safe to say you were a bit… tense at the thought of Alexia finally reading the project you’d worked endlessly on the last few months.

What a whirlwind they had been.

“Esa boquita…” The footballer raised her eyebrows at you with a slight smirk as she walked past you, brushing her shoulder against yours, shaking her head when you scoffed and cursed her some more. 

Having her read the piece felt intimate. Even though she had lived it too, had bedded you since, seen you in ways no one else had, this article was in a category of its own. All you thought of her was embedded into it, free for the world to see but only a select few to truly understand the meaning behind each and every word you carefully chose. And her, Alexia Putellas to others, Ale to you, was going to see exactly what you thought of her as. Who you saw when she sat in front of you in a cafe you’d never heard of before, when she took you to the clay football pitch she spent hours on as a child, and when she drove you to her own apartment under the guise of getting a true exclusive. 

You still weren’t sure, to this day, if by that she meant getting a tour of her awards or waking up beside her the next morning.

“Are you going to run away while I read?” Alexia called from inside the villa she had chosen, on an island somewhere in Greece. It backed off onto the beach and had a pool in its yard she had hardly left. Here, it was just the two of you. A thing you weren’t going to take for granted, given what the reaction might be the second you step foot back in Spain.

“No, just have a panic attack maybe.” 

The woman at the center of it all, your work, your world, center of the fucking universe it seemed sometimes, came leisurely strolling outside after that with the smirk on her face that apparently never left. You were still lingering aimlessly in the yard, floundering and spiralling, when she took your hand and led you over to the daybed. She threw her iPad down like it was nothing more than a feather, then turned to you. She moved her sunglasses to sit atop her head, her hair sitting effortlessly under them in that aggravating way she existed with. 

Everything about her was effortless now, and it worked you up sometimes, like then, but something you’d come to learn in the last few months was that she’d worked harder than most to get to this point. So you recognised that she deserved the ease to her existence and her aura, but still. Someone with a ridiculous looking pair of Oakleys being used as a hairband shouldn’t fire you up so much.

All she did was gaze at you far too coolly and calmly, and you melted under her stare.

“Dramatic, eh?” She tutted, her thumb stroking over your ring finger once before dropping your hand and sitting down. 

You scoffed, rolled your eyes, folded your arms over your chest like armour. Armour she pierced instantly with just two taps of her palm against her thigh. Took no time at all for you to kneel your way over and sit stiffly beside her. She was half lying down, watching in amusement as you tried, bless you, to leave some distance but failed miserably. Your feet were under you and your knees lay bent across her abdomen. One hand, the same one that had beckoned you over, immediately landed on one of your thighs, ever so slightly slipping down to rest between them both. 

“Read it then.” You tried to gain some dignity, some composure, but she never let you get away with anything. Not that you minded.

“What’s wrong with you, hm? It is just an article.” The midfielder asked in a tease, fingertips beginning to trace small circles on your sunkissed skin. 

“It’s not just an article and you know it.”

—

A month later, you got the call back to the Barcelona training facilities. Your schedule for the day came in a week before you were due to go, and since you first glanced at it, there had been a strange lump in your throat, a restlessness in your bones, both too deep to be just nerves but too soft to be just fear.

You had an hour slot with Alexia Putellas. Nobody else. Just her.

You called your contact at the club and checked if it was correct.

“Yes, that's right. She only said she would do media that day if it was with you.”

Everything you felt when you first read that email, intensified tenfold after that phone call.

The outline of the day was unusual too; normally they'd bring you in, and the duration of the time slot you had was where you had to fit everything in. That included setting up, briefing the player of the questions, discussing any minor changes, the sorts. This time, it was different. 

You were to arrive early, and everything would be set up for you. You had seven days from the moment you got the schedule email to write an outline for the entire, uninterrupted hour you’d been given, featuring some things Alexia had approved and topics of entirely your choosing. 

It was the greatest opportunity you’d ever had. So far, that was.

“Hi, Alexia. It’s nice to see you again.” 

The air changed whenever she walked into a room, though you weren’t sure if that was an everybody thing or a… you thing. Either way, you felt a shift in the universe as she casually sauntered over, like someone had pulled the lever on a train track. Dressed in some low-rise baggy blue jeans and a black Barcelona training shirt, except you didn’t know the jeans were low-rise until she had to pull her microphone up her shirt from the bottom to the collar and it consequently lifted up in the process. Who wore low-rise jeans to a work thing, unless the intention was exactly what had just occurred?

“Y tú.” 

She clipped her microphone into place, checked how she looked on the little screen of one of the video cameras, before wandering over to you. Her hand reached out where she towered over you as you sat on one of two armchairs in the room, and the skin of her palm was unfairly soft when she shook your own deftly. A coy smile tugged at one corner of her lips as she looked down at you. You caught the slight flick of her eyes as they moved down, then back up again, straight into your own eyes. Her smile widened, before she turned and took a seat.

“How are you?” 

Each time she spoke, the world listened. And the way she sat, her arms sprawled along the armrests, one leg over the other, she only cared for listening to you. Her attention, single-minded.

“I’m good, thank you. Happy to be here.” You answered, adjusting your blazer in an anxious habit. She noticed. “What about you?”

“The same. I hope it is okay that I asked you here like this.” Of course it was, she knew that, she was just saying it for the sake of saying it.

“It’s perfect, thank you. Shall we get started?”

“Por supuesto. Did you, ah, receive the things I re… requested?” Her broken, uncertain English was so charming. So stupidly charming.

“I did, I have it all down here. Do you want to go through it or..?”

“No, I like to be surprised. Caught off-guard.” 

She smirked when she said it. Actually smirked. And her eyes burned into yours so intensely it was like the reply was purely just for you. 

You opted out of acknowledging that in the hopes of regaining some composure and getting a handle on the situation. After all, it was you that was supposed to take the lead, yet it was her doing all the one-liners and commanding the room.

The interview itself started then, and with every passing minute, your confidence grew. Alexia met that and took a backseat, being the pliant subject she knew she had signed up for being when she demanded it be you that she do media with. For the duration of the meeting, there was a smile stuck to her face. Not a performance one, not a ‘happy to be here’ one. A smile that was quietly proud, quietly cocky. There were a multitude of reasons why it was you she invited along, but the main one was that you were just damn good at your job. Miles ahead of your peers in attitude, in skill, in presentation. But miles behind in place, in status, in opportunities. 

She knew then that there was something she had to do about that. For no other reason than that you simply deserved it, more than anyone else in your field. She just had to work out what it was she could do.

However, just when you got to your final question, the one you’d stay up at night brainstorming, you were interrupted.

“You’re very open about what mental challenges you faced from within during your injury. You’re seen now, and were before, as a symbol of resilience and leadership. But what about in the moments when no one’s watching; what part of yourself do you s-”

“Excuse me? Your boss is calling.” 

Shit. 

You never told him about this interview.

“Can’t… can’t you tell him I’m busy?” You tried to disguise your panic given the people in the room, though there was one person that saw right through it.

“No, he’s adamant he speaks to you now.”

“But she is working.”

Alexia blinked at the person wearing one of those god forsaken visitors’ lanyards and holding your phone out with an expression that, no matter how hard they tried, only came across as sharp as a butter knife. Your spiralling panic stuttered for a second as the brunette jumped to your defense, because it didn’t in the slightest come across as impatient like someone in her position would, it came across as exasperated at everybody but you. That was rare.

The person with your phone shrugged, glancing at the screen as the call rang itself out to voicemail before looking back to you. His face communicated ‘your funeral’ as he dropped it to the table beside you and walked away. He was another one of those at your office that was supposed to be on your side but acted like it was a chore.

“I’m sorry, Alexia, I’m gonna have to cut this short. I’m really sorry, I-”

“It is not your fault. Your manager’s.” Her voice was reassuring and warm, rid of the confidence it previously possessed in exchange for an attempt at calming the panic that seemed seconds away from erupting out of you.

“No, it’s mine.” You muttered, standing from your chair to gather your things before she stopped you.

“Wait, wait. Don’t rush to leave.” You listened, because what else were you to do. “You are already in trouble, no? What is a few minutes more? Stay and talk.” 

Somehow, you find yourself sitting back down in your chair and taking a breath. She made it sound so easy. Just… disobeying your manager like that. As if your job wasn’t on the line.

“I guess you do not really like him then.” She began with a hum, and you scoffed. Not at her but the estimation she made; your disdain for the man in question was clear as day, and that probably wasn’t a good thing.

“He’s not the best person I’ve ever met.” 

“So, why you work for him?” This time you did scoff at her.

“We don’t all have the privilege of being able to sack our boss at the first sign of trouble.” The words spilled out before you could stop them, and the panic that followed at the thought of losing your job was no match at all for the panic you felt at messing it up with her.

But she grinned. She chuckled under her breath. Took the jab on the chin and it only made the glint in her eye brighter.

“Why is he so… pissed off?” 

Like the last time you met her, for you, the presence of the other people in the room simply vanished. The longer the conversation went on, the smaller the bubble got around the two of you. 

“I took this interview and… didn’t exactly tell him about it.” You admitted, averting your eyes to the ring on your finger that you twisted over and over. Your eyes didn’t stay there long, however, because Alexia’s laugh rang through the room after you finished your sentence, and it might have been the lightest thing you’d ever heard. You were drawn to look back up at her again, only to find the brightest smile to match.

“Why?” She wondered, still laughing. “What was your plan?”

“Because I knew he would fight to send someone else to do it, and I didn’t want that.” You revealed. That shut her up. “And I didn’t have a plan. I still don’t.”

And that’s how you unknowingly landed a never-done-before piece with the world’s best footballer.

—

It was so much more than an article. The only way she would find that out is, unfortunately for you, by reading it. Right beside you. When she's already getting under your skin in the worst way and is a two UV-ray increase from taking off her bikini top so that she can even out her tan lines.

“I know, cariño.” She dropped her head back against the cushions and turned to look at you with one corner of her lips tugged upwards. “It’s everything you have ever wanted.”

“That, and more.” You mumbled, frosty demeanour falling away as you stared past her at the waves calmly making their way up the shore. “It’s you.”

“Yes, and I can’t wait to read it.” Alexia raised an eyebrow at you in a lightly scolding way; she knew you, knew what your mind was telling you, could hear the doubts echoing around your head before you yourself had a chance to identify just one of them.

By that point in time, you were in love, knowing everything about each other that you needed and wanted to know. The only things you didn't know about each other were the stories that you'd spill years down the line, triggered by a scent or a particular type of rain that unravelled another side of the other just as you thought you knew everything. That meant she was well up to speed with the fears you had about this article and the possible repercussions of it. She didn’t care about any of them for a second.

It was her that suggested it in the first place and told you to do it however you liked. As a matter of fact, it was her fault entirely for how that day had started… and ended. She had planned it. Well, most of it. The added extras were just things she wished for late at night when she had no company except your smile engraved on her eyelids.

“I don’t want you to think I’ve gone too far.” 

“Look at me. Mírame.” You did as she said. Her face was soft, immeasurably so. She was a multifaceted person that knew exactly which version of her you needed and when– it’s why you loved her. “I know you will not have gone too far. I don’t need to read it to know that.”

“But, how? I mean, it w-”

“Oye.” Not rude, just a gentle way to hush you. Her index finger curled under your chin, tilting it down a little so you properly looked at her, and her thumb brushed back and forth over your skin. “I would not have done everything I did that day if I did not trust you. I don’t doubt you. Do not doubt yourself.”

You fought tooth and nail to keep the blush off your cheeks and a smile at bay but it was utterly useless. Your skin turned pink and there was a sheepish quirk to your lips that had Alexia grinning and leaning forward. Before you knew it, the pair of you were smiling into a kiss ruined by the pure contentment radiating off you both. And when you pulled back, it wasn’t without a peck on your cheek by the woman that had changed your life in every way possible.

“I love you.” You mumbled, only fuelling her grin more.

“I love you too. You know that?” Really, she had no worries with that one. But still, she liked to check in every so often. You knowing how much she adored you was more important to her than anything in her life, something you’d found out the day of the interview itself.

“I do.” 

“Hm.” She smiled in accomplishment, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you into her more. You leaned your temple against the top of her head, a serene feeling of peace settling within you and leaving a smile on your face. There was nothing like being loved by her. “You will let me read now?”

You laughed quietly down her ear, nothing particularly funny, just the kind of laughter that bubbles out of nowhere with pure joy as its catalyst.

Maybe she would think you gave away too much in your writing, maybe she’d think you could have gone further. Whatever the outcome, you were really putting it all on display. The best thing was that she had urged you to. One of the first things that drew you to her was your dedication and determination to your work, something that she admired because of how important it was to her. Nothing good came easy, and a single encounter with you told her that you knew that. Alexia also knew that she would be nowhere without the opportunities given to her. And if, for whatever god forsaken reason, things didn’t work out between you, she would never regret presenting you with this chance at starting something for yourself. 

It was just a coincidence that she fell in love at the same time.

—

It wasn't at that second meeting where you got the actual opportunity. That came a week later, a call out of the blue.

“Hello?”

Sat in the middle of a cafe, researching god knows what for an article about god knows who in a pitiful attempt to keep your job.

“Hola.”

You knew that voice anywhere.

“Alexia? H-hi, how'd you get my number?” 

It had been a week since you last saw her, but at the sound of her voice again, it felt like no time had passed at all. 

“Andrea at the club. Doesn’t matter. I maybe have something for you.” 

Honestly, you weren’t sure if you were dreaming or not. She was the last person you expected to be on the other side of the phone when you picked up, but as the shock slowly wore off… there were goosebumps rippling down your spine. 

“You… have something for me?” There was a chuckle down the line like it was funny that you dared to question her. This was only the third time you’d spoken to the midfielder, and yet there was something that just kept pushing you back together. Drawing you back to each other. Magnetic and undeniable. 

“Yes. But I have something to ask you.” One thing you had learnt about her, she didn’t waste her time on small talk or pleasantries or the sorts. You liked it.

“Anything.” 

There in that cafe, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself. You had somebody that the world idolised casually talking to you over the phone from her personal number to yours. She had something to give you, and she wanted something from you. Whatever it was, you had no idea. But it felt big.

“The interview last week, you never finished your question.” She paused, piquing your interest. “What was it?”

It was a test. Your final one. However you answered it would tell her something you would probably never get to know. That was terrifying, but you trusted her. Trusted a near stranger. Alexia Putellas, you were beginning to learn, was someone special. 

“I…” You weren’t hesitating as such, more like… standing on a precipice. Your future hanging by a thread, held in the hand of someone that wasn’t a God, but near enough to one. “When nobody’s watching, what part of yourself do you struggle to lead?”

There came no response from her for quite some time and it worried you. You were proud of your ability as a journalist, but there were moments where that faltered. Like then, when nothing could be heard through your phone’s speakers aside from the sound of a computer keyboard in the distance. It suddenly dawned on you that you didn’t know Alexia. Didn’t know what her weaknesses were, and maybe you’d just hit one with that question. Ruined everything with her and had a door slammed in your face.

“Get your laptop, open your emails.”

“I-I already have them open, it’s in front of me.” Almost instantly, there was a new email in your inbox. From her manager, you guessed. “What’s this?”

“An opportunity. Something you deserve more than anyone.”

You couldn’t help but think it sounded pretentious, it made your skin crawl. It made you out to be a charity case, the type of person that climbed ladders at work only as a result of ‘it’s not what you know, but who you know’ and not in a good way. You shifted in your seat uncomfortably.

“I don’t need this, Alexia. I don’t need anything from you.” Your voice was harsher than intended, but the brunette didn’t cower at that. She expected some pushback, and had gotten exactly that. The smile that was evident in her tone only irritated you more.

“No, you don’t need this. But you can want it. You can say that you deserve it more than any other journalist because I know that is your mindset. You wouldn’t be where you are without it.” You couldn’t argue that point, every bit of it was the truth. Except, instead, you went more defensive.

“You- you’re just doing this because… because you like me.” The second the half-assed accusation left your mouth, you slapped a hand over your eyes. Why did you have to say that?

“Well, you are not wrong that I like you. And you are not wrong for worrying that’s the only reason I am doing this.” Her reply was calm and collected, not an ounce of anger or resentment present. In fact, if anything, she had softened. “But I know what it is to work hard but not to get anywhere. You might laugh at me now for saying that, but I am being honest. You deserve to get somewhere with your work, not be cast aside. It’s not fair your boss is not seeing how good you are. It’s fair that it is me. It’s lucky. Open the email.”

Merciless.

You looked at your laptop, the little envelope widget still with a red circle in its corner, taunting you. Everything went quiet, it seemed; the cafe, the call, your mind. The only thing your attention was on was finding out what the hell was in that email.

Its subject header was the first thing that caught your eye.

A Literary Profile disguised as Sports Journalism, with Alexia Putellas.

What?

“What?” There was a breathy laugh that broke through the silence of your world, not that you paid much attention to it as your eyes trailed over each and every single word of the email over and over again. 

“I did not know what a literary profile was either, but th-”

“No, I know what one is. I just, I don’t get it. It’s not a thing in this type of journalism. You said it yourself, nobody knows what one is.” You swore you could hear the shrug you knew she replied with. It was a classic response of hers, especially when she was feeling particularly smug.

“You have to take the good fortune when it is presented to you. This will put a spotlight on you that is brighter than it could be for anyone else. You are perfect for it. Everybody will want to be you. But they cannot be you, because they didn’t earn this like you did. An opportunity like this was always yours, I am just… very glad it is me that gets to experience it too.”

Well. That was rather charming. 

“I don’t… how? I can’t do this. I mean, my job, my boss, everything. This will disrupt everything.” You hid your weak-at-the-knees reaction by some well-practiced, second-nature panic. It was your forte at this point. 

“Have you read the email?” Alexia grinned. “The last paragraph. It says it will be posted to the Barcelona website and marketed as much as we can get away with. You will be suitably paid for it and your stupid boss doesn’t have to know a thing. It’s a personal venture, none of his business. Whatever happens after is up to you. But I’m sure you can take it wherever you want afterwards, you won’t need a CV when you have that.” 

“What, because an interview with you, Alexia Putellas, is worth more than my degree and near-decade of experience?” 

This whole thing felt like the most intense fever dream. Especially with her next words that were paired with a low, sincere, gentle tone that caused your mind to numb a little.

“No, because your writing and your talent as a journalist is that good on its own. I swear, between us for this article, it is nothing more than a case of being in the right place at the right time. Something like this would have come your way at some point. It’s how the world works.” 

On the other side of the phone, some miles away in Barcelona, Alexia Putellas sat at a table in a bleak, white meeting room at her manager’s office with her leg bouncing nervously under the table. She was taking a risk by asking this of you, but her life had been all about taking risks. 

Moving away from her home city to another part of Spain she didn’t know a thing about in the hopes of evolving more as a player. Accepting a contract from FC Barcelona when their women’s team turned professional, not knowing if it’d survive two years, nevermind build her into who she was today. This was your equivalent of that. 

If you were the person she thought you were, you would take it.

“Why are you so set on me?” 

Still, your voice came out in a disbelieving whisper. Insecure, even. And Alexia simply wouldn’t have that when she knew the heights you could reach, the ceilings you would smash through, if you just had a little self-belief. Not the feigned kind, a real sense of your capability. Because it was truly limitless. She was sick of living in a world where everyone doubted themself and their mother– she’d be damned if you became victim to that.

So it was time to be uncomfortably honest. With both herself, and with you. After all, she was asking you to take a leap of faith, it would probably be only fair if she gave you a space to land.

“You see me differently to everybody else. Not just journalists, but everyone. Everyone tells me who I already am, everyone has a version of me they try to reach. You ask who I want to be, and you listen. The first day you walked in, you saw me, not viewed me.” She was struggling to explain herself, but she knew it was important that she still tried to anyway. “I don’t know if I’m making sense. I just know that you walked in without an assumed image of me and wanted to get to know me for yourself. That’s all I want.” 

‘That’s all I want.’ You weren’t sure what she meant by that. Did she mean with the article, did she believe she hadn’t been represented properly by other journalists before? Or did she mean something… more?

Either way, you would have been downright stupid to refuse the offer. Total control over the final edit. Total control over how you write it. Posted on the Barcelona website. Your boss didn’t have to know a thing until the day it’s posted. You get paid for it. Alexia decides what the two of you spend the day doing.

All you had to do was show up with an audio recorder, your note pad and pen, ask questions, and listen to her answers. Seemed easy enough.

“Then… I guess I’ll take it.”

Alexia could have celebrated that response like a last minute winner in a World Cup final. Instead, she opted for a subtle punch to the air, before composing herself and giving her manager a tight nod across the table. There was excitement coursing through her veins, and something else underlying in there too. She couldn’t wait to explore that with you.

“You’re taking it.” She echoed, a grin so wide on her face it’d seem menacing to anyone that didn’t know her.

“I have to, since you’re so sure.” You replied bashfully. 

It was starting to set in for you, a surreal realisation you didn’t know what to do with. Guess you’d just have to see how the day goes with her.

“Oh, cariño. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

You didn’t know what to do with that either, apart from blush so intensely someone might’ve called an ambulance there and then in that cafe out of concern for you.

—

“I like how I look through your eyes.”

“What?” 

She snapped you out of your daydreams by pointing to the photo of her on her iPad screen that was front and center of the Barcelona website. You had taken it. Not on the day of the article meeting, but a few days after it, at a breakfast date with her that had nothing to do with articles or interviews. From first glance it looked professional enough, but maybe someday, someone will look close enough and realise it’s one person taking a photo of the love of their life.

“I said,” You saw her peek at you from the corner of her eye. “I like how I look through your eyes. From your perspective.”

“Oh yeah? And how do you look through my eyes?” 

“Like yours.” 

Every word that left her mouth was like fucking poetry. She knew it too judging by the smirk on her face.

The couple months with her couldn’t compare to any other time of your life. A common theme that had prevailed since the first day you met her was that she made you feel things you’d never felt before. Her compassion was all encompassing, her love steady, safe, fierce. She wasn’t a big gesture person, she liked the small things. Every week, there were fresh flowers on your living room coffee table. A coffee at your desk at work before you even arrived, you don’t know how she managed that one. It made you laugh when you thought about her putting in weekday-daily UberEats orders to the same coffee place and how much money she wasted with small delivery charges. 

She loved portraying a façade, tried with all her might to say she loved spoiling you more than she loved being spoiled. But with time, you learned that wasn’t exactly the truth. Her eyes got a little glossy every time you surprised her with something, no matter what it was. Flowers for her, coffee for her. A note hidden in her infamous Louis Vuitton bag for each match as if you weren’t on the sidelines for the big games with a blue bib and a microphone. 

But you both loved the secrecy. Where some couples loathe it, the two of you thrived. Interviewing her after a game with a stutter to your heart rate and a professional distance between you, mentally and physically, only to sleep in her bed later that night, was thrilling. Sometimes you’d even slip into her car when no one was watching and drive back to her flat with her, hoping she wouldn’t get bombarded by fans whilst leaving the parking garage. 

There were a few occasions you could see in her eyes that it was taking everything she had to control herself when you were in front of her with a camera pointed at you both; after a game, she always got a bit… cocky. She sometimes gets a little too full of all the feelings a win gives her, and that meant your cover had almost got blown a handful of times. However, with the way she looked at you then, you didn’t exactly find yourself caring too much. When the final whistle blew and she did her rounds before heading towards the sidelines for interviews and whatnot, she went soft at the edges. Her usual, dangerous sharpness traded for a warmth she couldn’t hide, no matter how many cameras were on her. And if you were nearby, which you often were, it only made it worse. 

You were addicted to it a healthy amount, that she felt so much for you she could hardly contain it. She would hold your gaze longer than she needed to and it’d distract you, but still, you managed to ask the questions you were supposed to ask, and she answered the way she was meant to. And the world was none the wiser. It was a game of push-and-pull you both were addicted to.

“You’re something else.” You murmured, and with the way she preened, she took it like a compliment. It was, in ways she’d never understand. Her hand that dangled over your shoulders started trailing her fingertips back and forth on your skin, a mindless habit of hers she often did whenever you were at her side.

“So this is it? ‘A Game of Her Own: Alexia Putellas, Struck From the Record.’ I like that.”

“Well, at least I got one thing right for definite, then.” Immediately, there was a tut coming from her at your comment. Rather than scolding you though, she just turned to kiss your cheek instead. No irritation from her at your self-deprecating nature, just a small action which said all that words couldn’t.

Then, she scrolled down the page. She pointed out your name where it said who it was written by and smirked at you. You blushed, turned to hide your face in her hair, and missed how she scrolled further. Only the clearing of her throat like she was about to start reading aloud caught your attention.

“Wait!”

With a roll of her eyes that held no malice, she halted her scrolling and looked at you.

“What now?” Her eyebrows were raised, and you faltered for a second. The stroke of her thumb across your shoulder brought you back down from your momentary fretting.

“You do know… after this, everything will change.”

Like always, she didn’t even flinch at that. She was certain that nothing could crack the foundations you’d built together. If anything, this was the start of something incredible for the both of you.

“I know. That does not scare me.” Alexia spoke simply, confidently. Not an ounce of fear or hesitation in her voice.

She casted her eyes back to the screen, where the first paragraphs were waiting.

Here goes nothing.

—

When Alexia Putellas touched a football for the first time, her only concern was what her Mami would think about the clay stains on her fresh hand-me-down pair of jeans she had just gotten from her older cousin. She imagined an evening spent scrubbing it out with nothing but her hands, some warm water, and a bar of soap. Before being told the news that those kinds of stains don’t come out, and that she should stick to playing basketball on the concrete of her school playground.

Instead, she was met with wild excitement from her Papá. That of which can only manifest from the realisation that one man’s childhood dream could be passed down onto his daughter, if he were to be so lucky. 

So the frequent trips to Camp Nou began. The evenings spent in bars with boisterous, beer-bellied men that hardly batted an eye at the small girl seated on the pool table with her attention glued to the tiny, tin-box TV. The mornings spent in the company of a football and a pair of trainers with the sole flapping each time she kicked it. Walks to school where the only topic was technique; how to read your opponent, how to outsmart your opponent, how to do that skill move that Rivaldo did the night before, how to position yourself like Puyol to prevent anyone from getting past. How to possess a ball and intelligence like Xavi. How to represent a club you’d die for like Messi.

The rest? Well, she’s already stamped herself into the history books. But there’s something that lingers after the trophies are lifted, after the chants die down, after the flood lights turn off. I saw it for myself, not when she was wearing a medal as she walked down the tunnel after yet another trophy ceremony, but when she was adjusting the volume on the car radio mid-way through me talking. When she was halfway through a memory of the streets we walked when a dog approached us and she reached down to love on it and make conversation with its owner. When she stumbled over her words and paused her sentence in an attempt to gather her thoughts, organise them, so that she could give the exact truth, even if it meant selling a piece of herself with it. 

I don’t need to say it for the world to know she hardly ever agrees to interviews of any kind, nevermind one like this. Maybe it was to talk football. Maybe the timing was right. Maybe she wanted to take her name and make it into something outside of a stadium, away from the grass. Whatever the reason, maybe you’ll know better than I by the end of this. Maybe it’ll remain a mystery, just like she. 

I met her on a Friday, at a cafe of her choosing in the early afternoon. It was a small, hole-in-the-wall place that you could tell was treasured solely by the locals. The menu board was in Catalan, every table occupied by people had plates of pa amb tomàquet there, the room smelt of tomato and olive oil in the best way you could imagine. And when she walked in, she looked right at home. Different than I’d seen before. It was then that immediately I knew, this was the Alexia Putellas the world had been missing out on.

— 

It was the Alexia you got. Nobody but you.

She walked into the cafe with an effortlessness you’d come to learn was specific to her. Hair scraped back in a low messy bun, sunglasses perched perfectly on the bridge of her nose, her usual silver hoops hanging off her ears. No Barcelona gear this time, for once – casual, but with far too much fear of coming across like anything but, to be described as only that. She’d definitely tried, that’s all that could be said. She adorned another pair of blue jeans (possibly low-rise, possibly not), a soft white long-sleeved button up with faint dark stripes and a leather jacket over the top. There were a couple buttons undone to her shirt both at the top and the bottom, the latter tucked in on one side with a white vest or t-shirt underneath. Lots of layers for a sunny February morning, but she wasn't one for the cold it seemed.

Her appearance was inconspicuous, sure. But then you looked at the light dusting of makeup she'd worn today, uncharacteristic for her, and how there's not a hair out of place, her earrings set in position like stone, and you started to wonder if you'd missed an invite to something.

“Holi.” Her voice was light and carefree. You might have even said excited if you weren’t so nervous.

You stood from your chair and slyly wiped your hands down your thighs. “Hi.”

“Is that all I get?” 

Just like that, you started feeling more at ease.

With a quiet laugh, you rounded the table and she met you halfway. The hand of hers that reached out, you went to shake, only to stop in your tracks when it bypassed yours and landed on your forearm instead as she leaned in to kiss each cheek in greeting. You didn’t have time to return it as she pulled away whilst you were still processing. It was a very common greeting, especially in Spain, but it felt like a little more than that. There was a smirk on her face when she noticed you frozen to the spot, and wasn't until she sat down in her chair with a sigh that you snapped out of it.

“It’s good to see you again.” You went with as you took your seat again, this time no notebook and pen in front of you, just your phone and an audio recorder. 

“You have no idea.” She shrugged her jacket off and hung it on her chair behind her. Then, she sat back and linked her hands together where her elbows rested on the arms of the rickety cafe chair, god knows how old it might have been. “So, how does this work?”

“I think… well, we just go where the day takes us. I have what I need. I believe you’re the one that’s in control of where we go and what we do.” Feigning confidence was a strong point for you– except this time it felt less forced and more… natural. You didn’t have to actively think about doing it, it was just there anyway. You guessed that’s what happens when someone actually believes in you.

“It makes sense, no? It is about me, so I take you a place or two that nobody knows is a big part of my life.” As she spoke, she looked over to the counter and made some kind of gesture to the older man behind it. He beamed at the sight of her, to which she waved, before he disappeared behind a coffee machine and got to making her order. 

“And this place is one of them?” 

Already, she seemed to hesitate a little. Her eyes flicked down to the audio recorder and her shoulders relaxed the tiniest bit when she realised it wasn’t on yet.

“This is not going in the article?” She asked with an ounce of nerves.

“No,” You shook your head, softening when you next spoke. “If we talk about something and you don’t want it going in, just say. I won’t put anything in that you don’t want, that’s not how I work.”

She nodded, casting her eyes away to the window beside her and the street outside it. 

“I know that. And you know I don’t like these things, so… if I am anxious about something, it’s not you. It’s just this.” She looked back at you to see you smiling in understanding, and she let out a quiet, barely there breath but one you noticed anyway. “This cafe, the man that owns it, is very special to me. When… when my Papá died, my Mami did not cope well. Of course. And the man here, he was a close family friend for my Papá’s family. So when my Mami was having a bad day, me and my sister would come here together and he would give us meals for free. Even if that was three meals a day. We would sit at this table here, the same chairs, sometimes we would cry, sometimes we would argue, he did not mind. He would bring over the soup of the day or the seafood of the day without saying anything. So… this place is a big part of my life.”

Just as she finished, the man in question came over with two coffees, placing them down in front of you both. Him and Alexia chatted for about a minute or so in soft Catalan, and he looked at her with such adoration in his eyes, it might’ve burst out of him if he exerted himself too much. Then, with a smile in your direction and a squeeze of your hand where it rested on the table, he left. He moved slowly as he walked and there was a slight tremor in his hands when he picked up a few plates from other tables, his age beginning to take its impact. Alexia glanced back at you with a pursed smile, because she saw it in him too.

“He had a stroke last year and I made sure his cafe did not go out of business when he was away. I tried to get him to retire and that I would find people to look after this place for him but he refused.” She spoke of him affectionately, shaking her head as she did so and raising her mug to sip from it.

“You don’t get many people like him anymore.” You decided on saying, rather than some kind of generic apology, words of comfort, or further digging, all of which you knew she wouldn’t really appreciate. She hummed lowly in agreement, wrapping both hands around her cup when she set it back down to try and regain some warmth back to her fingertips. “But I can bet he is proud of who you are. And who you’ve become. There’s no doubt with the way he looks at you.”

That, she was caught off-guard by. She did say she liked that, so she has no place to argue with it. Not that she would, it might have been the best thing someone had said to her. It wasn’t to do with football, or her fitness, or her injury history. Just her. They struck a chord inside her that hadn’t been breached by someone new in years. She never let anyone get close anymore, but in just three or four encounters with you, you were saying things that made her wonder when exactly she started letting her guard down around you.

“You journalists always know what to say.” She said it to deflect, since she wasn’t used to being the one between you both that was on the receiving end of compliments. Safe to say your confidence definitely was growing, and not just in the journalist department. You were confident that you were getting to know her as someone more to you than just the interviewee. 

“Thought we had established I’m not a typical journalist.” You teased, to which she grinned and found solid ground again.

“Yes. Yes we have.” The brunette rested her chin on her hand, palm smushing her cheek slightly, though she showed no care for that and only for you. Her eyes found yours at that moment and they didn’t leave for the rest of the duration of your stay at the cafe.

You cleared your throat, fighting a blush, composure stuttering under her gaze, and picked up the audio recorder.

“When I turn this on, you have to behave yourself.” The simple, momentary, upwards quirk of her eyebrows was all the warning she gave you for the direction the day would take.

“No. Only you listen to that, so I think the opposite actually.” 

You were going to need some strong self-control to get through it.

—

I was already there waiting for her, but I wasn’t the only one that showed up early. She arrived ten minutes before she was supposed to, something she later told me was an important habit of hers. To this day, and probably for the rest of my life, I don’t think I’ve ever met nor will ever meet someone that is more a stickler for the ‘early is on time, on time is late’ quote than her.

Immediately when she walked in and the bell above the door rang, the face of the owner of this small cafe lit up as soon as he saw her. Not in the way a young fan does when they spot her on the pitch, no. This was the expression someone adorned when they saw someone that had changed their life for the better. 

Arnau, the man in question, suffered a stroke last year. When Alexia heard this, she rushed to the hospital not just to see him, but to find out his recovery plan, so that she could invest in his small business to ensure it was exactly the same when he returned as it was when he unexpectedly left it. This silent, but life-altering gesture is who Alexia is. She’s not a missed penalty at the Olympics. She’s not a player whose worth left when their ACL snapped one day in England. She’s someone that can win a Ballon d’Or one day, and sit in the back room of a cafe with her accountant the next day as she figures out how to keep a cafe running when the only thing she knows about coffee is what milk she drinks it with.

As incredibly modest as ever, the only thing I could get out of her for the interview was that Arnau is the only reason in the world why she carries cash. Just because he can’t quite figure out online banking. That’s one part of who she is; she makes everybody’s life so much more vibrant and enjoyable with her small acts of kindness. 

She is human, like the rest of us.

Especially when it comes to food, apparently. 

I’m just about to turn the audio recorder on when a plate of all kinds of sweet treats is placed between us. Arnau says they’re from the bakery next door who donates any leftovers at the end of their day for his cafe to sell. He then tells me that Alexia in particular is a fan of this deal, and the midfielder shakes her head, caught red-handed, as Arnau lets out the loudest laugh I think I’ve ever heard. 

“You’re going to mention this in the article, aren’t you?” She says. And I reply, “Of course.”

She shakes her head once more, but nevertheless picks up the most sugary-looking cake of the options. Turns out footballers can have a sweet tooth too. 

This prompts me to ask her, “What do you order after a win?”

A win in football for her can range from a 8-0 victory against a team in the Liga F or even in the Champion’s League, as well as wins in finals of the highest stature, as follows: three UWCL finals, five Supercopa finals, nine Copa de la Reina finals, and a World Cup final. What does someone with a record like that eat after each title?

“The night after the World Cup, I don’t remember much.” She answers with a grimace. There goes that exclusive. “After a win in the league or something, I might go out for dinner with friends and family, but nothing much different than my usual diet. After a big win in the Champion’s or winning the league, I love fast food. We all do.”

So you can still have Burger King after all as an athlete. 

“You didn’t take this interview just to ask me about food, no?” 

Certainly not.

This is only my third time meeting Alexia. Two times before this were also for interviews, much different to the environment I found myself in on the third occasion. One day, I was doing some work for other articles in a cafe not far from here (sorry Arnau) when a call came through from a private number. It was her, Alexia. I’ve never panicked as much as I did then, wondering why on earth she would be ringing. 

As it turned out, she was offering me this very opportunity. Yes, she offered it to me. She never told me why she wanted to do it, she only told me to show up with whatever questions I could think up, and she’d be here. But the more time we spent together that day, the more time I took to think about everything that was spoken about as I wrote this, I slowly began to put the pieces of the puzzle together. And I think that was her plan all along.

Alexia has stated before in interviews that it felt like she became an overnight success, but that is far from the reality, and she often has to remind herself of that. She doesn’t remember when people started coming up to her in the street asking for photos, autographs, a jersey of hers, on one occasion the very hat off her head. “That was an odd day, but I understand it now.” It took a lot of time to process it all, to understand why, this fascination with a stranger that was “Just someone who played football.” Until one day, sat in the stands as she watched her team play without her, bandages around her knee and crutches propped up beside her, it all clicked.

“I became a role model. I became the idol that I didn’t have when I was young. It was only when I was… I don’t know, eighteen? That’s when I started seeing women’s players and having idols of my own. Still, if you weren’t in the sport where word of mouth was passed around and you had to ask for recordings of games that were so horrible quality you had to guess the player from their play style, nobody knew any women’s players. Now… things are different.” 

There was a coy smile on her face as she spoke, because things were much different. Her name on the back of a Barcelona shirt is the most popular combination purchased in women’s football. I’ve seen her shirts in England, in Germany, in America. No matter where you go, there’s a little girl somewhere that thinks of her like she thought of the men’s players she watched at that same age. “That to me means more than anything in football.”

When she was younger and boys of her age were asked what they wanted to be when they grew up, almost every single one said a footballer. Alexia herself didn’t even say football, nor did any of the other girls. Even when she was in an academy, with a haircut to fit in with the boys around her, a different date of birth just to be granted the chance to play, it was nothing more than a hobby. It couldn’t be anything more than a hobby, and that’s the point she’s trying to make. 

“Now, when I know there are so many girls getting into football properly because they know they can be one, and they’re going to their academy trials and practices wearing my jersey? If I never win another title again, it won’t matter to me, because I know I have done enough.”

She’s done more than enough, but it seems she has a difficult time recognising that some days.

—

Most of the time in the cafe was spent building up a profile for you to be able to write the article aside from all the questions. You learnt more about her in that hour period than you thought you could. From things about her childhood, to her father, her relationship with fame, all of it. Vulnerable things you could see she struggled to talk about but did for you. You started to get the feeling, then, that not all of it was for the article. She just wanted you to see her. It was like a cry for help, but not as such– more like… seeking an escape. 

It was a strange feeling, realising these things whilst being sat in front of her as she rambled about the female footballers she idolised and how she seeked refuge in their gameplay whilst she came to terms with her grief. You couldn’t watch her in a game of football the same again, knowing everything you had learnt; the ritual she did as she stepped on the pitch, how each match was a chance to connect with the person that had led her there. The entire essence of her being had a whole new meaning to you, you watched it develop right in front of you. And by the time she suggested she take you to the place where it all started, you could have sworn you saw the relief in her eyes at how you were discovering the very person she was trying to help you find.

But before that, there were a couple more questions you wanted the answer to. Whether they were for the article or for yourself, well… that’s nobody’s business but yours.

“Since there’s always some kind of eye watching you, what do you do to keep your days yours? What part of the day is yours entirely?” It doesn’t come out quite as you planned it, it was wordy and jumbled, you had to ask it twice to get the memo across. Alexia hummed when you finished and looked away in thought, evidently pleased at the question, which was a result.

“I say… at night. End of the day. I can… get back to myself again. If I have been at an event that day, or played a big game– when I get back to my room at home or my room at a hotel, when the door is closed, it is just me. For the night. I sometimes have a bath, only if I am not tired, and after that I don’t speak to anyone. I do things that are just for me. Read. Watch a movie, or TV. Journal, sometimes. It’s important, to… have that connection with yourself again. To remember that, even though you are doing things for other people all the time, no matter what it is you do, it’s only ever going to be… you. You are your own company. If you don’t prioritise spending time with yourself, then the person you see in the mirror becomes a stranger.” 

She rambled, that she was aware of in the way her cheeks flushed a second after she finished. The way she spoke, though. It was something special. She said it like she was speaking from experience. So you didn’t write it down, decided there and then not to include it in the article. Some things don’t need to be shared, even when the purpose of this meeting was to do exactly that. 

“That was a bit… depressing, no?” Alexia grimaced, making you laugh quietly. Then she hesitated for just a second. “You didn’t write anything down for that.”

You let that settle between you momentarily, then. You let her breathe it in, left her in the hanging moment. Two can play at her game.

“I don’t think you were really saying it for the article.”

That was when you saw it in her eyes– the relief, because you saw her, and you matched everything she gave.

“You keep it.” She smiled softly. As if you weren’t going to tuck that bit of her soul away in your memory for as long as she would let you.

“Maybe I will.” 

The brunette nodded once, averting her eyes to her coffee cup in front of her where she looped her fingers through the handle. She didn’t drink from it, just held it, like it was something to keep her hands from fidgeting. A minute or so later, she looked back up at you with a tilt to her head.

“So, you have more questions for here? Or are you going to sit in silence like a therapist until I ramble because of my nerves?” She teased, teeth on show as she grinned helplessly. 

“Okay,” You started in reply. “What do you watch, then? When it’s just you?” 

Her cheeks blushed again, like her answer was something she was ashamed of. Thankfully, only in a light-hearted way.

“It’s bad.” She warned you, eyes lighting up more when you let out a breath of amusement. “Really bad.”

“Is this my great exclusive?” You teased with a smile wider than was necessary.

“No. So bad, it can’t go in.” 

“What on earth do you watch, Alexia?”

“You know… that show with the doctors. A bit… dirty. Not really doctors. Just sex, all the time. One woman talks over the show. I can’t remember the name.” 

You laughed far too loudly for the quiet cafe, but Arnau didn’t seem to mind with the cheeky smile he casted Alexia’s way. Alexia shook her head in embarrassment, pinching the bridge of her nose as she resisted laughing herself.

“Grey’s Anatomy? Alexia, that’s hardly bad. It’s like one of the most well-known shows around.” That time, the pair of you do laugh together, like it was something you’ve always done with each other. As if it’s something you always will.

“I know. I like the drama. It’s nice to be the one watching the drama than being in it.” She commented, though pulled a face afterwards at her own words. “Don’t put that in. Makes me sound… bitter?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” You argued politely with a nonchalant shrug. “Makes you sound human. Normal.” 

She took your words in with a slightly surprised expression, like the description of human for her was uncommon. Part of you wouldn’t be surprised if it was, considering the things she’d told you already, the things you’d read between the lines, and the things you suspected were there deep down inside her. And it continued to ever-so-gently break your heart that this woman in front of you was so foreign to it, so truthfully unknown to the world. 

“Anything else?” She moved the topic on without much fuss, subtly reaching for her jacket from behind her. 

“No, I think that’s it for here.” You decided, pausing the audio recorder and collecting your few belongings.

You both stood, Alexia briefly leaving you to say goodbye to Arnau, and though you pretended not to watch them, you caught the way she glanced over at you as she said something in particular to him that resulted in a proud smile on his face. Whatever it was that was said, you had a feeling you wouldn’t ever really find out. Some unknowns like that, however, bring a thrill that is often just as exciting as the truth, so you didn’t mind. 

It wasn’t long before she was back at your side anyway, leading the way to the door and opening it for you. You walked through with a thank you, and Alexia ensured the door closed gently behind you both before leading the way.

“Where are you taking us?” You wondered, elbows brushing as you reached into your pocket to get the audio recorder, not turning it on again just yet.

“The clay pitch where I played my first game.” Alexia recounted with a distant smile, eyes absentmindedly staring at the Barcelona tiles beneath her feet like she was caught in a memory. It was then you pressed record on the device.

“What game was it?” She looked up at the street that sprawled out in front of you, one she had walked probably hundreds of times in her life and yet remained totally unchanged. 

“Just one between some kids from the neighbourhood. My father took me. He taught me the most important lesson of my life here.” You grasped onto every word, intrigued if she was about to admit something hand-picked from the very root of her core.

“What was that?” You asked delicately. 

You should have known, really. Especially given the mischievous smirk that fought its way back onto her face.

“How to kick a football properly.” She said, laughing when you rolled your eyes. As you continued walking, she nudged you with her elbow playfully, a stupid gesture that made your heart race silly.

“And how to score too?” You added.

“Of course. He taught me everything. And now… everything I do is for him.” Alexia softened when she said that– dropping her jokey nature in exchange for a sentiment that was perhaps the most personal to her of all. 

You’d heard her speak about her father before in interviews, in her documentary, in the media. Heard her say those exact words, near enough. Though nothing could match to hearing her in person, where her voice dropped an octave and her eyes glossed over. Where her hand twitched at her side in the way a child's would when searching for their parent’s hand.

“I gave my first paycheck to him, you know.” She continued, sniffling quickly to compose herself. You hummed in curiosity, willing her to carry on with no pressure to do such if she didn’t want to. “Even when I was younger I always wanted to repay him. Many things have changed but the fundamental things often don’t.” 

No matter how far she had come, there was still that little girl inside of her whose only focus was making her father proud. That same little girl who, now, gets to say ‘look what I’ve done with what you gave me.’ Beneath all the titles and the trophies and the captain’s armband, still just that small bundle of energy and determination that chased both a ball and his approval. All you wanted to say then, despite it not being your place, was that she’d probably had it from the moment she was born. 

Nevertheless, it was something you admired her for; how she had never hardened against the world, not where it mattered. How she carried her grief with grace and let you, of all people, see it so clearly.  She was unique, a true one-in-a-billion. 

And still, she watched you like you were giving something to her. When, really, she didn’t see that she was the gift. Not the story, just her. 

Your train of thought was halted by the sight of the pitch coming into view as you both rounded a street corner. It was tucked away in the heart of the neighbourhood, its previously vibrant fiery orange colour faded to a light brown. Dust footprints lined the way to the more modern looking fence around it with a gate in one far corner. The lines of the pitch were hardly visible, and there were a few spots here and there where bits of it had been worn away more than most. Specifically, the halfway line kick-off point, some places down the side, the tiny and not so ‘six-yard’ box, as well as the penalty spots. You imagined part of that was because of Alexia.

“They added this fence because every week there was a football through somebody’s window.” 

She opened the gate and stepped inside, you following behind once more. Soon as you stepped inside you had a grave feeling wearing your favourite shoes was an unfortunate decision.

“How many windows did you put out?” You asked with a sly smile. 

“None. I never missed my shots.” She replied in a smug manner, a ridiculous statement that was definitely not true, but was definitely infuriatingly charming in the way she said it. 

“Come on.” You rolled your eyes and it only egged her on. “Did you bow here too when you scored?”

You got her back with that one, the midfielder pleasantly surprised by the teasing question.

“No, not yet.” She chuckled, tucking her hands into her jean pockets and looking around the place with a fond expression on her face.

You couldn’t imagine the pictures racing through her mind in that moment, flashbacks of all the times on that very pitch which had individually, unknowingly, led to her standing back on it again with you. Talking about Ballon d’Ors, Champion’s League finals, her World Cup win. All these achievements of hers she had absolutely no idea about when she was wearing her Barcelona kit as nothing more than a fan back then. 

“I know you’re tired of people bringing it up to you…”

“You can ask whatever you would like.” 

All the emphasis she could muster was enforced on that single sentence, and it spoke volumes. Her hands were in her pockets still, body language relaxed and far from the nerves that first possessed her when she arrived at the cafe. She was completely open to anything from you. 

Her eyes bored into yours from a few steps away and in them was an inquisitiveness, where she wondered how you, with all your differences to other journalists, would ask her about it. Regardless of how you did it, she knew she would tell you anything you wanted to know. And more, probably; she could talk to you forever.

“You bowed at Bilbao. People talk about it like it was the goal itself, or even the title. It looked like it meant more to you than both those things. Did it?” Her face gave away nothing, except from a hint of admiration and something else in her face too. “Was that moment for you, or for everyone else watching?” 

Alexia didn’t answer right away. 

You saw how her lips twitched in one corner, not with a smile. Her tongue pressed to the inside of her cheek in thought. Then, her eyes moved from you, to the audio recorder in your hand at your side, and to the ground as she slowly took a few steps towards the centre of the pitch.

“It did mean more.” She said eventually. “It was the first time that I felt like I was really back. Not just physically.” 

She slowed as she reached the halfway line, arms crossing over her chest as she kept her stare averted from you to gather her thoughts. She let out a quiet laugh under her breath, not a mocking one or a self-depricating one, but one that sounded as if she was still in disbelief at it all.

“People think recovery ends when you play again.” She paused. “But I was back on a pitch and still… waking up scared every morning that the injury had changed something in me and I’d never be the same person again.” 

One foot toed at the half-visible center circle line, taking another brief respite to find the right words. 

“That goal in Bilbao and bowing in front of all those people, in front of all those Barcelona fans, it wasn’t just a celebration. I did it at Camp Nou to thank them all for coming, and I did it for them again because the stadium was on neutral grounds and they made the journey there in tens of thousands. But also, a thank you to my people that helped me get back there. And… a thank you to myself. For not quitting.” She shrugged when she finished, shaking her head too. “It sounds stupid, I know.” 

“It doesn’t.” You quickly told her. She gave a soft breath of a smile, but it faded quickly.

“I needed that moment at Bilbao. I lost myself during the rehab, and then I was a substitute for so long after, barely in the manager’s plans. There were weeks where I didn’t think I would come out the other side with anything of who I used to be.” Her voice was growing steadier with every bit of herself she unravelled in front of you. “After that, everything changed. Not just football, but really, everything. I slept better, smiled more. A weight had gone from my shoulders.” 

“You’ve definitely smiled a lot more since then.” You stated with somewhat of a look of pride on your face. She nodded as she looked up at you again.

“I fought for that smile.” She said, “It’s easier to do when you finally recognise yourself again.” 

You didn’t speak again just yet– she still had more to say.

“I don’t think I am the same person I was before.” She was looking directly at you then, finishing her final act of her answer. You held your breath without realising as she went on. “But I see now that’s not a bad thing. I believe I’m a better version now. I’ve had to rebuild things, not just my knee, but my confidence and my sense of self. That, I still struggle with sometimes. But it’s not so difficult to pick myself up again than it was before; missing a penalty is a lot better to deal with than having to learn to walk again.” 

Alexia chuckled at her own words in a nervous manner, afraid of how weak she might come across. Learning to walk again when she was nearly in her 30s was something she loathed, and found indescribably embarrassing. For her, a fall from grace didn’t get quite so high.

There was another beat of silence between you, the kind not many people could get from her. The words that came out of her next sounded like she was trying to justify herself, her struggles, like she had something to owe people.

“I think I’m a better teammate now too. A better sister. A better daughter. And maybe… happier than I’ve ever been, also.”

But your opinion of her couldn’t be further from what she feared. In fact, you spoke before you could think to stop yourself. 

“There’s a lot of people that are proud of you.” 

Her head tilted slightly, not having expected you to say that. A smile crept onto her face too, shy and warm. In a rather absentminded way, she took a few steps closer to you again.

“You included?” She hummed, making you laugh for perhaps the hundredth time that day. 

“Me included.” You told her with an easy nod. Her eyes narrowed in mock warning.

“You won’t put that in, will you?” The brunette said in a know-it-all way.

“Only if you want it in writing.” You retorted, not an ounce of jest in the way you said it. 

Alexia laughed in deflection, not quite sure what to do with how deeply that settled in her chest. 

—

There is a quote Alexia lives by that sums the midfielder up perfectly; “No he llegado esta aquí para solo llegar hasta aquí.”

So though she may say she believes she’s done enough if she never wins a title again, that is far from the truth she has for herself, and she knows it. It’s clear to see in how she plays every game at her 100% best, no matter if it’s an international friendly or a cup final. But the chapter of her life where it is most evident, is during her injury.

Everybody knows about the issues Alexia has had with her knee, it was the biggest story before the 2022 Euros and still makes headlines now. You could argue that, with all the obstacles and bumps in the road that challenged her during recovery (not just one injury, but two – not just one occasion learning to walk again, but two) if she didn’t step back on the pitch, she was leaving behind one of the most admirable careers in football. Except that’s not who she is, she doesn’t give up that easily, and she fought through every single bit of hardship for it all to come to an end at one place.

Bilbao. That final. 

First, we must go back to the very place it all started. A clay pitch at the heart of Mollet del Vallès, where playground fun quickly turned into lifelong dreams for one hometown girl. So, after admitting to her most risky personal fact – she is a rather large Grey’s Anatomy fan, for anybody that cares – her and I made the quick walk from Arnau’s cafe to said pitch. 

For the short duration of it, I could tell her mind was elsewhere. Her eyes skimmed over every detail of the streets that I assumed then, due to the look on her face, hadn’t changed a bit from when she was younger. The tiles she watched with every step had probably worn down a bit over the years, but apart from that, nothing. Each family she knew as a child stayed in the same houses, now with new generations there instead. Time had passed and the streets had grown, though not with modernity, but the sense of community that engulfs you the second you step in. I wondered what it felt like for her, to return as the person the world knew her as now, and still walk the same path her childhood boots had scuffed. It must have been strange, and comforting maybe. Or bittersweet, but I didn’t ask. I just watched her.

Her steps slowed slightly as we reached the turn for the pitch. When we got there, she pointed to the fence around and told me they’d installed it after too many footballs ended up through a few neighbours’ windows. She tried to make it come across as just a random fact, but she said it with that same smirk I’d grown accustomed to, and I knew there were definitely a couple caused by her. 

She told me, as we were walking, that it was here her father taught her the most important lesson she had learned– how to kick a football, properly. Now, it’s hard to imagine Alexia Putellas taking a penalty and kicking it in an uncontrolled manner with the front of her shoe, but given the need for the fence, well… it likely happened more than once. Even if she claimed she never missed her shots back then (she probably doesn’t want an invoice showing up in her emails for new windows for three different neighbours). 

Then she sobered from her humour when I asked if he taught her how to score too; “Of course. He taught me everything I know. And now… everything I do is for him.” 

I’d heard her speak about him before, it’s not a new topic in interviews and in the media. Though, it’s different when you hear it up close, with the way her voice drops off a little and her eyes gloss over in a way a camera wouldn’t catch. It’s different when she tells you how she gave him her first paycheck and insisted he use it for gas and toll roads, since he always took her to her football commitments. 

That never left me. Despite everything she’s ever done since – the titles, the Ballon d’Ors, the records she’s set and legacy she’s creating – there is still that girl in her, running around this clay pitch in Mollet del Vallès with dust on her shoes and something to prove to the man who taught her what football could mean. 

In the way she spoke about him, it was clear that football had always been their language. It was the thing that tethered them. The clay pitch was the definitive start point between them, and it’s evident with a connection like that, there will be no definitive end to it. However, all that felt at risk during her injury. During that time, one fear ran deeper than the rest. I don’t have to say it for you to work out what that was. But everything she is now, more than ever before, is built on the foundation he laid for her. 

It’s why Bilbao mattered, because of what it represented to her; it was about being back to herself, sure, but it was also about bringing him with her. There might not be any bigger motivation in the world than that. 

Being substituted into a Champion’s League final in the final few minutes of the game might have been aggravating, if anything, to a player of Alexia’s standards. As we know now, that couldn’t be further from her mentality, and that grand motivation burned through her the whole time she sat on the bench, reaching its crescendo when she finally stepped onto the pitch. Everybody remembers what happened next.

I told her that people talk about her celebration like it was just as important as the goal and the title itself, which got a huff of amusement from her, but it was the truth. I then asked her two questions, ‘It looked like it meant more to you than both those things. Did it?’ and following that, ‘Was that moment just for you, or for everyone else watching?’

She thought about it quite deeply, with her tongue pressed in her cheek and her eyes glancing around as if they themself were piecing her response together. Before she replied, she slowly started heading towards the halfway line.

“It did mean more. It was the first time I felt like I was really back. Not just physically.” 

But it was what she said after that which I found rather remarkable. Her whole demeanour in that moment was slightly guarded, with her arms crossed over her chest and laughing for just a second in disbelief at how things had turned out, when there was a time she thought she would never put on the captain’s armband for the club of her life again.

“People think recovery ends when you play again.” The midfielder paused, and I held my breath. “But I was back on a pitch and still… waking up scared every morning that the injury had changed something in me and I’d never be the same person again.” 

Afterwards, she makes the devastating admission to me that she lost herself in the middle of it all. That she needed that moment in Bilbao, because there were weeks where she truly didn’t believe she would come out the other side with anything of who she used to be. 

When I think back to everything I thought and felt then upon hearing that, it’s hard to identify anything outright because I was… speechless. In awe of the woman standing before me. It’s easy to forget when someone has lifted nearly every trophy possible that identity doesn’t always survive injury. There’s many stories of athletes going through a similar heartbreak, and not coming out of it with anything they once knew intact. But the fact here is, Alexia pushed past every barrier placed in front of her after that dreaded day in England, and the version of her she wasn’t sure existed anymore still showed up, on the biggest stage of all, and reminded her what she could do. 

The bow was simply an act of quiet reckoning. A woman who nearly lost herself to the silent torture of recovery, because you’re not supposed to complain or show your anger about what cards life had served you, choosing to bow to all of it; the fans, the fight, the doubt, the work she put in. Most importantly, the fact that she was still here. She hadn’t left, not for a second, and there was a new version of her. One that wanted retribution. 

Perhaps the most beautiful part of it all, however, was this: “After that, everything changed. Not just football, but really, everything. I slept better, smiled more. A weight had gone from my shoulders.” 

Only someone like her could turn something like two possibly career ending knee surgeries into a chance to gain something. Perspective.

“I don’t think I am the same person I was before.” There I was, holding my breath again for her response. I can’t describe how she was looking at me. “But I see now that’s not a bad thing. I believe I’m a better version now. I’ve had to rebuild things, not just my knee, but my confidence and my sense of self. That, I still struggle with sometimes. But it’s not so difficult to pick myself up again than it was before; missing a penalty is a lot better to deal with than having to learn to walk again.” 

Alexia chuckled at herself, but we both knew she wasn't joking. 

It’s the biggest testament to her that she recognises that and sees the light in it. I really do believe there’s not many people who could do the same if put in her position, especially when she tells me afterwards that she’s happier than she’s ever been. And when she says “I think I’m a better teammate now too. A better sister. A better daughter,” it about sums her up as a person. To go through something like she did, and come out the other side saying she’s a better person to the people around her, makes her the most extraordinary person I have ever met. 

I said to her, there and then, that there were many people who were proud of her. She seemed caught off-guard by the notion, and deflected from her shyness by asking if I was proud of her too. I easily said yes, and she had the audacity to accuse me of not wanting to put that declaration in here. There was no way I couldn’t, because I am proud of her. Ridiculously so.

“How did it feel in that moment? Do you remember what was going through your head?”

At that, she blew out a raspberry, as if there was too much to say with no way to verbalise it all.

“Everything and nothing. I put my foot through the ball how I always practiced, clean and not rushed, all instinct. Then the ball was in the back of the net and I was just running. It was a release of everything I had felt for so long, that’s why the shirt came off. I just ran to one corner where I knew there were Barça fans. It was when all my teammates came over screaming and shouting that it set in and I came back down a little to bow to thank everyone. But when I went back to position for kick-off and I saw the replay on the screens, the scoreboard, heard the fans, I think I nearly cried.” 

It was an immeasurably overwhelming moment, so it’s no shock to hear she could have teared up after it. She had less than five minutes to change the game and secure the title, less than five. And she did it. You can never count her out, ever.

From there, I mentioned that there are kids all over the world now recreating that goal and the celebration for it, a comment that put a fond smile on her face. Something I found to be pleasantly surprising was how easily flustered she could be and how bashful she gets at the simplest compliment. With how humble she is, one has to think there’s no one more deserving to be in her position than her.

Out of curiosity, I asked her; “What player did you pretend to be when you played here?” 

“Rivaldo. Always Rivaldo. One of my most vivid memories as a child was seeing his hattrick that sent Barça to the Champion’s. His celebration after his overhead kick was taking his shirt off, so maybe I was inspired by that at Bilbao, I don’t know.” She laughed. “He was my biggest reference, how he could create and score goals so easily. So creative. He is also probably why I prefer my left foot. I liked pretending I could be him, it made me believe I could do something big too. He definitely allowed me to dream.” 

There are definitely a lot of similarities between him and Alexia, though I believe there is simply no one that parallels her devotion. It never needs to be spoken to be understood, especially when it comes to her loyalty to Barcelona. She’s given every single part of herself to the club and more– Alexia is Barça, she always will be Barça. There will never be another like her for the rest of time in women’s football.

And for our time at the pitch, I had one final question for her. ‘If the younger version of you was standing here right now, boots covered in clay and a ball under her arm. What would you say to her?’

It’s a loaded question no matter who you ask it to, but perhaps her quite significantly. She went quiet for a short while as she considered it carefully. I had my doubts about asking it initially, wondering if it was a bit too far for this, or if it was much too personal than what she had in mind for the day. Then I remembered she chose me to do this article, me specifically (for reasons I’m still not sure), and my doubts were erased with the way she looked back at me before she answered. She was certain and steady, both in herself, the day that had been and whatever awaited us after, as well as her answer that came next.

“I would tell her to keep going, what she’s doing will take her even further than she thinks it will. Tell her to be patient too, and calm.” She grimaced, referencing the slight temper problem she had up until her early 20’s. “I tell her that she should keep her head up, because some things will feel unfair or, maybe, slow or like they’re not going to happen. But they will, I mean… look now.” 

Her face is one of disbelief again and she shrugs along with it, a bashful smile to her lips. It wasn’t said in a bragging way because she never spoke like that; I realised over time that she just couldn’t believe that this was her life, still. After so many years of being in this position, she didn’t take it for granted for even just a second. And that’s admirable.

I thought her answer ended there, but she continued with a vulnerability I had grown to adore.

“And I would tell her… losing your father is going to hurt, but he’s still with you. He’s always with you, always will be. You’re going to carry him through it. All the games, on every stadium and pitch, in every final. And last…” She inhaled softly. Then blew it out, holding it for a second, clearing her throat, and closing her eyes. “He will be proud. Always.” 

As it turned out, she had a rather frustrating habit of leaving me speechless far too often for my own good. Even whilst writing this, I have nothing to add. She said all that needed to be said, and I think the most respectful thing I can do is let that answer be in its own entirety. 

It was the best way to tie off our time at the clay pitch, and I was under the impression that we were going to head back to the cafe because Alexia had mentioned earlier she had some things she wanted to show me. Shirts she’d swapped, some medals, other bits and pieces that were souvenirs of her career and her life. I assumed she had brought them along with her and left them in the car, but I was wrong. The place she wanted to take me to?

Her apartment.

—

“Your apartment?” 

Now that was a turn to the day you really hadn’t expected.

She had asked in a quiet murmur, nervous for your reaction to it. Just a casual ‘do you have time for me to show you some things back at my place?’ for the outright reason she mentioned, but also because she didn’t want the day to end. That realisation was funny to her really, the fact that the most exciting day of her life outside of football she’d had in a while was with a journalist asking her some of the most personal questions she’d ever been asked. It was the truth though, and it ran far deeper than just a day with a journalist.

Fortunately for her, you didn’t want the day to end either.

“Sí, if that’s okay.” Alexia shrugged, trying to come off as carefree when in reality, her heart was skipping every other beat inside her chest waiting for your answer.

You would’ve walked all the way to the next city if it meant more time with her. 

“It’s fine, I just… don’t want to invade your privacy.” 

Even though so far it was just under the guise of perhaps getting a ‘true exclusive’, you knew what it meant to be invited to someone’s home, especially in a scenario like the one you found yourself in. You knew what it meant for her to offer it.

“You won’t be doing that. I’m inviting you. There are some things to show you that might be cool to include in the article. Besides,” She fought off a bashful smile in her pause, you saw the twitch to the corner of her lips. “You know more than most people do now. You’ve already invaded my space.” 

At some point, probably very early on in the cafe, or maybe even earlier, the lines had blurred between you both– taking it from a professional relationship to a rather strange but not unwelcome grey area. So, was it professional going to her place, given that anything could happen there? Especially when you factor in that last admission from her? Probably not. But it had been far from professional for a little while, and neither of you were going to lean out of it.

“Then lead the way.” You finally answered with a coy grin. 

Maybe it would lead to nothing, maybe she did just want to show you some things. Whatever it was, there was no disguising the small smile on her face that told you she’d been desperate for you to say yes. 

So with that, the two of you stepped off the clay pitch, and headed back towards the cafe where her car was parked outside. There was little exchange between you as you walked, both internally finding your feet in this new, unexpected scenario. The recorder was still on, using up its storage but not wasting it. Your mind was thrumming with the knowledge that, wherever things went after this day, you had almost all of it recorded. Meaning you could listen back to it at any given moment. And this silence during the short walk was valuable, not pointless for the recording; you knew that everything you were feeling then would come flooding back in the future when you listened to it, and that was sacred. No silence with her was awkward or uncomfortable, and you loved that you had proof and a captured memory of that.

“You sure you want me to get in? My shoes are covered in dust.” You pointed out, amused at the trail of footsteps the pair of you had left behind.

“There is mud from a hundred different stadiums stuck in the carpet of this car, a bit of dust is fine.” Alexia smirked, unlocking it as she rounded the car to her door. “Get in.” 

You met her daring gaze over the top of the roof, and she chuckled at the way your eyes beamed and your lips tried to hide it. 

Her car was neat, mostly, but there were a few things here and there which gave the tiniest of intimate glimpses into her everyday life. Stray blades of grass in the passenger footwell, a crate of sports drinks in the back within reach from the driver’s seat as well as an empty one rolling back and forth under her chair on the floor. There were no air fresheners, just the faint mix of her perfume and the leather of her seats, and a Catalan radio station came on when she started the engine.

With one last sideward glance at you, she pulled out into the road, fingers tapping mindlessly on the steering wheel once straightened, and she reached up to pull the visor down. Tucked into the side of the mirror flap was a polaroid photo of her and her family from when she was younger. It prompted you to ask a question you hadn’t planned for the day, but wanted to know the answer to anyway, for reasons you didn’t necessarily feel like divulging.

“If you asked the people closest to you,” You began and she hummed noncommittally to let you continue, whilst adjusting the radio’s volume so she could hear you with no distractions. That small action in itself nearly derailed your train of thought. “Your family, your friends, your teammates even– what would they say you do best?”

A quiver of a grin had you cutting her off once more.

“And don’t say football.” 

She had the audacity to roll her eyes as if that very answer wasn’t already on the tip of her tongue. 

A moment or two passed before she reacted seriously to the question, chewing on her bottom lip as she thought about it. In the end, she blew out a breath and shrugged.

“I don’t know what they would say but I think I know what I hope they would say, because it’s important to me.” Even as she pulled up at a red light, she kept her eyes on the road. “I hope they would say the thing I do best is… love. It’s important to me that the people I love know that I love them. I do anything I can to try and show them. To tell them they are appreciated for everything they do and don’t do. I… mm. I wouldn’t be able to do anything if I didn’t have the people around me, they keep me calm and safe and grounded. I need them more than they need me.” 

You smiled, and you blushed– you couldn’t help it. Alexia noticed, but pretended she didn’t. In that second, you were feeling particularly brave.

“Is there anyone closest to you that could vouch for that?” 

That time, she did glance at you, with a knowing grin. She knew exactly what you were asking when you said that.

“No. Don’t worry.” 

You only blushed harder when you saw how bashful and slightly cocky her face was. The words themself went unsaid but the meaning definitely didn’t. 

There was nobody for her but you. And vice versa. 

Conversationally, the topic moved on after that, though the same couldn’t be said for your individual internal thoughts. Regardless, there was a bit of small talk here and there, quiet laughs and absentminded smiles. She drove smoothly and precisely, calculated in every part of her life. It wasn’t long before she was pulling into the underground garage of her apartment building, which was tucked away into a lowkey part of the city to give her the privacy she needed from the public eye. 

As you walked by her side towards the elevator, you were slightly overcome with a feeling of starstruck. Not because of her and who she was, but because of where you were. Because of everything she’d gone through whilst living in this building and all she’d overcome, just to lead her here, with you. 

Standing across from her in the lift, where she leaned back against the bar, hands either side holding it, eyes solely tracked on you– it all suddenly felt very surreal. 

“I liked how you asked about the injury.” She stated out of the blue, chin slightly up and head angled to the side, as if she was sizing you up, just watching and observing. 

“How so?” You wondered, crossing your arms over your chest whilst the floors ticked by on the small screen above the door. 

“Using Bilbao to talk about it. Like you… somehow knew they were both so interlinked. It was different.” The brunette said, and a beat passed by without her eyes moving once from you. “You see it differently to anyone else. You see me, differently to everyone else. It’s why I chose you, you know. I hope you realise that now.” 

“I think I’m starting to.” You admitted shyly, and she seemed happy to hear that, if the small upturn of one corner of her mouth was anything to go by.

“Good.” She nodded twice, then let the elevator fall silent.

Until it arrived at her floor with a ring, and the doors opened behind you. You didn’t turn immediately, instead waited for Alexia to lead the way once more. She did, with a quick raise of her eyebrows towards the corridor and brushing past you, hand grazing yours for just a second. There was no movie cliche spark at the contact, but there was a soft smile to the footballer’s face when she saw you flinch out of your thoughts as a result.

She reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out her keys, attached to her Barcelona lanyard, and unlocked the door with what could only be described as domestic ease and muscle memory. She pushed it open and gestured for you to go in, stepping in after you and shutting the door before hanging up her jacket on the hooks beside it. There were far too many jackets on there than one person needed, it was a miracle the hooks hadn’t fallen off the wall. 

And when you finally looked around her apartment for the first time, all you could think was that it was very her. Nike box after Nike box stacked up by the shoe rack, a suitcase beside the coat hooks ready and waiting for her next trip away, a bookcase along the hallway filled with books, photo frames, and the odd trinket that she’d picked up from her travels or found meaning in in some way personal to her.

“You want a drink or something?” Alexia called out, already in the kitchen. You heard her chuck her keys down somewhere before the fridge door was opened, so you rounded the corner into the main room and glanced around again.

It was modest, not too big nor too small, and just the right balance between cluttered and tidy. The lounge area was off to one side and the kitchen and dining to the other, where Alexia was looking through the fridge as you got a feel for the place. It was homely, and a true reflection of Alexia– that’s what caught your attention most. 

“Mi tío loves to make fresh lemonade, you should try it.”

She turned to look at you just as you took a seat on one of the bar stools in front of the counter, a glass jug of said homemade lemonade in her hands. You nodded, and she went to get a glass as you pulled out your notebook again. From all the questions you’d prepared, the answers and outcomes were far from what you could have predicted. Most you had asked, some you had left out, not fit or interesting enough for how the day had turned out. But there were still a number of them you were yet to ask; one specifically that had landed you here in the first place.

“When do I get to ask you these?” Alexia asked playfully as she slid a cold glass of lemonade across the counter. There was a glint in her eye again and a toothy grin on her face that hardly ever seemed to leave when you were around and not asking the deepest questions she’d ever been given.

“Well, I’m not a footballer, nor did I score so spectacularly in Bilbao, so I don’t think you can really apply them to me.” You responded in the same tone, flicking aimlessly – perhaps slightly nervously, too – through the notepad. 

“Hm. I will come up with my own then. For you to answer.” She told you boldly, an insistence that you tried not to dwell on for too long.

“You’re going to try and out-question a journalist?” You retorted with your eyebrows raised. “I mean, just so you know… it’s harder than it looks.” 

“I think I could do a good job.” She shrugged and smirked, a combination she loved to execute far too often. Not that you were complaining.

“I guess I could make an exception. Just this once.” You relinquished, breath hitching ever so slightly at the way her eyes crinkled in the corners with the utter intensity of her smile.

“That means you have to see me again after this.” 

Like you’d say no to that.

“That’s not a problem.” You said easily. Then, you hesitated for a second, and spoke unexpectedly shyly. “Just don’t make me regret handing over the role.” 

That back and forth with the final wish from you was the first time either of you had verbally acknowledged there could be a future at hand, whatever it may be. And the way Alexia softened at your subtle, not so subtle, fear of taking it any further gave you the tiniest spark of hope that only grew when she replied.

“Never.” 

One thing you had come to learn about her was that she was sincerely honest with everything. So, after that, you had no reason to doubt her. No reason to not keep playing into the dynamic that had formed between you. The prospect of it gave you goosebumps, made your heart pick up pace. All you were doing was sitting across from her and talking. 

“What questions do we have left?” 

You were glad for her moving things along as it gave you a second to compose yourself– you cleared your throat and finally let your eyes leave her, where she leaned against the counter in front of her on her elbows and stared across at you. 

“There’s a few left, maybe one or two about your medals and whatever football souvenirs you have from your career so far, along with some others. Since I’m here though, I think it could be cool to just see what kind of stuff you have kept over the years and I’ll work it into the article somehow.” 

She nodded, then pushed herself off the counter with her forearms. “I’ll go get it all.” 

Her tone was casual, but there was a softness to it. It sounded like she was excited, if not a little sheepish, to show all the things she held value to over the years. Like her own museum, almost, and to be the first to see it was a sentiment not lost on you.

She disappeared down the hallway, and you heard a door open not so long later. There was a rustle of things being moved around, the sound of cardboard shuffling against the floor, followed by a quiet thump and a whispered curse under her breath as she knocked something over. You smiled to yourself, chin resting in your hand, picturing the momentary chaos ensuing as she fought against a mountain of stuff that hadn’t seen daylight in years. 

When she returned, with an abashed expression on her face as she knew you’d heard her, she dropped the slightly worn cardboard box onto the stool next to you. Then she sat down on the next chair over, turning to face you and tapping her fingers on the lid flaps. You turned too, taking the recorder out of your pocket and setting it down beside your notepad, ready for it to pick up any anecdote she might tell.

“I’m a bit of a hoarder. There is a lot of stuff in here.” She laughed as she opened up the box. She stuck her hand in blindly, the box acting as nothing more than a lucky dip of her career. The first item she pulled out was a Lyon jersey, of all things, which made you both laugh that time at the irony. “I got this after the 2019 final, when we lost in Budapest. Hegerberg scored a hattrick against us in like fifteen minutes, and then after the game in the tunnel she found me and spoke to me and we swapped shirts. She gave me some good words, that it was only a matter of time until I won with Barcelona. That day was really a turning point for everybody at the club, but… me especially I think.” 

Memory after memory was pulled out after that; Spain jerseys, the first Barcelona shirt her parents gave her one birthday, a training bib she had secretly kept from her first training session with the senior team at Barça, bracelets handed to her from fans over the years. You listened intently about each one, just as invested in it as Alexia, if not more. Some were more sentimental than others, some were just silly things that made her cheeks flush from embarrassment at how meaningful the most unsuspecting items were to her. 

You asked countless questions throughout, a few you had planned prior that had nothing to do with the memorabilia, and others from off the top of your head as she told her stories, and she answered every single one with pride and vulnerability. Her memory was astounding, honestly. There wasn’t a single thing in there she couldn’t tell you about. All it pointed to was how she really did not take things for granted, which she had mentioned earlier– it couldn’t be anymore true if she tried. 

There were some instances where she lingered on one thing more than others, and ran her thumb along it or traced a detail with her fingertip in a carefully thoughtful way that caught your eye. Each item and how she so passionately cared about them was yet another glimpse into her mind, her heart. She passed some things to you to get a closer look at, and you hung onto every word as she rambled. You nodded, smiled, made mental notes for the future. 

Eventually, the pair of you had worked your way through the entire box, pieces of her history strewn over the countertop beside you. In your hand still was the first medal she had got from a tournament at some point in her childhood– it was a plastic thing, with the gold paint chipping off it, and the colours of the ribbon it was tied to had faded. Still, she looked at it in your palm like it was priceless. 

“Which one means the most?” You asked lastly, now that everything was out on display. She gave you a look that said ‘really?’ and it made you laugh. “Come on, pick one. There has to be something here that especially stands out.”

Her attention didn’t move to the items on the countertop just yet. Instead, her gaze was entirely on you again. 

She liked how you asked her things. How you phrased your questions and pushed her, picked and chose each word delicately. In a way, it allowed her to get to know you too, even though it was an entirely one-sided interview. It gave her insight into your mind and how it worked, told her what things you really cared about.

There was only one bone she had to pick with the day, and that was that she couldn’t properly get to know you at the same time too. She wanted to know what bad TV you watched, what things made you click, what your version of football to her was. The longer she spent with you, the more desperate she got for that to happen. She had no idea it’d come sooner than she thought.

Finally though, she turned her head to look at everything splayed out before her, and after a minute or two of deliberating, she reached out for something.

“This.” She picked up a black cap that had a faded Barcelona crest on it– her father’s hat he wore to every game. “I forgot I had it. I don’t think my Mami knows I have it, really. I should probably give it to her.” 

You only prompted her further because you knew, by then, she didn’t mind when you did. “Why that?”

“Because sometimes I still catch myself looking for it in the stands when I warm-up. All these years later.” She admitted with a breath of laughter, though there was no humour in it. She only let it out because it was a frightening thing to reveal about herself to someone. But it was you.

“You look for him where he always was.” 

You never offered empty words of pity when she spoke about him, and you didn’t shy away from the topic. Rather, you addressed it directly with a tenderness that she valued… more than she could ever say.

“Are you sure you are not a therapist?” Alexia teased as she blinked away the gloss to her eyes. “You could be a very good one, I think.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind.” You grinned, taking the hint to move on before it got too much. “Where do you keep your medals and things like that? I don’t see any hung up anywhere.” 

“Eh, some are around, some I gave to people close to me. My Mami has a lot of stuff. But I have all my Champion’s League medals and my World Cup medal and a few others in this glass case thing that my sister got custom made for me last year. That’s over there, on that shelf.” She pointed to a shelf that was part of the bookcase unit beside her TV. “It has a couple empty spaces still.” 

You shook your head at her confident grin, knowing that only a small part of her was kidding, and that she definitely did want to fill out those spaces. Her competitiveness was simply unmatched. 

“You know there’s one thing I have to ask about. Two, actually.” You started, smiling at the clueless expression on her face. “Where do you keep the Ballon d’Ors?”

The question made her laugh; it was indeed a topic everyone liked to speculate and ask her about, though she never gave a true answer. For you? Of course she would.

“I keep them in a cupboard.” She admitted, and smiled brightly without even realising when you giggled. “I do!”

“Why?” You managed to get out in the midst of your laughter.

“Because it’s, I don’t know… vain to just have them out on show! Imagine if I put them out on the coffee table or something, that would be so ridiculous of me to do.” The only reason she was carrying the joke on was just to hear you, to see you, laugh like you were. Unbridled and carefree, right in front of her. “No, they’re in a cupboard in my room. The door is glass so I can see them still.”

“Well, that’s a little better than just a cupboard, I guess.” You rolled your eyes lightheartedly.

“Alright, ask me a serious one now.” It wasn’t a demand, more of a prompt. 

You glanced back at your notepad, finding one of the latter pages that had more personal questions, where she could really spill anything she wanted to.

“Okay,” You said, straightening in your chair and addressing her with your gaze. “If you could erase one thing people think they know about you, what would it be?” 

That was exactly the kind of thing she was hoping for. 

Her posture slouched a little, and it seemed the one you’d landed on broached a topic for her with a bit of history. A hand reached behind her neck and she palmed the skin there in a nervous manner. Her cheeks had a pink tinge to them, and she took a deep breath in before answering.

“That I am… invincible.” When she said it, her voice shook, as if she was unsure of herself and hesitant to admit to weakness. “I try to keep my life private. But in doing that, people think I am unaffected by things just because I don’t show much. Really, I… struggle with some things.” 

“Like what?” You pressed on cautiously, not wanting to push too far. She looked at you, then glanced away momentarily, before her eyes landed back on you. They were entirely trusting, even if it scared her.

“I’m scared I don’t live up to who everyone thinks I am. And then, because of that, I… overthink. I get anxious. People have a certain image of who I am– someone that is perfect, unbreakable. Makes me feel like I can’t… not be those things.” She paused then and you thought she was just gathering her thoughts again, or finding the bravery to continue on. Instead, she was taking a different avenue altogether. “Let me show you why I keep the Ballon d’Ors where I do.” 

Rather abruptly, she stood up and headed towards the direction of her bedroom. But when she saw you weren’t coming, frozen to your seat in surprise at where the question had gone, she chuckled quietly. 

“Come on. I show you.” She said with a wave of her hand.

You did as she said, grabbing the recorder before you followed her. The brunette opened one door down the hallway and in she went, you pausing in the doorway. She stopped in the middle of the room and looked up at a square wooden cupboard in the corner on the wall, where the two prestigious awards sat there in all their beauty. You stepped closer to her, just a foot or two away, and really took them in. They were a spectacle, the highest of individual glories in football, yet here they were in front of you, sat collecting dust behind a pane of glass and hidden away in her room. 

“I keep them there to remind me who I was, who I am, and who I might be again. They are more than just an award now. They symbolise so much more, after everything that has happened.” She paused, shifting her weight slightly where she stood. “I need a reminder too, sometimes. Just like everyone else. This is the best I can offer to myself.” 

She let that sit between you both for a few moments. Her attention was still caught up on them, looking distantly through the small pane. Whereas your attention was focused wholly on her. 

“I won them in two very different chapters of my life. The first, I was in my ‘prime’ at that time. It was the best season of my life so far and I had the world at my feet. The second, well…” A short breath left her– part laugh, part scoff. “I could just barely walk up the stairs to accept it. I spent the evening with my knee up and iced instead of celebrating. I wasn’t playing, I wasn’t even running. I felt like a fraud accepting it.” 

Part of you wanted to rush to reassure her on instinct. That wasn’t what she was sharing it all for, however, so you stayed silent, and you let her continue.

“I know now that wasn’t the case, but those two people feel like a different life to now.” Her voice was steady again, but you noticed how her hands had found each other, one thumb rubbing lightly over her palm in a way someone would to soothe themself without realising. “They’re still up because they mean something. Not because I won them and I was the ‘best in the world’ or anything like that. Just a reminder to myself, that even if I lose the next match, or every match, the people important to me aren’t going anywhere. My family won’t love me any less if I get hurt for a third time. My friends will tease me if I lose every match, but they will show up.” 

The light shone through the window on the other side of the room and caught the gold behind the glass in just the gentlest way, and it made her soften again.

“I do know that I’m lucky, I know I have that kind of support, and that I deserve it. Still, sometimes my mind convinces me I don’t. That… I’m not enough for anybody, even myself. Then I get scared someone might find out I feel that way and run with it, twist my words, confirm everything that I am afraid of.” Finally, she glanced back at you. “Which is why I’m telling you. Because you write the true things, even if you don’t want to. No matter what you think of me, I know you want to tell the story properly.”

You didn’t know what to say in response. Consequently, she felt compelled to fill that silence.

“So… yeah. I keep them there. And it sounds really stupid explaining that out loud to someone, I don’t-”

“Alexia,” You interrupted her quietly, taking the smallest step closer to her. “It’s not stupid, it’s honest. And for what we’re doing here, that’s all it needs to be.”

The ambiguity of your reassurance, ironically, was what made your words true; they were vague enough to fit the context of the interview, and honest enough to protect the sanctity of something in particular you didn’t have the descriptor for yet.

All Alexia could do was look at you. There was far too much going on behind her eyes for you to get a true sense of her thoughts there and then. But you didn’t avoid the eye contact, you matched it. Then, you noticed that glint, again– it flicked on like a switch had been flipped, like she had come to a realisation right there before you. It wasn’t a smile that grew, it was a coy smirk. A subtle curve that conveyed the impending possibility she might not be able to hide everything she felt for any longer.

“Ask me the final question. You know the one.”

Nothing about the moment shifted. It didn’t need to. The tension that had been simmering all day was still present, unacknowledged but understood. It had grown torturingly slowly, with each question and each answer. Visible too, in the way your elbows brushed as you walked, the way you faced each other so purposefully at the kitchen counter, the way you stood so close right there in her room. It was just another step forward to something you had been inching towards all afternoon, calmly and deliberately.

You were close enough then to take in every small detail about her. Specifically, how her chest rose just a little quicker than before, how her lips were slightly parted as she waited for you to say what she’d wanted you to say since your second interview with her. She knew her answer, she just needed you to say it.

“When nobody’s watching, what part of yourself do you struggle to lead?” It was inconspicuous, not all that different to things you had already asked her. No, it was the scenario and the dynamic that was worlds apart to how things had been the first time you tried saying it. 

This time, there was no one around to interrupt you.

“My confidence.” She murmured, eyes flitting down your face for just a fleeting second.

“Really?” You challenged with one eyebrow arched. Her shrug, probably the thousandth one that day, told you not to believe her.

“That is half the answer.” 

Impatient. Alexia was impatient. For reasons you shared.

“And the other half?” The midfielder huffed in amusement at your dedication to the damn article. She glanced down at the recorder held out between you both in your hand, and her voice turned gentle.

“Because I’m not used to being seen for anything other than what I do. Outside of it, I don’t really know what’s left. I’m not sure what I bring, sometimes.” 

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It was so heartfelt, so honest. It nearly caused you to miss the way her one-corner smirk returned as well as the words she uttered next.

“Though, it depends on the person I’m with.”

One hand came up and met yours that held the recorder. She stared at it, as if figuring something out. Then, her other hand reached out, and stopped it completely. It beeped once, loud in the otherwise silent room. Your eyes stayed on her face as she did so, hers averted to the small grey device. She took it in her own palm and placed it down away from you both on whatever the closest surface was. 

All day, it had just been the two of you. Yet, now that the recorder was officially off, it suddenly felt otherwise. Without it running, there was nothing tethering you to roles or reasons. The energy in the room took an unexpected but not unwelcome turn as the burden of responsibility and professionalism finally fell away, and the dynamic that had been hiding under the surface had been given permission to exist in all its entirety, with just one press of a button.

Her hands rose again but for a different reason. They moved slowly, as if to not disturb the moment, and her fingertips brushed your cheeks first with a featherlight touch. Not a second later did they settle fully, cupping your jaw. Her thumbs didn’t stay still – couldn’t – and swept over your cheekbones with the softest graze.

“Okay?” She asked, no louder than a whisper. 

You nodded, the movement tiny and held in place by her touch. And when she leaned in, after what felt like a year, but had only grown over a few hours, it wasn’t rushed. She closed her eyes at the last second, after her forehead leaned against yours and your noses brushed. Then her lips met yours, and you were done for. 

The serenity lasted all of two minutes before it became something more. Hands roamed, lips moved quicker, deeper, hungrier. She took two steps, turned, and the pair of you fell onto her bed like you belonged there together. That was the thing; no more pretending was needed. It was always going to end this way.

—

The first thing I noticed when I got to her apartment, after she threw her keys down on her countertop and asked if I wanted some fresh lemonade, was that the ID photo on her Barcelona lanyard was over a decade old. It was from her first season at the club, all the way back in 2012– a fresh-faced, young, world-at-her-feet Alexia Putellas smiling the same way she still does now, completely unaware the photo would still be used when she’s in her 30s having conquered the world. 

Going to her home meant I saw her from another perspective, one the public didn’t know and would never see in the way I saw. It meant I saw the small, intimate things that are the biggest tells: the way she drove with such care and ease, how she made sure every door closed gently behind her, how she moved through the world in general in a calculated way. The biggest surprise was how all that fell apart the second the walls of her apartment separated her from the version of her she gave to the public, to the version of her she didn’t really know what to do with when nobody was watching.

It gave way for truths I had no idea I would pull from her.

As soon as she got the box of all her football souvenirs from her career, it was as if she’d opened the pandora box of memories and stories in her mind she’d never had the chance to peer into before. Honestly, there were far too many to put into the article– baring in mind, this is the woman that has lived and breathed the sport non-stop for nearly her entire life. The fact she remembered so much, almost everything, is, at first glance, impressive. But you look deeper into it, and it’s all the evidence you could ever need to see she does not take anything for granted. Every step on the pitch she takes and every occasion she pulls on the captain’s armband is just like the first time for her. 

The first truth of the day that took me aback was when I asked her what item from her little museum meant the most to her. Her eyes glanced over all of them: from the plastic medal in my hands still that she won at her first childhood tournament, to the scarf her friend had bought outside Camp Nou the day of ‘the game that changed football’, and every other throwback that filled her with nostalgia. In the end, and I should have known, there was one thing she reached out for. 

Her expression changed for a split second, a quick shift I had gotten used to throughout the day whenever the topic came up. It was a black cap with a faded Barcelona crest stitched onto it. Her Papá’s hat. The one he wore to every single game of hers, long before they even had an inkling of an idea of the club legend she would become. The one she sometimes still looked for in the stands as she warmed up. 

We didn’t stay on the topic for long, having already established everything she wanted to about her father earlier in the day. The way she lingered on the cap longer than any other item said all that needed to be said. 

What came next was a string of confessions I never could have predicted. Even I, I’ll admit, had a subconscious view of her that I unknowingly went into this with. Because of it, I took myself by surprise with how shocked I was to hear some of the things she had to say.

My next question, ‘if you could erase one thing people think they know about you, what would it be?’, was what kicked it all off.

“That I am… invincible.” 

Her voice trembled and her eyes darted around as she answered. She seemed afraid of admitting to weakness. 

It was easy admitting to the weaknesses that she had experienced during her injury, because it was in the past and no longer relevant. She can say now she struggled with learning to walk again, because she runs half-marathons nearly every week in training and matches now that she’s recovered. Revealing a current struggle was different in the way that– in her words– anybody could take it, twist it, and confirm her worst fears about herself. Everyone knows how destructive that can be, especially when it’s your job to be in the public eye. 

And yet, she does it anyway.

“I’m scared I don’t live up to who everyone thinks I am.” 

The higher the pedestal, the further there is to fall. In Alexia’s case, she’s higher than anyone ever has been in women’s football. It scares her, that the majority of the world views her as someone perfect and unbreakable. Everything she says and does is analysed like some great mystery, as if every word that leaves her mouth is nothing more than a double-edged sword rather than her truth. 

For some reason, in her case only, silence means stoicness. Calm means carefree. Lack of media presence means the rumours, the assumptions, the idolisations, the vocal violence, doesn’t affect her. When, as a matter of fact, all of it does.

There are expectations placed upon her that are drastically different to those around her, and ridiculously unfair too. If she doesn’t live up to those, it causes her to overthink. To doubt everything about herself. No amount of medals on display in her lounge could scare those anxieties away, because it doesn’t matter how many titles you have when people want you to be human but don’t give you the grace of treating you like one. 

She’s had to make peace, over the years, that she’ll never be the image everyone thinks of her as in their heads. No matter how hard she works to try to accept that, it’s still a worry that creeps into the one place it shouldn’t: the parts of her life she wishes she could keep football away from. Except, that’s no longer possible for her. She adores football, that much is clear to anyone, but the two versions of her, the two lives she leads at once, are so intrinsically tied to each other that there is no escape. So she has had to come up with her own solution, the best she can offer to herself.

The two Ballon d’Ors she won in 2021 and 2022 are stored away in a glass cabinet in the corner of her bedroom. Not in her lounge, her kitchen, or on a podium that is the first thing you see when you step inside her home. No, they’re tucked away out of view of everybody but her. For two reasons; the first being that she thinks it would be too ‘vain’ to have them on show anywhere else, a claim I disagree with. She worked so hard over her life, and it put her, without meaning to, in the position to twice win the highest individual award football has to offer. She should be able to show them off proudly. But that takes us right to the second reason she keeps them out of view…

“I keep them there to remind me who I was, who I am, and who I might be again.” 

Nowadays, they’re nothing more than a reminder to her. She understands the significance of them but can’t tie them to herself, can’t put the two in the same sentence. And after all we went through that day, I understand that she has a different meaning of them for herself, I do. I just wish I could have told her then that she’s more than earned the right to see herself the way the rest of us do. That the person she is now deserves to stand beside them just as much as the one who won them. 

Even just the way she looked at the awards then, beside me in her room with them behind a pane of glass, it was clear she didn’t really believe that. She said just as much.

“I won them in two very different chapters of my life. The first, I was in my prime at that time. It was the best season of my life so far and I had the world at my feet. The second, well…” Her face was entirely disapproving of her next words. “I could just barely walk up the stairs to accept it. I spent the evening with my knee up and iced instead of celebrating. I wasn’t playing, I wasn’t even running. I felt like a fraud accepting it.” 

She might be the last person on earth who deserves to feel like that. And even as she tries to rectify that admission, I know she still feels every bit of it.

“I know now that wasn’t the case, but those two people feel like a different life to now. They’re still up because they mean something. Not because I won them and I was the ‘best in the world’ or anything like that. Just a reminder to myself, that even if I lose the next match, or every match, the people important to me aren’t going anywhere.” 

Earlier, Alexia said to me that she feels she needs the people in her life more than they need her. And that, if they were to be asked what she does best, she hoped they would say how she loved. Because it’s vital to her that they know she appreciates them for every single thing they do and don’t do. She needs them for balance. To stay grounded, not in fame, but in herself. I bet she wonders where she would be without them. 

It takes a village to raise someone, and more to keep each other going. I think back to these things she told me, and wish I had asked where she thinks they would be without her. Though, I fear I know what she would say. 

“I do know that I’m lucky, I know I have that kind of support, and that I deserve it. Still, sometimes my mind convinces me I don’t. That… I’m not enough for anybody, even myself.” 

She knows her fortune, but she can’t resonate with it. Not in the way people expect her to. But that’s the killer, isn’t it? The expectations upon her. And as a consequence to all of them, knowing something and believing something are two very different things, and the latter she’s not quite so comfortable with. 

The hardest part of all to witness was the way she almost apologised for it, how she felt the need to back herself up. As if her gratitude has to be proven every time she leans on someone. How do you tell someone you’ve only met three times that the people who love her don’t do it out of obligation? They don’t stick around because she’s won trophies, they stay because she’s their Alexia. 

It wasn’t my place then, I know. But still, I wished I could have told that she isn’t just admired for who she is with a medal around her neck and a trophy in her arms, but she’s needed for all she has to offer away from that.

The caring side of her that keeps a cafe open with a budget from her own pocket. The young version of her that still lives inside her who wishes for just one conversation with her Papá to tell him everything she’s done. The friend who sends voice notes instead of texts so people can hear her smile as she talks to them from a different country. The sister that helps decorate a children’s classroom for the new school year. The daughter who still texts her Mami after every flight to let her know she’s landed safely, even though she’s taken hundreds in her life. The woman who took on the role of looking after her family after a death that wrecked them all, and still does so whilst juggling more responsibilities than you could ever imagine. The one who still blushes when handed a compliment and says thank you like she’s not quite sure she deserves it.

And secondary to all this, because it does come after all of that despite what she may think– what about football? Where would women's football be without her? What about all those young girls and boys that bowed on their playgrounds? Where would they be without the self-belief and the dreams each step from her on the pitch instilled in them, even though she held none of that same confidence away from the field?

She said so herself, when I asked my final question. The very question that led me here today.

‘When nobody’s watching, what part of yourself do you struggle to lead?’

“My confidence.” She had murmured. There was the root to it all.

“I’m not used to being seen for anything other than what I do. Outside of it, I don’t really know what’s left. I’m not sure what I bring, sometimes.” 

The game is better off because of her. So are the people who’ve stood beside her. So are the people that have watched her, whether it’s one game of her career or every second. And so am I.

If she really wants to know what she brings, it’s this. Everything I’ve written here.

I left her apartment with much more than I came for. Some answers stayed with me more than others, and what surprised me most wasn’t how much she gave, but how much I kept. 

You don’t realise the real point of an interview like this until long after the recorder has been switched off. Until you’re sitting with hours worth of recordings and notes you’ve scribbled in the margins that don’t quite make sense. You don’t realise how much someone has let you see of them until you’re sitting in silence after each play through has ended and you’re awestruck still, even weeks after the initial interview. 

And maybe I should have told her all this at the time, right there in her kitchen when she poured me lemonade; everything she is, every quiet act of care and every scar and every frightening admission, is what makes her unforgettable. All that she is, is what makes people proud of her. Proud to know her, proud to love her.

But this is what I can offer her now, when I’ve listened to her words and her answers so many times that it’s her voice I sometimes mistake for my own thoughts. It’s a thank you, for letting me in and trusting me with things she rarely says out loud. Mostly, for giving so much when she didn’t owe a single thing. And I hope that, if nothing else, she can now clearly see her as her own being is enough. Her presence is enough. Her truth is enough. She is enough. 

Because, when all is said and done, the stories that last aren’t the ones on the stadium screens with the scores on. They’re the ones written in the clay. The ones told in the voice of a woman that immortalised herself in the sport she loves with a simple bow, and doesn’t even know it. Is too shy to acknowledge it. Who still feels unsure sometimes in her life, but keeps going anyway with a nobility most don’t have.

That’s the version I got that day, and it’s the version I’ll never forget. So if this reads a little differently to her than to anyone else, that’s the point. 

Victory is never a guarantee, even for the best. But one thing is certain: Alexia Putellas was always destined for greatness. In fact, she's made it into a game of her own.

—

You could pin-point the exact second she finished reading it; she took a deep breath that punctuated the ending. Though, she didn’t speak straight away.

Her iPad rested motionless on her stomach, fingers paused where they were previously tracing patterns against your shoulder, her other hand frozen as it rested on top of the device. Her thumb didn’t scroll, her mouth didn't move. She just stared at the bottom of the page on the screen, mind caught somewhere between the words. Her chest rose slower than it did before she started reading, and when she blinked, you saw a gloss to her eyes. The same one you saw for the first time during the interview all those months ago.

The brunette wasn’t sure what she was expecting when it came to finally reading it– she remembered the answers she gave of course, remembered how it ended and wondered if that would affect the final product. It did, in a far better way than she thought it possibly could. You wrote it with enough subtlety for it to sound like a fucking love letter to her, and exactly what it was advertised as to the rest of the world. Even just the opening few lines were enough proof of why she chose you, then you had to go and write her in a way she could have only ever dreamed of.

The quietness from her had a meaning that you knew very well by now. It meant she trusted you enough to let her silence speak first.

“So you-” She cut herself off with a clearing of her throat, considering those short two words trembled when they left her mouth. “You did not feel like mentioning how you fell into my bed after that and never left?” 

Of course she would start off with a joke, the girl never passed up on an opportunity to tease you, she loved riling you up. But, again, her attempt at humour was nothing more than a disguise for her mind trying to find the words that did her reaction, her gratitude, justice.

“You pulled me into your bed and never let me leave.” You retorted, nudging her side with one of your knees that rested there. She grinned, almost with pride, at your comeback. 

Though, she did settle after that. Properly. She hummed out a laugh, eyes not having moved from the screen at all. She was in disbelief, for a multitude of reasons. The one that stuck out most was that… it shocked her that someone thought of her like that. Even more so that it was you.

How you presented her in the article was perhaps the greatest gift she’d ever been given.

“Cariño, this is…” She gestured to the screen with a pointless wave, trying to buy herself more time to come up with anything to say, but nothing would come to her. Her lack of reaction terrified you, had you thinking the very worst your mind could create.

“Not what you thought it would be?” You supplied with a nervous laughter, stomach dropping as she agreed with a single movement of her head, neither a nod or a no. 

She caught how your face fell, and smiled tearfully, though she tried to hide it.

“You say I am destined for greatness?” She chuckled, discreetly swallowing the lump in her throat. “Then what do we call this for you, hm?” 

“Don’t.” You groaned, hiding your eyes with the palm of your hand. She pulled it away almost instantly.

“No, cariño, I am serious. Listen.” She carefully moved her iPad to the side and sat up more, so that she was now shoulder to shoulder with you. There were so many things to unpack in her eyes. “I knew you would do an amazing job. But this? No me lo puedo creer. Better than I thought, so much better. You see, really, honestly, why I chose you now?” 

You pursed your lips, sheepish under her piercing gaze, fighting off a smile when she arched an eyebrow. “Maybe.” 

At that, she kissed her teeth, a sound that caused your smile to break out in full. Then you watched as she slouched back against the cushions, grabbing her iPad again and scrolling through the last few paragraphs once more. You blushed as she did, knowing exactly the words she was reading off by heart.

The last line she seemed especially stuck on. She pointed at it and stayed quiet for a second or two before speaking her mind, finally.

“You really believe that?” She murmured, unable to look at you as she sought out an honest answer. 

“Of course, Ale. Every word in there is a belief I have about you.” You told her. Not a shadow of a doubt in your tone, your heart, or your mind.

“Hm.” The noise left her abruptly, like she was too full of emotions and the sound was a small release of them. “I’m…  happy with how you presented me.”

Happy was an understatement.

“Well, that’s lucky, because that’s not just how you’re presented, it’s who you are.” Alexia looked at you then. Stared right at you, face full of surprise at what you’d just said. You got brave then, and continued. “That’s the main thing I tried to get across with it. I wanted to show people who would read it, yes, but mainly you that you are more than anyone could hope for you to be.” 

Alexia blinked at you once. Let out a shuddery breath. Found herself believing your words easier than she had anyone else’s, ever.

Her arm closest to you landed across your lap, eyes already back on the article once more. She didn’t know what to say anymore, not to someone like you who had such a way with them. You recognised that, and you linked one hand with hers, and put your other hand on top of them, squeezing thrice to convey a confession worthy of a thousand titles to Alexia.

“You know, you say a few times throughout this…” She began, glancing at you briefly. “That you wish you could have told me some things. But, amor, you’re telling me right now.”

You smiled softly, her favourite one from you. It was natural, and it was hers only. You reached up to tuck some loose strands behind her ear, hand lingering to smooth out the slight furrow to her brow.

“And I’m glad it’s me you’re finally listening to.” You hummed.

All these months later and you could still catch her off guard with the slightest thing. 

“You remember what I wrote in your notebook the next morning?” She wondered with a smirk, the memory making you laugh.

“Yes, something along the lines of-”

“I did not snoop, I promise. I just want to say thank you for handling all of it the way you did, I can’t wait to see what you turn it into. I’m really glad it was you and I’m even more glad to wake up next to you. Thank you for being gentle with all of it, and I hope I am there beside you when I read the final product.” 

She remembered it like it was yesterday. 

“And ‘snoop’ was crossed out twice because you couldn’t remember if it was a real word or not.” You teased, like there wasn’t a heavy blush to your cheeks at the fact she could recall that note off by heart. There wasn’t much you loved more than tiny reminders like that to let you know she was just as deep in this whole thing as you were.

“Cállate.” She scolded in a grumble with a slight pinch to your wrist that made you giggle quietly.

She softened afterwards, in that delicate way she always did. Her expression turned solemn, taking one last long scroll of the piece, pausing on some sections, before switching off the device and tossing it to the side. Her head fell back with a sigh, her eyes closing at the same time. You stayed silent, letting the words come to her you knew she was gaining the courage to say.

“It is weird to say this, I think.” You made a noise of acknowledgement when she hesitated, a gentle reminder that you were there without rushing her. “But I love it. I love the article. It’s weird that I love something all about me, but I do. I will treasure that forever.” 

Her head lifted back up and she gazed at you with the smallest upturn of her lips, a sudden shift that caused your heart rate to pick up ever so slightly.

“You know why?” She prompted, leaning closer without realising.

“Why?” You asked.

Your senses, in that moment, were wholly honed in on her. No care for the sound of the waves, the scent of the ocean, the wind that gave a brief reprieve from the Greek sun above, or the scenery around. Only the sound of her voice, the smell of her perfume mixed with her conditioner, the beauty of her, and the loss of her hand in yours. You weren’t to be disheartened for too long, not with the way both came up to cup your jaw in a movement that was all too familiar. A graze of her thumb along cheekbone that was all too familiar. 

“Because if that is how the world views me, how you view me…” She trailed off, the tiniest shake of her head as her eyes flitted between your eyes and your lips that brushed hers when she spoke again. “I have nothing to worry about.”

She also kissed you in a way that was all too familiar. Slow, gentle, careful. Communicating things she could never find the words to say, no matter how hard she tried.

It didn’t escalate then, not just yet. First, she pulled away with a quiet smack of your lips, just to see your reaction. She did it every time she kissed you like that, and each time she grinned in a too-proud way you couldn’t help but laugh at.

“That was exactly how you kissed me the first time.” You stated in a shy whisper, hands resting on her forearm where she was still cradling your face. 

“Sí, and it’s how I’ll always kiss you.” Alexia replied simply. 

Your hands slid down to her shoulders when she leaned in, bypassing your mouth this time to trail a path over your cheeks and up to your ears. And when she whispered a hushed but firm ‘eres el amor de mi vida,’ it was the easiest truth of her life.