monktwo

[monktwo]

Chapter 20 of the missing piece series

Matchday in the stands

You took another sip of your beer, balancing on one leg as Mapi carefully held the shorts open for you.

“Sube un poco la pierna.”

“Lift your leg a little.”

You steadied yourself, grinning. “Lo estoy intentando. No me rompas.”

“I'm trying. Don't break me.”

“No me voy a romper, pero si te haces daño ahora, Ingrid me mata.”

“You won’t break, but if you get hurt now, Ingrid will kill me.”

You laughed. “She’d kill both of us.”

Ingrid wasn’t home. She’d already gone grocery shopping but not without first laying out your outfit: shorts, crop top, oversized Barça button-up. Her exact words before she left: ‘You’re representing the team, not going clubbing.’

Mapi helped you slide the crop top over your and the button down loosely over your shoulders.

“Perfecta.”

“Perfect.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror, then at the beer still sitting on the dresser. "¿Crees que Ingrid se va a enterar?"

"Do you think Ingrid is going to find out?"

Mapi snorted. “Ingrid siempre se entera.”

“Ingrid always finds out.”

Downstairs, Kika was already waiting by the car, leaning on her crutches.

“Ready to sit in a stadium and pretend we’re working?” she grinned.

“Living the dream,” you laughed.

The three bodyguards Mami insisted on were already positioned by the car. You rolled your eyes as you approached.

“This is so over the top.”

Kika shrugged. “Talk to your mother.”

The Olympic Stadium was buzzing when you arrived. Even injured, you weren’t immune to the usual club duties. A few cameras followed you and Kika up the private entrance as Barça staff met you.

“Thanks for coming, girls,” the media officer smiled. “Just a few photos for socials real quick?”

You struck a polite smile with Kika, and it was done within seconds.

As you walked up toward the suite, your phone buzzed. You glanced down.

Ingrid: You’re drinking? 😐

You couldn’t help but smirk. You typed back immediately:

You: It’s sponsored. Technically I’m doing club promotion. 🤪

Ingrid’s reply came instantly:

Ingrid: Two beers is fine. More and you will have a problem waiting at home.

You grinned, teasing as you typed again:

You: If you want to control me, you’ll have to do it in person tonight.

Kika peeked over your shoulder and shook her head. “You’re impossible.”

“Just keeping the relationship fresh.”

“Sure you are”

At halftime, the media officer pulled you aside again.

“Quick one for the club, if that’s okay?”

“Of course,” you smiled, stepping in front of the camera.

“So, Y/N, how’s the recovery going?”

“Good, honestly. A bit boring not being able to play, but I’m enjoying being here to support the team tonight.”

“And the beer?” the reporter grinned.

You laughed. “Well, there have to be some perks to being injured. Besides, our sponsors provide very good beer.”

The quick interview wrapped up, and you made your way back to your seat next to Kika. She nudged your side.

“You handled that very professionally.”

“Thank you,” you said with mock pride, taking another sip of your beer. Beer number three, still fully within Ingrid-approved limits.

The match finished with Barça winning 3–1, and as you lingered a bit in the tunnel with Kika, chatting to staff, you spotted Lamine Yamal walking past.

You nudged Kika. “Should I ask for a photo?”

“Obviously. Go.”

You limped forward a few steps, smiling. "Oye, Lamine, ¿puedo tomar una foto muy rápido?"

"Hey, Lamine, a picture very quickly?"

He stopped instantly, smiling. “Claro, claro. Tú eres Y/N, ¿no? Te he visto jugar. Muy buena.”

“Of course, of course. You’re Y/N, right? I’ve seen you play. Really good.”

“Gracias, intento hacer lo que puedo.”

“Thanks, I try to do what I can.”

You both posed for a few pictures, and as you lowered your phone, he grinned.

“Oye, ¿hacemos un TikTok? Si te apetece.”

“Hey, want to do a TikTok? If you’re up for it.”

You laughed. “¿Ahora?”

“Now?”

“Claro. Uno rápido, para los fans.”

“Of course. A quick one, for the fans.”

Within minutes, you were both attempting a trending dance that you barely managed to keep up with while holding your brace steady.

“Perfecto,” Lamine said afterward, smiling. “Te etiqueto.”

“Perfect. I’ll tag you.”

“Vale, pero asegúrate de coger mi lado bueno.”

“Alright, but make sure you get my good side.”

On the way home, your phone was blowing up as notifications from the TikTok flooded in.

Another buzz, Ingrid again:

Ingrid: I saw the TikTok. I don’t know whether to laugh or scold you.

You texted back:

You: You love me either way.

Ingrid replied almost instantly:

Ingrid: Always. But when you get home, I’m confiscating your beer privileges.

You smiled, leaning back in the car as Barcelona blurred by outside.

“Worth it.”

[monktwo]

Part 19 of the missing piece series

Hospital

You’re guided off the stretcher at the hospital entrance. Your ankle throbs, but your head feels light, still high of the adrenaline and not quite aware of what this all actually means.

Mami’s hand is warm on your back. She waves past the Barça medic who tries to follow.

“Thanks, but we’ve got it from here” she tells him calmly.

Ingrid sweeps you toward the front desk, phone tucked between shoulder and ear.

“I need scans now. Y/n Y/ln, we called ahead,” she commands.

A nurse grins nervously. “Right this way, doctor’s office is down the hall.”

You settle onto the exam bed. Mami crouches beside you; Ingrid stands behind, arms folded. Mapi hovers at the door.

The doctor enters, clipboard in hand. He’s polite, efficient and you’re still too buzzed to care.

“Ms. Y/L/N, MRI confirms a moderate ligament strain, no fracture.” He taps his pen. “You’ll need a brace and four to six weeks off the pitch. Physical therapy starts as fast as possible.”

You blink. “So… no football tomorrow?”

Mami exhales sharply. Mamma, who just arrived clutching your sister’s drawing, pats your shoulder.

“Not tomorrow, mi cielo. Not for a while.”

Ingrid exhales, shifting on her feet. “We’ll set up home rehab, whatever you need.”

Mami’s lips curve in an almost-smile. “I’ll arrange the best therapist, a global search is on.”

You’re cruising on adrenaline, still not owning it. Everyone is kind of micro managing from afar, giving you some space and peace.

That’s when Mapi slides up beside you, “Guess we’re having a ‘no football’ weekend,” she teases, giving your shoulder a light bump.

You shrug. “We can still watch a game.”

She smiles. “And eat sushi?”

At that moment, your twin brother appears with three overflowing trays.

“Salmon, tuna, shrimp tempura, enough for the whole household.”

You laugh. “You’re spoiling me.”

“Only the best for our MVP,” he grins.

Your little sister toddles over, thrusting forward a crayon masterpiece: you mid-goal, rain streaking down.

“For you,” she whispers.

Mami kisses your forehead. “Our hero.”

Mami finally lowers her phone. She sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing your hair.

“You want anything? Water? Pill?”

You wave her off, too tired to speak.

Ingrid tackles the brace packaging like a pro athlete. “Let me help.”

Mami softens. “Give me that.” She slides your foot in gently. “Messy, but effective.”

You flex your ankle, minimal pain, then look around at your crew.

“I guess I’m benched for a bit.”

Ingrid leans in. “You’ll come back stronger.”

Mapi pops a sushi roll into your hand. “Eat up, it’s rehab fuel.”

Your brother snatches a roll for himself. “I’m eating mine.”

Your sister curls beside you, head against your arm.

“You’ll play again,” she says.

You smile down at her. “Soon.”

Mami squeezes your hand. “And every step, I’ll be right here.”

“We all will”

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 18 of the missing piece series

El clasico

The sun poured down over the Olympic stadium like molten gold, unusually bright for a March afternoon in Barcelona. The pitch looked flawless. The stands were packed, flags rippling in the breeze, the crowd’s roaring in waves around you. A sea of red and blue. It should have been overwhelming. And maybe, in the very beginning of your season, it would have been.

But not now.

Not really.

It was your first full season in Liga F. And you’d made it count.

Fifty goal contributions. The top goal scorer of the league. No longer a rotational or mabye starting player but a star of your own. Your name was starting to creep into the headlines with big words attached to it: Golden Boot. Player of the Season. Even whispers of the Ballon d’Or. Not loud but enough that you couldn’t ignore them anymore. Loud enough that your twin brother had sent you a screenshot from a Norwegian newspaper with a dozen exclamation points.

And loud enough to effect today, the El Clásico. It felt even heavier than usual.

You knew Madrid had watched the tapes. They knew who you were.

And they were going to try to stop you.

You stood at the sideline, shoulders rolled back, but jaw set tight. Beneath the roar of fans and pre-match chaos, you could still feel your pulse in your throat.

A soft shuffle behind you. Cleats. The rustle of a warm-up bib being discarded.

“Hair,” Mapi said simply, stepping into your space.

You didn’t argue. Just lowered yourself onto the bench without a word. She slid behind you, practiced fingers working through your hair, separating curls, brushing them into control. You’d tried doing it yourself this morning, but nerves had your hands fumbling.

“You were about to walk out here with a whole haystack on your head,” she muttered, tugging gently. “What would France Football say if their Ballon d’Or nominee looked like she’d lost a fight to a windmill?”

You snorted, just barely. “No one’s nominated yet.”

She tied off your braid and looped it into a low bun. “They will.”

Ingrid appeared then, her presence like a grounding wire. Full kit, laces double-knotted. She sat down beside you, her knee pressing into yours.

“Focus,” she said softly. “You know how they play. They’ll double you.”

“Triple me, probably,” you muttered, voice half-swallowed.

“They can triple you all they want,” Ingrid said, brushing a strand of hair off your cheek. “You’ll still find a way. I believe in you.”

You swallowed hard, her calm settling you like a warm tide. “I just… I want this one. Bad.”

“You should,” Mapi said, standing in front of you now. “It’s Madrid. We all want this one bad.”

Ingrid’s hand curled around yours, dragging you up off the bench and to your feat“Let’s take it.”

⸻

Kickoff.

Madrid came out like wolves. Sharp. Focused. Fast.

By the 8th minute, they’d drawn first blood.

The counterattack was lethal and clean attack down the right, a clever dummy pass, and a shot no one could stop. Mapi had chased, Ingrid had lunged. But it was in.

0–1.

The roar of the away fans cut like a knife. You stood at midfield, heart hammering, staring into the net like you could will the ball to roll back out.

But you didn’t break.

Because this wasn’t September anymore. You weren’t the anxious newcomer with bright boots and big expectations. You were the top scorer in Spain. You had earned your place here.

And you weren’t leaving this field without a fight.

You drifted into the half-spaces, trying to shake your shadows, but the white shirts clung to you like glue. Two at all times. Sometimes three. Every time you got the ball, a body was on you. Bumping, tugging, boxing you in. You danced past one, only to be swarmed by the next.

Still, you didn’t panic.

You dropped deeper, pulled defenders with you, and made space for Aitana. You two moved in sync, your ball control in tight spaces so fluid it looked choreographed. She slipped the ball through a window the size of a coin, and you struck it

CRACK.

Crossbar.

You clutched the back of your head, teeth gritted. The stadium let out a groan identical to your own, frustrated and hungry for an equaliser.

Not yet.

But you weren’t done.

Later in the half, you burned down the left wing, flying past your marker with raw speed. The defender clipped your heel. Not enough to fall, but enough to remind you that they were on you. You kept going. One touch. Two. You sendt the cross low and sharp to Pajor, who met it cleanly.

Almost.

The keeper barely got her gloves to it.

You exhaled hard, wiped sweat from your brow, and reset.

Then it came.

Minute 42. A ball out wide to Caroline, who knew exactly where you’d be. The cross soared past the defenders, a beautiful arc toward the back post.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your boots left the grass, and your head met the ball perfectly. The contact was crisp, the direction ruthless. Straight past the goalkeeper and into the net.

GOAL.

1-1

The stadium exploded. A wall of sound.

Caroline ran toward you first, yelling something in Norwegian that you barely processed. Pajor jumped on your back. Aitana screamed, eyes wide with joy.

Then you saw them.

Mapi sprinting toward you, pride all over her face.

Ingrid not far behind, smiling in that rare, soft way she reserved for when you did something she truly found amazing.

“She’s on fire,” Mapi said into your ear.

“She’s unstoppable,” Ingrid added.

You allowed yourself a breath. A smile. But only one.

Because this wasn’t done.

⸻

Halftime.

The sky opened the second the whistle blew.

Not just rain, hail.

Sharp pellets drumming against the roof of the stadium. You tilted your head back and smiled slightly. This? This reminded you of Norway. Of the farm. Of games in freezing mud and wet socks.

This was nothing.

The locker room was simmering.

Pajor flung her boots off with a growl. Alexia swore under her breath. Aitana looked like she wanted to bite someone. Even Ingrid paced, her face tight, jaw clenched. It was rare to see her riled up.

“They’re fouling her every chance they get,” she snapped, gesturing toward you. “And the ref’s doing nothing.”

Mapi was crouched in front of you, wiping your knee with a towel. “I’m surprised you’re not bleeding yet,” she muttered.

“They can kick me all they want,” you said quietly, staring down at your boots. “As long as we win.”

Ingrid’s voice softened. “This game is not on you alone.”

“It’s not,” you said, meeting her eyes. “I just want to finish it.”

Mapi looked up, eyes gleaming. “We will.”

Alexia turned from the whiteboard, eyes scanning the room. “Second half we tighten our press. We punish them for leaving space. And we feed balls up towards y/n, Pajor and Caro.”

“We have already cracked their line open a bit,” Aitana added. “Let’s break it wide open.”

The hail thundered like applause on the roof above. You stood slowly, rolling your shoulder. You felt it now, the tightness in your calf, the sting of a few tackles. But it didn’t matter.

You were still standing.

And Madrid was going to feel you again.

“Vamos,” you said.

“Vamos,” Mapi echoed.

“Let’s finish this,” Ingrid said.

Second half

Madrid pressed harder. Every step, every touch, they were still on you, bumping, pulling, snapping at your heels. Two at a time, sometimes more. You stopped counting.

The ref stopped calling fouls.

You kept going.

Minute 49

A scramble at the goal line.

Ingrid was there. Mapi was on the line. You swore she cleared it. But the ball bounced, maybe spun.

The ref pointed to the center.

Goal. 1–2, Madrid.

Alexia was livid.

“That was OUT! Are you blind?!” she screamed at the official, storming toward him, soaked hair clinging to her cheeks.

Nothing changed.

Just the score.

You locked eyes with Ingrid. Then Mapi. No words.

You turned.

Minute 60

Dragged down. Ignored again.

Alexia yelled at the ref as you pulled yourself up mid-run. “That’s every time! She’s bleeding out there and you’re doing NOTHING!”

You kept your head down, tore through two defenders, and slid the ball past the keeper.

2–2.

Your teammates caught you, but you barely reacted, just exhaled, kissing the badge.

Minute 64

Mapi send a perfect long ball.

You ran.

It bounced once, before you controlled it with another tuch.

Then calm, inside-foot finish.

3–2.

“Jævelig bra ball Maria!” Is all you did for a celebration before jogging back into place.

Minute 80

You didn’t see the elbow coming.

It smashed across your nose. Sharp, quick. Your vision blurred.

Blood.

Alexia lost it. “You SEE that? You SEE THAT?! Do your JOB!”

You wiped your face and kept playing.

Minute 85

The tackle came in studs up.

Right ankle.

A crack of pain burst up your leg, sharp and hot, but you didn’t go down.

Somehow, you stayed up.

You limped two steps, barely keeping control, then struck the ball past the keeper.

GOAL.

4–2.

And then you collapsed to your knees on the wet grass, fists clenched, screaming through the pain:

“JAAAAAA!”

Your voice tore through the stadium.

Your teammates ran toward you, but you waved them off, already pushing yourself back up.

You limped to the halfway line, blood now visible through your sock, face scraped, ankle burning.

The referee gave no card.

The fourth official raised the board.

Your number.

You turned without protest.

The walk took forever.

You limped the full length of the pitch, towards the sideline. Every step heavier, the cheers behind you muffled by the rain and the blood rushing in your ears.

But no one chanted.

No one called your name.

They stood.

Still.

Watching.

Applauding.

It was more powerful than any roar. It said everything.

You stepped off the pitch alone.

The physio helped you sit, his gloves already at your ankle.

“Sock has to come off.”

You hissed as he peeled it back, revealing torn skin, swelling, and blood.

“I’ll wrap it now.”

“No ” you said, breathless. “Let it breathe. Just for a minute.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “One minute.”

You leaned back on the bench, ankle pulsing. Watching your team finish without you. Mapi and Ingrid still out there, fierce and untouchable, defending the lead you had worked for.

The whistle blew.

Full time.

And then they were running.

Ingrid made it to you first, still soaked, still panting. She dropped to her knees and grabbed your ankle without pause.

“Why is this not wrapped yet?” she snapped at the physio. “She’s still bleeding.”

“She asked to let it breathe—”

“I don’t care. Wrap it. Now.”

She was already reaching for the wrap.

Mapi sat beside you, calmer. Her fingers touched your thigh gently, eyes locked on yours.

“Are you okay?”

You nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “We won.”

Mapi smiled, relief etched across her face.

Then the announcement came through the speakers, cutting through the post-match buzz.

“Player of the Match… Number 47 — Y/N Y/L/N.”

Your breath caught.

Ingrid froze, still holding your foot. Mapi didn’t say anything, just gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

The crowd roared.

You leaned back on the bench.

Blood drying.

Ankle throbbing.

And smiled.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 17 of the missing piece series

Laundry duty

The moment the front door closed, you sprang into action like a kid home alone for the first time.

“Operation washing machine is at go,” you whispered to yourself, unlocking your phone and tapping out a quick message.

You:

Safe to land. ETA?

Paula:

Already outside.

You grinned, buzzing her in and bolting quietly to the door, cracking it open. Paula stood there with a raised brow and two tote bags.

“Hola, criminalita,” she greeted. “You ready to pretend you’re learning to be self-sufficient again?”

“Hello little criminal”

“You say that like I ever pretended convincingly the first time,” you replied, ushering her in. “This is a top secret mission, you know. Mapi and Ingrid thinks I’m doing it myself.”

“They must be delusional.”

“They’re idealists,” you said, leading her to the laundry nook like it was a bunker. “You, Paula, are reality.”

She gave you a sideways glance as she dropped her bags. “You’re going to owe me so much coffee and at least one designer bag when you marry rich.”

You plopped yourself down dramatically on the floor in front of the washer. “I’m already rich.”

“Yes, and yet you can’t distinguish between fabric softener and bleach.”

“Which is why I need you forever.”

She rolled her eyes, sorting out the colors from the whites. “It’s honestly comforting how useless you are at this. I know I’ll have a job forever.”

You tilted your head. “Oye. I’m not useless. I’m just. How do you say, logistically uninterested.”

“In being an adult?”

“In doing things other people can do better and faster while I sit here and watch like a respectful rich dumbass,” you said, beaming.

“Eres imposible.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Y encantadora.”

“And charming”

Paula snorted. “Debatable.”

As she started the wash, you tucked your arms around your knees and leaned your cheek to the wall, watching the spin cycle like it was your favorite tv show. Every few minutes, you’d sigh or comment on how soothing it was.

Paula side-eyed you. “¿Estás viéndolo girar en serio?”

“Are you seriously watching it turn?”

“Es hipnótico,” you said dreamily. “I could stay here forever.”

“It’s hypnotic,”

“Nena, you are literally hiding.”

“Not hiding,” you protested. “Just… present. For company. And to supervise.”

“¿Supervisar qué? El detergente lo hago yo.”

"Supervise what? I'll do the detergent.”

“Exactly. I trust you.”

She laughed. “Your trust is a beautiful thing, nena. Pity it means I have to do everything.”

“Consider it practice for when I convince Ingrid you should come help here too.”

“You think Ingrid’s gonna let you get away with this?”

“If I flex really hard,” you smirked. “Or take off my shirt.”

“Dios mío.”

The two of you were still there forty minutes later. Wash done, clothes being hung to dry in the sunlit nook, you passing hangers like you were actually helping (you weren’t).

Then the front door opened.

You froze.

“Quick!” you whisper-yelled. “Play it cool!”

Paula looked at you like you were a cartoon character caught mid-heist.

Then came Ingrid’s voice, low and unmistakable. “…Why is it so quiet?”

Mapi’s laugh echoed closer. “That’s how you know she’s up to something.”

A second later, both of them rounded the corner.

Ingrid stopped dead. Mapi blinked.

You were perched on the floor beside the drying rack, barefoot, smiling too wide. Paula was calmly pinning a shirt, clearly mid-task.

Mapi squinted. “Wait. Is that… Paula?”

Paula turned and waved. “Hola. Nice detergent, by the way. Smells very nice.”

Ingrid’s eyes narrowed. “You said you were going to do the laundry.”

“I am,” you replied brightly.

“You’re watching Paula do it.”

“Yes,” you said. “Supervising. Very important.”

Mapi chuckled. “Honestly, I’m impressed she even remembered where the washer was.”

“She didn’t,” Paula said, deadpan. “I found it.”

You stood up quickly, wiping invisible dust from your thighs. “Okay, okay. Before you say anything, hear me out”

Ingrid crossed her arms. “I’m listening.”

You looked between them. “I’m not going to lie. I had no intention of doing this myself.”

“No shit,” Mapi muttered.

“But I did plan on doing it responsibly. Which is why I enlisted help from someone who knows what they’re doing and who is not going to ruin any of the bras.”

Paula raised a hand. “She bribed me with coffee and compliments.”

“And she stayed the whole time,” Paula added, gesturing to you. “Sat on the floor like a weird cat. Didn’t move once.”

“I didn’t want to risk Ingrid coming back early and yelling at me again,” you explained with wide eyes. “Also, the spinning cycle is very therapeutic.”

Mapi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know.”

Ingrid sighed, eyes scanning you from head to toe. “What am I going to do with you?”

You stepped closer, voice softening. “Well… you could let Paula come help out every now and then. Not all the time. Just… sometimes.”

“You don’t want to learn?” Ingrid asked, one brow raised.

You tilted your head, teasing. “I want to learn what happiness feels like. And it’s not folding twenty socks and shirts.”

“I swear to god.”

“Come on, baby,” you murmured, gently tugging her arm. “Wee travel all the time. When we’re home, I’d rather be with you. Not hunting for lost socks.”

Mapi was already nodding. “Honestly? Sounds good to me.”

You shot her a grateful look.

Ingrid’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t speak.

You sighed, then added softly: “It’s not spoiled to get help. My mami built a business so we wouldn’t have to spend every second grinding. I helped. I worked that farm. I was the breadwinner once. I’ve done enough for five lifetimes. Now? I want to enjoy life. And share it with people I love. Like you.”

That did it.

Ingrid’s shoulders eased. She reached for your hand. “Alright. She can come once a week.”

You lit up.

“But,” she warned, “you don’t get to brag about it.”

“No promises.”

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 16 of the missing piece series

Bad game

Preseason had gone perfectly.

You’d returned from Norway sharper than ever, having stuck to your training plan like it was the bible whilst visiting your moms. You aced your fitness tests. Bagged goals in friendlies. You even started the season strong, coming off the bench, creating chances, winning minutes.

Everything was moving up.

Until today.

The game had been messy. You were off your rhythm. The ball bounced the wrong way. Your touches were heavy. And every time you thought you had a shot at goal, there was a defender there to knock you down, or worse, dispossess you like you were a rookie.

So when the final whistle blew, and you had contributed nothing, it was like swallowing fire.

You stormed off the pitch and into the locker room, barely hearing the post-game chatter. Your cleats hit the floor with a loud thunk as you ripped them off, jaw tight, skin buzzing.

You knocked over a stack of plastic water bottles with a kick. They clattered and rolled across the tiles.

“Faen,” you muttered. “Så jævlig ræva.”

(“Fuck. So fucking shit.”)

A few of your teammates turned. Most knew not to comment.

Ingrid, however, didn’t flinch.

She was sitting calmly at her locker, already unlacing her boots.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she said, looking over.

You didn’t even try to contain the glare. “Don’t.”

Mapi glanced over from the showers and gave Ingrid a small warning look, but said nothing.

Ingrid stood, brushing off her knees. “Y/n”

“I know I was shit, okay?” you snapped. “You don’t have to do the whole ’calm Norwegian voice’ thing. I’m not in the mood.”

“Then maybe don’t throw a tantrum like a spoiled brat in front of the team,” Ingrid said, voice low, but firm.

The room stilled.

Even Alexia looked up.

You froze, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“Sorry,” Ingrid added quickly, her tone softening. “That came out wrong ”

You turned, grabbed your bag, and walked out.

—

The car ride home was silent.

Mapi tried to break it once or twice, “That ref was a joke,” and “Your first touch wasn’t that bad” but the air was too thick. Ingrid didn’t speak at all, her eyes on the road like it was the only safe place to look.

You hated the feeling: shame, mostly. Not for the game. For how you’d acted.

By the time you stepped into the apartment, your body felt like it had been dragged behind the team bus.

You dropped your bag by the door and went straight for the couch, flopping down face-first into the cushions with a dramatic groan.

Mapi followed, heading to the kitchen. “Want a snack?”

“How about vodka.”

“Snack it is.”

Ingrid lingered in the hallway for a moment, watching you silently.

Finally, she sat on the edge of the couch. “Hey.”

You didn’t move.

“I shouldn’t have said that in front of the team.”

“You think?” you mumbled into the pillow.

Ingrid exhaled slowly. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I was just frustrated.”

“I know,” you said, voice muffled. “So was I.”

She ran a hand down your back. “That’s not how we handle things. You’re better than that.”

You rolled onto your side to look up at her.

“I just felt like I was sinking the whole game,” you said. “Like I couldn’t do anything right. I’ve been working so hard. I’ve been good! And now, just poof. Nothing.”

Ingrid softened, brushing a thumb across your cheek. “It’s not nothing. One off day doesn’t erase everything. But you can’t lash out like that.”

You nodded slowly. “I get it.”

“Good. Because your punishment is laundry duty.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.”

“You know I don’t….”

“Then learn.”

Mapi appeared with a bowl of popcorn and flopped down between you. “I’m giving it one wash cycle before she brakes something”

You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even do your own laundry.”

“I don’t get assigned punishment chores. That’s the difference.”

You buried your face in the pillow again.

“I’ll do it,” you grumbled.

Ingrid stood up, smug. “Perfect. Whites on cold. Delicates in a net. And don’t shrink my jerseys.”

You waited until she left the room, then slowly pulled out your phone and opened your secret contact: Paula.

You typed one word:

“HELP”

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Can you put a keep reading on your fics please otherwise the clog the tag especially on mobile. Thanks

Of course, thanks for the suggestion

[monktwo]

Part 15 of the Missing piece series

End of season party

[Reader POV]

You knew what they were thinking the moment they stepped through the door.

"This is not a house," Frido muttered. "This is a Bond villain's summer retreat."

You just shrugged, trying not to grin. "Well, if I’m the villain, at least I throw good parties."

The rest of the team poured in behind her, eyes wide. The open concept villa was perched high in the hills, all smooth stone and glass, with views that made even Aitana stop mid-sentence and whistle. Staff moved quietly in the background, trays of food appearing like magic, music humming low from the speakers tucked into the walls.

"Wait," Salma said. "Is that— you have a bartender?"

"Two," you said. "In case one needs a break."

Jana blinked. "Who are you?"

You opened your arms. "Same person who screams faen when a pass is off."

That got a laugh.

It wasn’t about showing off. Not really. You were just done pretending to be embarrassed about the life your family had built. About the years you spent earning your way and then mami, who had built an empire out of nothing.

So yeah. You threw a proper party. Five courses. Open bar. Heated pool.

You were still wearing a simple green t-shirt and a pair of jean shorts Ingrid had picked out for you. The shirt that made your arms look like you belonged on a Marvel set. Mapi had already poked your bicep at least three times and muttered, "Weapon."

Ingrid, however, was quieter.

Not cold. Not distant. Just... watching.

You figured she was tired. She wasn’t much of a party person.

You got distracted halfway through the tour when Salma dared you to race her to the pool. With a running start from the kitchen.

So you did.

The two of you sprinted barefoot down the hallway, Vicky screaming encouragement while Jana recorded it all. You barely won, belly-flopped straight into the deep end, and came up laughing. Ten minutes later, Mapi cannonballed in wearing sunglasses and someone else’s flip flops, and chaos followed.

By the time dinner was served, actual, plated, coordinated courses — you were half dry and completely starving.

You sat next to Ingrid at the long outdoor table, with Mapi on your other side, and a view of the sun dipping low over the hills.

The meal was beautiful. Tiny starters with cured ham and local cheeses, pasta that practically melted on the tongue, and something citrusy for the fourth course that made Salma groan out loud. You leaned in, whispering to Ingrid, “See? Told you five courses was the right call.”

“Don’t let it go to your head, babe,” she said, but smiled anyway.

Jana clinked her fork to her glass a few courses in. “I would like to formally announce that if anyone is looking to upgrade the facilities at the training grounds, our host tonight may be taking investment applications.”

You raised your hands like you were about to deny it, then shrugged. “Already in progress.”

Everyone blinked.

“For real?” Alexia asked.

You nodded. “Small upgrades. Nothing groundbraking. A few million towards conditioning equipment and some updated rehab rooms. Just to keep us ready for next season.”

Mapi cackled. “She’s rich, she’s useful. Let’s keep her around.”

You just grinned.

[Ingrid POV]

Ingrid sat back in her chair, wine glass cradled in her fingers, watching as you laughed through a half-drunk conversation with Vicky and Salma about whether the pool counted as post-game recovery.

You were so full of life. So bright it made her chest ache.

She turned slightly, catching Frido’s eye a few seats down.

Later, when the party had mellowed and the stars had started to peek through the night sky, she pulled Frido aside on the garden path.

“She’s amazing,” Ingrid said, almost before she meant to.

“She is,” Frido agreed, glancing back at the house where laughter still echoed.

“I just— sometimes I feel like I’m watching someone live the chapter I already finished. Like I’m older in ways that matter."

Frido was quiet a second. Then: “And yet, she looks at you like you’re the best part of the story. Don’t overthink it.”

Ingrid smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“She’s so young. I don’t want to drag her into something she’s not ready for."

“She’s not being dragged,” Frido said. “She’s running into it at full speed. You ever see the way she folds into your side the second she’s close enough? The way she listens when you speak, like it’s gospel?”

Ingrid swallowed.

“She chose you, Ingrid. Just let her.”

[Reader POV]

It was late when Ingrid found you upstairs, barefoot and wrapped in a hoodie, scrolling on your phone while curled up on the massive bed.

“There you are,” you said, voice soft.

She sat beside you, leaning back against the headboard. You crawled immediately into her side like a habit, one hand curling around her arm, face against her shoulder.

“Good party?” she asked.

“Mhm. Vicky broke a vase. I told her it was worth less than her last goal bonus. She believed me.”

Ingrid chuckled, rubbing small circles into your side with her thumb.

A long silence passed.

Then, softly:

“Er du trøtt?” (Are you tired?)

You smiled. “Litt.” (A little.)

You hummed, arm tightening around her.

“Jeg liker å ha deg her,” you mumbled. “Føles tryggt.” (I like having you here. Feels safe.)

That made her chest ache in a different way.

She kissed your hair, brushing her fingers over the faded scar near your shoulder.

“Er jeg for ung?” you asked suddenly, barely audible. (Am I too young?)

Ingrid blinked. “Hvorfor spør du om det?” (Why are you asking that?)

You shrugged. “Du så så tankefull ut i kveld.” (You looked so thoughtful tonight.)

Ingrid sighed, cupping your jaw to get you to look up.

“It’s not about your age,” she said quietly. “It’s about how easy it is to forget we’re not in the same chapter. You’re just starting to figure everything out... and I guess sometimes I worry I’ll weigh you down.”

“You don’t,” you said. “You keep me steady.”

Ingrid kissed your forehead.

And you mad the leap to her lips shortly after. Choosing her in every way you knew how.

Mapi barged in five minutes later, dragging a bottle of wine and dramatically collapsing on the bed. “I’m not sleeping alone in this house full of rich people.”

You laughed, patting the bed.

Later you fell asleep half on top of Ingrid, mumbling something about her being your human pillow.

Ingrid looked at Mapi over your sleeping form.

Mapi smirked, whispering, “Still think the age thing matters?”

Ingrid shook her head, brushing her fingers down your spine.

“No. Just... can’t believe she’s ours.”

Keep reading

[monktwo]

One-shot "te amo, jeg elsker deg"

Set in the Missing piece universe

It had been a day.

Not a particularly difficult one — no loss, no heartbreak, no press disasters — but still long. A double session, some mandatory media prep, and a short tactical meeting that stretched twice as long as intended.

By the time you made it back to Mapi and Ingrid’s place, your limbs were heavy and your mind was soup. Dinner was a shared effort: Ingrid grilled vegetables with surgical precision, Mapi made fun of her for it, and you stirred risotto like your life depended on it. You all sat on the floor with plates in your laps and music humming in the background. The three of you existed like planets in easy orbit, brushing against each other without colliding.

Later, you ended up on the couch, sandwiched lazily between your girlfriends. Mapi on one side, half-sprawled and radiating warmth. Ingrid on the other, calm and steady, one hand resting absently on your knee.

You hadn't meant to fall asleep. But your head found Mapi’s chest, her heartbeat a lullaby, and the rest of you followed soon after.

Somewhere between sleep and wake, floating in that soft liminal space, you felt her arm curl around your back.

You shifted closer, cheek brushing her skin.

“Lo digo en serio,” you murmured without opening your eyes. (I mean it.)

Mapi stilled. “¿El qué, mi vida?” (What, love?)

“Te amo,” you breathed. (I love you.)

Her breath hitched for a second — then her fingers threaded gently through your hair.

“I know,” she whispered. “Yo también, mi cielo.” (Me too, my sky.)

And that was all. No panic. No explosion. Just truth. Quiet and certain.

You were already asleep again by the time she kissed the top of your head.

She didn’t wake you. She just stayed still, heart full.

Because you showed her every day. When you laughed at her dumbest jokes. When you made her coffee without asking. When you remembered exactly where her spare socks were and kept her sunglasses in your bag “just in case.” She knew.

You’d already been saying it, long before the words ever left your mouth.

Next day

You woke slowly to the smell of coffee and the feel of warmth beneath your cheek.

But this time, it wasn’t Mapi you were lying on.

You blinked sleepily and realized you were stretched across Ingrid’s stomach, her hoodie bunched up just enough to expose the skin between her ribs and waistband. Her hand rested lightly on your back, fingers idly moving — not to wake you, just because she liked the contact.

“God morgen,” you rasped, voice thick with sleep. (Good morning.)

Ingrid looked down and smiled, eyes soft. “Sovet godt?” (Sleep well?)

You nodded against her skin and yawned. “Hvordan kom jeg hit?” (How did I get here?)

“You rolled over an hour ago. Mapi got up to call her brother. You latched onto me like a baby sloth.”

You snorted, muffling the sound into her hoodie. “Beklager.” (Sorry.)

“Don’t be,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair off your forehead. “You can crawl on top of me anytime.”

You shifted, resting your chin on her now. Your eyes met hers.

And it was there — on the tip of your tongue, blooming in your chest like spring finally arriving. You weren’t sleepy now. You weren’t floating.

But it still came out soft. Honest.

“Jeg elsker deg.” (I love you.)

Ingrid blinked, breath catching just a little.

You searched her face, nervous despite yourself. “Jeg mener det.” (I mean it.)

She didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she cupped your jaw and kissed you — slow and certain. And when she pulled back, she looked at you like she’d never seen anything so stupidly precious in her entire life.

“Jeg vet det,” she whispered. (I know.)

Her voice cracked a little. “Jeg elsker deg også.” (I love you too.)

You nestled back into her stomach, the way you always did when your chest felt too full to hold upright.

Mapi padded back in, hair a mess, holding her phone. She stopped when she saw you.

“¿Otra vez?” she said, grinning. “¿Está haciendo turnos para dormir sobre ustedes?” (Again? Are we doing shifts now for who you sleep on?)

“I’m very comfortable,” you muttered.

Mapi came over, leaned down, and kissed your cheek. “Lo sé, princesa.” (I know, princess.)

Then she sat at your feet and tugged your legs onto her lap. One hand casually rubbed circles into your calf, like she’d done it a thousand times.

You lay there with one head on Ingrid’s stomach, one leg in Mapi’s lap, loved in stereo.

Neither of them said “I love you” again that morning.

They didn’t need to.

You had already said it all — in two languages, across two hearts.

And both had known long before you ever said the words.

[monktwo]

Part 14 of the Missing piece series

First official week

Tobias didn’t say much as the car rolled to a stop outside the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper training complex, but you could feel him watching you from the corner of his sunglasses. You’d known him long enough to read the subtleties: shoulders relaxed = safe. Chin tilted = focus. Backpack over one shoulder = he thought you’d do fine.

You blew out a breath and stepped out.

First official week as a Barça player.

First test to prove you weren’t just hype.

—

You’d always known you were fit. Growing up on a farm didn’t leave a lot of time for skipping leg day. Especially when your “leg day” was dragging hay bales or carrying sacks of grain up and down the barn stairs. But this was the first time it was measured like this.

On paper.

With data.

And you crushed it.

Speed sprints? Personal best.

Explosiveness? Top 3 in the team.

Vertical leap? You exceeded their expectations.

At one point during mobility testing, you stripped down to just your compression shorts and sports bra to move freely for the cameras and sensors. There was a moment. Brief, but noticeable, when the room fell a little quieter.

You were used to your body. To what it could do. You weren’t showing off, but you were definitely being seen.

Someone whistled low.

Mapi, obviously.

“Dios mío,” she muttered from behind a laptop screen. “Is this part of the test, or is this just a gift?”

You rolled your eyes and kept stretching.

Ingrid didn’t say anything, but you caught the shift in her expression. The slight furrow between her brows when you reached for a wall stretch and the curve of your back revealed the thin, scattered white scars that spidered across your shoulder blades.

Later, she walked by and bumped her knuckles against your arm.

“Your body’s incredible,” she said softly. “But those… they’re from before?”

You nodded once.

She didn’t ask more. Just nodded back and gave your arm a squeeze.

—

After showers and recovery shakes, you were ushered into the media studio for your “Get to Know Me” segment. The official video that would go up across Barça Femini socials to introduce you to the fans.

You sat in full kit fresh, crisp, name on your back. And you tried not to fidget while the lights were being adjusted.

The interviewer smiled. “Alright. Let’s make the Culers fall in love with you.”

You blinked. “No pressure, then.”

“Name, age, position?”

“Y/N. Twenty-two. Attacking player, mostly left wing.”

“Perfect. Question one: Favorite food?”

“Lasagne,” you said immediately. “The cheesy kind. With garlic bread.”

Off camera, Mapi called out, “She’s not lying! I’ve seen it!”

“I was carb-loading!” you yelled back.

Ingrid added calmly, “There was no game that day.”

“Question two,” the interviewer continued. “Pre-match ritual?”

You smiled. “I always lace my left boot first. Always.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s enough.”

“Question three: Players you looked up to?”

“Neymar. Messi. And Ada Hegerberg. Watching her made things click for me.”

“Question four: Fun fact fans wouldn’t guess?”

You shrugged. “I’m low-key addicted to Pepsi Max.”

“That’s… specific.”

You grinned. “I’m Norwegian. It’s basically a national phenomenon.”

Mapi shouted, “She drinks it at breakfast!”

“She offered it to the physio!” Ingrid added.

“Question five: Three words to describe yourself?”

“Strong. Fast. Hungry.”

Mapi again, louder: “FOR LASAGNA!!”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands.

The interviewer laughed. “Last one. What does playing for Barça mean to you?”

You took a breath.

“Everything,” you said softly. “When I was thirteen, I trained at La Masia. It didn’t last long, and it wasn’t easy, but it stuck with me. The joy of how football is played here. The philosophy. I’ve wanted to come back ever since.”

There was a pause, just a little beat of silence.

Ingrid leaned around the curtain. “You’re doing it now.”

Mapi followed with, “And looking good while doing it.”

—

That night, after the video was filmed and your numbers logged, you lay stretched across the couch in their apartment. Mapi’s hand tracing lazy circles on your thigh, Ingrid’s fingers softly combing through your hair.

“Long day,” Mapi murmured.

“Big day,” Ingrid added.

You smiled, letting their voices settle over you like a blanket.

Tomorrow, the pressure would come. The matchday prep nerves. The press. The expectations.

Next day, pre match prep

You weren’t even playing yet, and still the pressure felt like a second skin.

Not from the coaches, they were good. Clear. Fair.

But the cameras?

The articles?

The whispers that built up online every time you posted, or didn’t post, or breathed?

You didn’t know how to deal with it.

—

“Just breathe,” the physio said, pressing her thumbs into the tightest part of your shoulder.

You were lying facedown on the massage table, head resting in the cradle, jaw clenched.

“I am,” you muttered.

“Try again.”

You tried again.

It didn’t help that you’d already watched two reels this morning of people debating your value, whether you deserved to be at Barça. Whether you were hype or real. Whether your “personality” was more important than your touch.

You hadn’t even played a full 90 yet.

“You’re holding your breath again,” the physio said gently.

You let it go.

The door opened. Footsteps. Then a voice.

“You mind if I sit?”

Alexia.

You didn’t lift your head — you couldn’t — but you nodded.

There was a pause. Then: “It gets loud, huh?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Feels like every breath you take, someone has an opinion on it.”

Another nod.

“But you know what drowns it out?” she asked. “Your teammates. Your joy. And a ball at your feet.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I’ve seen you,” she said. “You’re the type who lights up when you dribble. That’s not fake.”

“Feels like everyone’s waiting for me to fall on my face.”

“Let them wait,” Alexia said, smiling. “They’ll be waiting a long time.”

—

Training ended with a short recovery cool-down and the dreaded ice baths.

You stripped and stepped in next to Ingrid without thinking.

“Lean on me, babe,” she said softly.

You leaned. Of course you did.

The chill soaked into your skin. Your breath slowed. Your body finally let go of the tension.

You didn’t even notice you’d drifted off until the quiet giggles started.

“She’s out,” someone whispered.

“She always is,” Salma added. “Any time she’s near Ingrid.”

“I am not,” you mumbled, barely awake.

Ingrid brushed her thumb across your arm. “You are, baby. That’s how I like it.”

You grunted and refused to open your eyes.

—

At the small press event later, you were sharp at first.

Polished.

Then one of the reporters asked about social media and if your visibility came from your actual game or just your look.

Your mouth opened. “I think it’s— I mean— I know I can play, and if— if that’s not clear then—”

“She means yes,” Mapi cut in cheerfully. “And she also thinks your question sucks.”

The room laughed.

You blinked. “Yeah. What she said.”

—

Dinner was lasagna again. Your chef had clearly caught on to your carb dependency.

You were working through your second plate when Ingrid called softly, “Baby, slow down a bit”

You paused mid-chew. “Mm.”

Mapi grinned from across the table. “Every single time.”

“What?”

“She says ‘baby’ and your fork drops like it’s choreographed.”

You frowned. “I’m just being polite.”

“She’s got you trained.”

“She’s nice,” you muttered.

—

Later, shirtless and tucked into the corner of the couch, you stretched out across Mapi’s lap while Ingrid’s hand rested on your ribs.

“You good?” she asked softly.

You nodded, eyes half-closed. “Better now.”

“Still nervous?” Mapi asked.

You didn’t answer at first.

Then: “A little.”

Ingrid leaned down, kissed your cheek. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“Tomorrow’s your start,” Mapi added. “But don’t think of it like a test. Think of it like your moment.”

You smiled tiredly. “You two make everything feel easier.”

Ingrid brushed your hair from your face. “You make everything feel right.”

You sighed, letting your whole weight sink into the couch.

And by the time Mapi pulled a blanket over your hips, you were already asleep.

Next day

You had fire in your chest before the whistle even blew.

Not nerves. Not excitement.

Focus.

They could talk all they wanted — about hype, about image, but today, you were going to remind everyone exactly why you were here.

—

From the first minute, they made it clear: you were the target.

You couldn’t touch the ball without a body on you. Hands on your hips, studs down your ankles, elbows in your side.

By the tenth minute, you’d already snapped once, spinning on a defender and barking, “¡¿Quieres jugar fútbol o pelear?!”

(“Do you want to play football or fight?!”)

The ref gave you a warning look. You gave him a glare in return.

—

The first goal was clean. Classic.

A ball flicked through by Alexia. You ghosted past one, touched once to set it, and fired high into the top corner.

1–0.

You celebrated by kissing the badge on your chest, simple but clear. This is where you wanted to be.

—

Second half.

The ball broke to you near the sideline, and as you sprinted up, their right back took you out, shoulder first, dragging your leg.

You slammed into the ground, rolled, and instantly bounced back up, blood in your mouth, rage in your chest.

“¡Eso es una broma, árbitro!”

(“That’s a joke, ref!”)

You marched up to him, finger pointed, voice raised.

Alexia was beside you in a flash, one arm around your chest. “Tranquila,” she muttered under her breath.

You pushed her off. “¡Me están pateando en cada jugada!”

(“They’re kicking me every play!”)

The ref ignored you. Again.

Fine.

—

You got your revenge three minutes later.

Same defender. Same side.

This time, she slid in again, hard. You stumbled and fell, but your feet caught the pitch like magnets. And then you bounced with the momentum back up. You were gone.

Sprint. Cut inside. Rippling net.

2–0.

You walked back past the defender, still sitting on the ground.

“Deberías haberte quedado de pie.”

(“You should’ve stayed on your feet.”)

—

Your third came in the 85th minute.

Caroline sent a chipped cross from the opposite flank. You beat two defenders in the air, heading it in like gravity didn’t apply to you.

Hat trick.

You dropped to your knees. Arms open. Jaw tight.

The stadium exploded.

—

Then came the MVP announcement.

You barely had time to untie your boots before they dragged you to the flash interview zone.

You stood under the lights, still catching your breath.

First question came quick, in Spanish.

“Tres goles en tu primer partido completo. ¿Cómo te sientes?”

(“Three goals in your first full match. How do you feel?”)

“Cansada,” you answered bluntly. “Pero satisfecha. No vine aquí a posar. Vine a jugar.”

(“Tired. But satisfied. I didn’t come here to pose. I came to play.”)

Another laugh. Another question.

“Fue un partido muy físico. ¿Qué opinas del arbitraje?”

(“It was a very physical match. Thoughts on the refereeing?”)

You stared dead into the camera.

“La próxima vez, tal vez alguien debería proteger a las jugadoras talentosas en lugar de mirar hacia otro lado.”

(“Next time, maybe someone should protect the talented players instead of looking the other way.”)

Silence for a beat. Then the press officer quickly thanked the media and ended the session.

—

As you walked off the platform, your jaw was still tight. But your chest?

Lighter.

You’d said what needed to be said.

And more importantly?

You’d shown them.

Three goals.

One warning.

Zero regrets.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 13 of The missing piece series

Back home

You wrapped your last exam with a pencil-smudged fist bump from your lab partner and a headache that felt like it had taken up permanent residence behind your eyes.

It wasn’t the exam that hurt. It was what came after.

Two days left in Norway.

You spent one of them visiting your old team — your girls, the ones who still called you captain and hugged you like no time had passed. You trained lightly, mostly just to move, and joked your way through some passing drills. The goodbyes were teary, but hopeful.

More than one of them had gotten interest from scouts after Ullevaal.

That made you proud. Really proud.

You were flying solo — literally — with your luggage packed and driven ahead to the house in the hills. Tobias was in one car with your bags. You, in true you-fashion, had made zero stops and went straight from the airport to Mapi and Ingrid’s.

Where you belonged.

—

Mapi opened the door in socks and an oversized tee.

“You smell like airport,” she announced, then immediately pulled you into the tightest hug you’d had in two weeks.

You melted into her.

Ingrid appeared a moment later, barefoot and warm-eyed, and took your backpack off your shoulder without a word.

You hadn’t even made it to your house.

Didn’t matter.

You were already home.

—

Ten minutes later you were half on top of both of them on the couch, your legs tangled with Mapi’s and your arm looped around Ingrid’s waist. You hadn’t said much — just breathed them in.

Until you mumbled, “I don’t want to go back to my house tonight.”

Mapi blinked. “You’ve been in Spain for thirty minutes.”

“I know,” you sighed. “But it’s too quiet. And big. And… cold. Not temperature. Just… cold.”

Mapi flopped back. “You know we’ll stay over anytime.”

Ingrid raised an eyebrow. “We will?”

You sat up. “Actually, I was going to ask if you would come to mine sometimes.”

Mapi grinned. “Oh, like that’s even a question. Pool? Chef? Sofa that costs more than my car? Yes. Yes. A thousand times yes.”

You looked at Ingrid, hopeful. “Please?”

She gave you a slow smirk. “Convince me.”

You sighed dramatically. “Coffee in bed. Real coffee. French press. Made by a professional. Warm pastries. Custom playlists.”

Mapi clapped. “Strong opening.”

“And me,” you added. “Shirtless. Accessible.”

Still nothing.

You narrowed your eyes, stood up, and in one slow, overly dramatic movement, pulled off your shirt and tossed it across the room.

Mapi gasped like she’d witnessed art.

Then you straddled Ingrid’s lap, gently placed her hand on your abs, flexed, and whispered, “Por favor, amor.”

Her breath hitched.

Mapi whistled. “I am convinced.”

“Please, baby,” you added, dropping a kiss to the corner of Ingrid’s mouth.

“Still not sure,” Ingrid said, clearly lying.

You kissed her again, soft and smug. “I’ll make the foam art say ‘te amo.’”

Mapi nearly choked.

Ingrid finally sighed. “Fine.”

You grinned. “So I win?”

“Not tonight,” Ingrid added, voice firm. “Tonight, you stay here.”

Mapi tugged you back down. “Where we can make sure you get food, sleep, and twenty-seven kisses before bed.”

Ingrid nodded. “Exactly twenty-seven.”

You laughed and let them smother you in blankets, limbs and kisses.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 12 of The missing piece series

So you’re staying?

It was strange how two weeks could feel like a lifetime.

Not because the days dragged — they flew. But in that small stretch of time, everything shifted.

You’d scored goals with the B team. You’d linked up with Alexia and Pina like it was second nature with the A team. You’d tracked back in defense beside Ingrid and earned a wink from Mapi when you won the ball clean.

You hadn’t just played well — you’d fit.

And off the pitch? You were home.

Ingrid had asked you one Thursday morning, half-asleep with her head on your stomach: “So… are we official now?”

Mapi, from where she was brushing her teeth, had yelled, “We’ve been official since I let her steal my hoodies!”

You hadn’t argued. You just grinned and nodded and kissed them both.

Everything felt… right.

Until the meeting was scheduled.

Then, suddenly, it all felt very real — and a little terrifying.

—

You walked into the glass conference room wearing clean jeans, your nicest shirt, and nerves like steel wool under your skin.

Pere Romeu was already seated. Calm, warm.

Laporta walked in a minute later with a wide smile and a strong handshake. “Y/N. Good to see you again.”

You smiled, gripping his hand just tight enough. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

To your right sat your mamma — hands folded neatly, eyes taking everything in.

To your left, your mami, dressed like she’d just walked out of a Fortune 500 photoshoot. Her tablet was already open, stylus poised. Ready.

The meeting began smoothly.

Pere spoke first — praising your tactical awareness, your balance, your coachability.

“The technical staff has been deeply impressed,” he said. “And not just by your skill, but by your attitude and the work you put in.”

Laporta took over then.

“Your ability to blend with the team, to understand our play philosophy, is rare. You’re already one of ours.”

You nodded, listening — trying not to squirm in your seat.

Then came the offer: a two-year contract, with a performance-based extension option. Full training with the A team. Media and sponsorship guidance. Language support, if needed.

And housing — the temporary home you’d been staying in could be yours long-term. It was close to the training grounds, secure, in a good neighborhood.

That’s when you froze.

“I—” you started. “I’m not sure I can live here alone.”

The silence that followed wasn’t judgmental — just quiet. Careful.

“I mean… I can,” you clarified. “But I don’t want to.”

You turned to your mamma.

“Can you stay?”

Her eyes softened, but her voice stayed steady.

“Sweetheart… I would, in a second. But I can’t take your sister out of her life back home. She needs structure. School. Friends.”

“But I need you too,” you said, and it cracked out before you could stop it.

“I know,” she whispered, reaching for your hand across the table.

“I’m not trying to be a baby,” you added, blinking hard. “It’s just—this is huge. I don’t want to leave you. You’ve always been there to help me figure things out.”

“You’re not a baby,” Laporta said gently. “You’re human.”

“We anticipated some need for family integration,” Pere added. “And we’re open to solutions.”

Your mami leaned forward then, calm as ever.

“We discussed this last night. I travel here regularly. I can stay at the house during those trips. And my wife—”

“I can fly in for long weekends,” Hanne finished. “Once a month. Minimum. We’ll figure it out.”

You stared down at your hands. Then up again.

It wasn’t what you’d dreamed of. But maybe it was enough.

“I don’t want to delay this,” you said quietly. “This is what I want. i don’t want more speculations on if I am signing for another club or more of this media drama. I just want to know my family’s with me.”

“You’ll never lose us,” Hanne said.

“And now,” Mami added, passing the tablet across the table, “you’ll have a club that believes in you, too.”

—

You signed the contract with your hands still a little shaky.

Laporta stood immediately.

“Welcome to FC Barcelona,” he said again, this time like it meant forever.

Pere smiled.

“You’ll report back in two weeks. Take this time to finish your exams. Pack. Say goodbye on your terms.”

You nodded.

Hanne pulled you in for a hug the second the meeting ended.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

And when you stepped out into the hallway, Ingrid and Mapi were both waiting, practically vibrating with excitement.

“You did it?” Ingrid asked.

You nodded.

Mapi squealed and pulled you into her arms.

“¡Vamos! You’re ours on paper now!”

You buried your face into her neck and exhaled.

You were officially a Barça player.

Still a little terrified.

But mostly?

Excited.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 11 of The missing piece series

House in the hills

The cheers still echoed in your ears long after the final whistle. Even as the locker room filled with music, sweat, and laughter, you moved like you were still riding the last few seconds of the game — the goal, the celebration, the blur of joy that wrapped around you like a second skin.

You didn’t even sit down right away. Just leaned against your locker, jersey clutched in your hands, eyes glassy from everything you hadn’t processed yet.

Ingrid found you first — hair damp, cheeks flushed, a smile just for you.

“Barbie,” she said, half-teasing. “You gonna let that glow wear off or bottle it for later?”

You remember back to the moment, grinned. “Bottle it. Might need a refill later.”

Mapi jogged up a beat after, towel slung around her neck, radiating mischief. “You are so obnoxious when you’re good.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

You hesitated, unsure if you should say it — but the words came anyway.

“I am going to dinner,” you said. “My family. At the house in the hills. It’s nothing fancy. Just… food. And yelling. And probably glitter.”

Mapi’s grin widened. “Are you inviting us?”

“I am,” you said, then added softly, “If you want to come.”

Ingrid touched your elbow. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

—

Your family was waiting just outside the locker room tunnel.

Your sister was holding her VISCA BARÇA Y VISCA Y/N sign so high it blocked your brother’s head. Mami and Mamma stood just behind them, perfectly calm but protected by a ring of familiar black jackets and soft earpieces — private security.

One of the guards noticed you first and stepped forward with a smirk.

“Hey, menace.”

“Tobias,” you deadpanned. “How do you still have a job?” You asked jokingly.

“Your Mami just did an interview in three languages and gave the press a heart attack. I’m plenty busy.”

Another guard, Ellis — younger, barely older than you — nodded as he passed. “Congrats on the win. You played really well.”

“Thanks,” you said, cheeks warm.

A voice called from the side. “Y/N! Just one question for—”

“Not tonight,” you said, without looking.

Tobias threw a thumb toward the waiting SUVs. “We rolling?”

You glanced back at Ingrid and Mapi, who both kind of looked kind of lost. “We’re all set.”

The vehicle waiting at the curb was massive — a black, top-line SUV with tinted windows and wide, plush captain’s chairs spaced in a perfect row. Even your sister looked tiny climbing into it.

“Car one’s for you, your sister, and your guests,” Tobias said, giving Ingrid and Mapi a quick once-over that was more teasing than serious.

Your sister launched into Mapi’s side like they’d known each other forever.

“I saved your seat!”

“I knew you would,” Mapi grinned.

Your mom chuckled. “Alright, let’s go before the media finds us again.”

You settled into your seat beside Ingrid, your sister buckling in beside Mapi with her glitter tote bag still clutched to her chest. The seats were so wide it felt like flying first class — legs stretched out, head resting back, completely at ease.

In the front, Tobias exhaled.

“Car full of chaos,” he muttered. “And that’s just the kid with the stickers.”

“I’m the least chaotic person here, besides Ingrid” you said, smirking.

“Which is terrifying,” he replied.

—

“Wait,” Mapi said halfway up the winding hill road. “We’re not going to Abuela’s?”

“She wanted a quiet night,” you said. “Too many grandkids yelling. She earned her nap.”

Ingrid glanced out the window. “This where you stay when you’re here?”

“Yeah. Mami picked the place a while ago. It’s private, up high, lots of room. She says the elevation helps her think clearer.”

The house came into view as you curved up the driveway — clean, modern angles, long glass walls glowing with soft interior lights. Olive trees lined the edge of the path. The sky above was all stars and stillness.

Mapi stared. “Okay. This isn’t a house. This is the final level in a spy movie.”

“Shut up,” you muttered as your sister nodded in full agreement.

“It has a rooftop pool!” she shouted as the SUV rolled to a gentle stop.

Ingrid turned to look at you, a smile tugging at her lips. “You weren’t kidding about the hills.”

You unbuckled. “Come on. Dinner’s waiting.”

The smell of garlic and warm bread hit the second you stepped inside.

Mapi blinked as someone handed her a sparkling water on a tray without saying a word.

Ingrid leaned in. “I thought you said casual.”

“It is,” you whispered. “This is casual with help.”

Your sister wasted no time — dragging Mapi by the wrist toward the dining room. “Come sit next to me. I saved the seat with the best light.”

“Do I need good light for dinner?”

“For the photos,” she said dramatically.

Mamma waved you over with a soft smile, already piling second helpings on Ingrid’s plate before she could even sit. “Eat. Everyone needs to eat. You too, Mapito.”

“I—thank you,” Ingrid said, wide-eyed.

Dinner was loud from the start.

Your brother launched into a story about a rogue chicken from years ago that somehow turned into a debate about whether Mapi would survive a week on a Norwegian farm.

“I can handle mud,” she insisted.

“Not snow and mud,” your sister corrected.

“I’m a professional athlete!”

“Yeah,” you grinned, “but we’re talking 4AM sheep birth and a frozen tractor.”

Mapi narrowed her eyes. “Okay, maybe not that.”

Mami chimed in from the head of the table, calm but clear. “She once pulled a stuck lamb on her own at eleven.”

The table burst into overlapping reactions.

“She was eleven?!”

“No gloves?”

“Did you name it?!”

“I don’t remember,” you muttered. “Probably something like Mr. Poop.”

You caught Mami’s smile — sharp and proud.

The plates were beautiful, the food rich and abundant, but it never felt stiff. Someone was always topping off drinks without asking. The house staff cleared plates so smoothly it didn’t even interrupt the conversation.

Still, you could tell Ingrid and Mapi were clocking the little things: the automatic espresso machine, the framed awards in Mami’s study just visible down the hall, the subtle but unmistakable rhythm of practiced wealth.

And yet, no one acted like it made a difference. Just… together.

After dessert — cinnamon buns and fruit tarts — the group migrated to the living room. Your brother found a deck of cards, and before you could object, teams were being drawn.

Ingrid somehow ended up on your team.

Mapi got paired with your brother.

You tried to cheat once. Your mom caught you. And then cheated two turns later without blinking.

Mapi laughed so hard she had to lie down on the rug.

When the game finally dissolved in noise and accusations of fraud, your sister jumped up again. “Okay, TikTok time.”

“No,” you said.

“Yes,” she insisted, already opening the app. “You promised!”

Ingrid didn’t try to save you. She sat back on the couch with a drink and watched like it was theater.

Mapi filmed the whole thing while your sister forced you through a 20-second dance you barely remembered. At one point you tripped, and she worked it into the routine like she’d planned it all along.

“Barbie’s got rhythm,” Mapi whispered to Ingrid.

“Shut up,”

—

Later, the house finally quieted. Lights dimmed. Doors closed.

You changed quickly, pulling on a soft shirt and stretching out in the middle of the guest bed. Mapi and Ingrid followed soon after, both in tank tops, hair messy, skin warm.

It was quiet for a long time.

Then Ingrid spoke, voice soft in the dark.

“Can I ask something?”

You turned toward her.

“This… all of this. The house, the staff, the drivers. It’s a lot.”

“Yeah.”

Mapi reached over and brushed your arm. “We’re not judging. We just… didn’t know.”

You exhaled. “Mami’s company took off a few years ago. She’s big in tech — automation, smart agri-systems, that kind of thing. There’s investors. Conferences. The whole deal.”

Ingrid’s brow furrowed. “And you grew up… with all this?”

You shook your head. “No. I grew up on a farm. We didn’t have any of this. I was the one fixing fences and feeding animals before school. This came later.”

Mapi’s voice was softer now. “So why not say anything?”

You shrugged. “People treat you different when they know. I didn’t want you to look at me and see money. I just wanted to play.”

“We see you,” Ingrid said. “We always did.”

Mapi squeezed your hand. “You’re still the girl who tripped in a TikTok five hours ago.”

You groaned. “Never speaking again.”

“Mmmm, sure,” Mapi whispered, curling closer.

Ingrid leaned forward, kissed your shoulder.

You closed your eyes, heart steady in your chest.

And you knew, this is exactly where you belonged.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Just posted chapter 10 of the missing piece series. Any thoughts? Likes and dislikes?

[monktwo]

Part 10 of the missing piece series

Game time baby

“Boots?”

“Check.”

“Shin guards?”

“Yep.”

“Barbie sticker?”

You shot Mapi a look in the rearview mirror.

“¿Puedes parar con la lista de vergüenza?”

(“Can you stop with the shame list?”)

“She loves the sticker,” Ingrid added from the passenger seat, grinning. “She told me so.”

“She also licked a cinnamon bun to claim it for me.”

“Y eso es amor de familia.”

(“That’s family love.”)

—

The ride to Estadi Johan Cruyff was smooth. Focused. Quiet in that dialed-in way people get on match days.

You weren’t nervous.

Not really.

You weren’t starting — just dressing, just present — maybe getting minutes.

And somehow, that felt like enough. Like the beginning.

—

Inside the locker room, everything was moving.

Zippers, Velcro, boots thudding onto tile, players calling across the room in fast, clipped Spanish and Catalan.

You found your cubby — jersey 47 hanging neatly inside.

“¿Esa es una pegatina de Barbie?"

(“Is that a Barbie sticker?”)

You turned just in time to see Alexia nod at your boot. Her tone somewhere between amused and curious.

You glanced down at the small pink Barbie sticker — laminated, proud, glitter still catching in the light.

“No me juzgues.”

(“Don’t judge me.”)

“No lo hago. Solo esperaba… no sé, una calavera o algo así.”

(“I’m not. I just expected… I don’t know, a skull or something.”)

“Mi hermana la puso.”

(“My sister put it there.”)

Alexia smiled. “Tiene buen gusto.”

(“She has good taste.”)

And then she walked away, ponytail bouncing, like it wasn’t a big deal at all.

—

The game started fast.

Valencia struck early — minute 8 — a clever through ball slipped between the back line that caught the defense just half a second late.

Font rushed out, but she had no chance. 0–1.

But Barça didn’t panic.

In minute 17, a high press forced a turnover. Alexia intercepted, danced past a challenge, and smashed a left-footed rocket past the keeper.

1–1.

You stayed warm on the sideline, watching every movement, every rotation. It didn’t feel distant.

It felt close.

Like something was waiting for you.

—

Halftime.

Inside the locker room again — quieter now. Sharper.

“Tenemos que abrir más por banda.”

(“We need to open up more on the wings.”)

“Más movilidad entre líneas.”

(“More movement between the lines.”)

“Y presión más agresiva después de pérdida.”

(“And more aggressive pressing after we lose the ball.”)

You sipped water and nodded along. Ingrid caught your eye across the room, gave you the tiniest nod. You straightened up a little.

You were ready.

—

Minute 60.

“¡Y/N! Calienta.”

(“Y/N! Warm up.”)

You were already pulling off your jacket. The adrenaline hit in one clean wave.

“¡Entras por Kika!”

(“You’re going in for Kika!”)

You jogged to the sideline. Bib off. Socks up. Legs bouncing.

Ingrid turned mid-play, saw you on the touchline, and grinned.

“¡Vamos, Barbie!”

(“Let’s go, Barbie!”)

You rolled your eyes.

And smiled.

—

First touch came seconds after.

Ingrid snapped a pass to your feet.

“¡Espacio!”

(“Space!”)

“¡Haz algo!”

(“Do something!”)

The voices around you screamed, familiar and electric.

You dropped your shoulder, turned inside.

Touched the ball just right. Felt it click into place.

Stepover. Drag. Light and easy.

Joga Bonita.

You played a one-two with Alexia — smooth, practiced, like you’d done it a hundred times. She fed you the ball back into space with a perfection.

Last defender came.

You faked inside, snapped right, and she went the wrong way.

Into the box now — the angle tight.

You hit it clean.

Top right.

A magnificent goal.

You ran to the corner flag, arms wide, the stadium a blur of sound and color.

You kissed your hand and pressed it to the pink Barbie sticker on you boot.

You turned to the stands — where your sister was holding her sign so high it looked like her arms might fall off.

She was screaming your name.

That one was for her.

It didn’t take more then 5 minutes before the next opportunity came.

Ingrid sent a quick pass wide, you controlled it clean, tucked it inside past your marker, and spotted Pajor inside the box.

“¡Izquierda, Y/N!”

(“Left, Y/N!”)

You didn’t even glance — just threaded the ball through two defenders on instinct.

Pajor caught it perfectly, one touch, and drilled it bottom corner.

3–1.

She turned, already pointing at you.

“¡Asistencia perfecta!”

(“Perfect assist!”)

You shook your head as she jogged over, trying to give the credit back.

“Tuyo, todo tuyo.”

(“Yours, all yours.”)

She grinned, bumped your shoulder. “Vamos.”

(“Let’s go.”)

—

Time ticked down. The pace eased.

But you didn’t.

Minute 86.

A lazy clearance landed at your feet.

“¡Otra vez!” You heard Mapi yell this time.

(“Again!”)

You turned, smoked the first defender, pushed the ball up the wing, cut inside. There was space — too much space.

You didn’t hesitate.

A stepover and a last flick through the legs of a second defender.

And then the shot — high and hard, top right.

A screamer

—

You dropped into a knee slide, grass catching your skin, arms outstretched like you were flying.

You stayed there.

Just breathing.

Until the whole team reached you.

Hands tugging you up, arms slung around your shoulders, voices overlapping—

“¡Qué gol!”

(“What a goal!”)

“¡Impresionante!”

(“Amazing!”)

“¡Barbieaaaa!”

(“Barbieee!”)

And you didn’t know it yet,

but this moment —

these two goals —

would forever change your life.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 9 of the missing piece series

Game prep

You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you woke up with sunlight on your cheek and someone’s knee wedged into your hip.

Mapi was sprawled across half the bed, snoring softly with her shirt halfway up her back. Ingrid was still curled behind you, her hand resting on your side like it had been placed there hours ago and never moved.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, letting the quiet hold you.

It wasn’t like yesterday never happened — the conversation, the memories, the look Zara had given you when she walked away — but the ache wasn’t as sharp. Just… muted now.

Manageable.

You shifted carefully, slipping out from between them, and padded into the kitchen to start coffee. The motion was grounding. Simple, steady. Something you could control.

By the time Mapi wandered in, hair a mess, shirt stolen from Ingrid’s side of the closet, you were already finishing your coffee.

“You’re early,” she said, eyes squinting.

You gave her a grin. “I want to play.”

—

The mood at training was sharp from the start.

Not tense — focused. It was matchday prep, which meant short-sided drills, finishing sequences, and transition work. No slow jogs or weak passes.

Everyone was dialed in.

So were you.

The ball stuck to your feet like it was glued on. You split tight spaces, ghosted past markers, flicked the ball over an outstretched leg and sent it into the back of the net. One of the staff coaches shouted something in Spanish you couldn’t catch, but the tone was somewhere between impressed and exasperated.

During the possession box, you nutmegged Jana and ducked a shoulder just as she tried to pin you. You tapped the ball sideways to Vicky and dropped back into space like you’d never left.

“Damn,” Jana muttered, grinning as she jogged past. “I see how it is.”

Later, during the final progression drills, you were paired with Pina in an attack transition set.

Ball drops at midfield, two defenders back, one goal.

You scooped it forward with one touch, then pulled it sideways with the outside of your foot — sharp, Neymar-style. Pina adjusted fast, looping around the outside and drawing the right back away. You cut left, body low, slipped through the gap between both center backs and buried the shot low.

Clean. Confident. Efficient.

There were whistles from the sideline, clapping from the small cluster of support staff near the dugout. Someone yelled, “¡Qué golazo!”

(“What a goal!”)

You grinned, jogging back to reset. Sweat slicked your collarbone, and your chest burned — but it was a good burn. One you liked. The kind that reminded you this was real, and you belonged here.

—

After the session, one of the assistant coaches called your name while you were catching your breath.

You trotted over.

“We’ve been watching you,” he said. “The staff talked after the drills.”

You blinked at him, waiting.

“You’re on the roster for tomorrow.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “Bench?”

“For now.”

You nodded once. “Got it.”

“You’re not surprised.”

You shook your head, grin tugging wider. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

—

You didn’t spot her until you were halfway across the pitch.

Your mom stood just past the fencing — arms folded, sunglasses perched on top of her head, hair pinned up in a quick twist like she’d done it in the car.

She didn’t wave. Just waited.

When you reached her, she pulled you into a hug without a word.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said into her shoulder.

“I know,” she said. “But I wanted to. After yesterday… I wanted to be here.”

You pulled back, throat tight.

She studied your face. “You okay?”

You nodded.

“I watched the whole thing,” she said. “Every touch, every flick, every little move that made someone mutter under their breath.”

You looked down at your boots, trying not to grin.

“You were having fun out there,” she said, softer now. “That’s the girl I want to see more of.”

“I was just playing,” you said, shrugging.

“Exactly.”

Then she nudged your arm with her elbow. “Now. You’ve been glued to those two like Velcro since you got here.”

You gave her a look. “We’ve been training mamma.”

“And sleeping. And eating. And skipping breakfast with your siblings.”

You groaned.

Your mom raised an eyebrow. “Tonight, you’re coming home with me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but she added quickly, “Just for the night. Your sister made cinnamon buns. Your brother swore he’d beat you at Mario Kart.”

You snorted. “Fine. But only because I want the cinnamon buns.”

—

When you found Ingrid and Mapi by the locker room exit, they were waiting — gear bags slung over their shoulders, sunglasses on.

“I’m being kidnapped,” you said flatly.

Mapi blinked. “By who?”

“Mamma,” you said. “She’s invoking full parent authority.”

Ingrid smiled. “Fair.”

“You’ve had her for like two straight days,” Hanne said from behind you. “Let her come home. You can survive until tomorrow.”

Mapi groaned. “Unbelievable. This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s cinnamon buns,” you said.

“That’s worse,” Ingrid muttered. “Now I want one.”

Mapi rolled her eyes, but there was a smile behind it. “We’ll pick you up tomorrow.”

You grinned. “Can’t wait.”

As you slid into the passenger seat and watched them fade in the mirror, you let the silence settle.

Your name was going to be on a match sheet tomorrow.

And you were ready for the game and hopefully for the chaos that was waiting at your abuelas.

“You’re finally here!”

“I’m literally five minutes early.”

“My sign’s been ready for hours!”

Before you could blink, your sister was wrapped around your waist.

“You owe me,” she mumbled dramatically into your hoodie.

“For what?”

“You left us for months.” She said dramatically, like it was the betrayal of her life.

Your brother leaned out from the kitchen. “She’s been holding your signs like cue cards all day.”

“She made two,” he added. “They rhyme.”

“They do not rhyme,” she said, scandalized. “One says ‘Visca Barça y Visca Y/N.’ And the other says ‘GOOOO MAPITO.’”

“Mapi’s going to cry,” you muttered.

“She’s going to love it,” your sister grinned.

Before you could say anything else, you heard the familiar clack of heels on tile, then —

“Mi niña.”

“Mami!”

You met her in the doorway, arms already outstretched. Her hug was soft and firm and everything you’d needed without realizing it.

She kissed your temple and held you close.

“You’ve been gone for way too long” you said, leaning even more into the comfort of your mami.

“I know bebé, lo siento mucho mi niña.” She answered, giving your temper one more kiss. “You hungry?”

“Always.”

—

Your abuela didn’t give you a chance to sit before a plate appeared in front of you.

“Eat,” she ordered. “You’re all skin and bones.”

“That’s just not true”

“You need to bulk.”

“She’s not a bodybuilder,” your mom called from the kitchen.

“She could be. Mira esos brazos.”

(“Look at those arms”)

Your sister slid into the seat next to you. “I made bracelets too.”

“Of course you did.”

“One for Mapi, one for Ingrid, and one for you but it broke. So I gave it to the dog.”

“Great.”

“It says ‘Cool Big Sister.’”

“Thanks?”

“The dog peed on it,” your brother added.

“Because she loves it.”

—

Dinner was pure noise.

Spanish bouncing across the table like a pinball machine, your abuela controlling the entire flow with a spoon and dramatic gasps. Your mami kept piling second helpings onto your plate even though you were halfway full. Your sister narrated everything in whispers and your brother took stealth photos of your face mid-bite.

“Post that and die,” you muttered.

“You’re trending in the family group chat.”

Your sister leaned over and whispered, “I added a Barbie sticker to your boot.”

“I swear to God—”

—

Later, the three of you ended up on the living room floor surrounded by Mario Kart controllers and a growing level of hostility.

“You boosted into me!”

“You steered into me!”

“YOU THREW A BLUE SHELL!”

“I had to!”

“YOU HATE ME!”

Your mom walked past with a bowl of popcorn and didn’t even flinch.

Mami finally stepped in with a single look.

“Next scream ends the game.”

There was silence. For two seconds.

Then your sister shrieked, “HE UNPLUGGED ME!”

Game over.

—

The next morning, you were brushing your teeth when the shouting began.

“MAPIIIIII!”

“NO!”

“She’s on FaceTime!”

Your sister burst into the bathroom and held up the phone.

“Say hi!”

You mumbled something with toothpaste foam in your mouth. Mapi’s face lit up on the screen.

“You’re adorable,” she said. “Even with rabies.”

“She said she loves the sign,” your sister said. “And the bracelet.”

“I haven’t even shown it to her yet—”

“I sent a picture.”

“Oh my God.”

—

Twenty minutes later, Ingrid and Mapi showed up at the gate.

“Your girlfriends are here!” your brother yelled.

“They’re not—!”

The door opened and your sister sprinted out with her signs.

Mapi caught her in one arm, grinning. “That for me?”

“It says GOOOO MAPITO!”

Ingrid raised her sunglasses. “That’s a lot of O’s.”

“She said you have to shout it when you score.”

“I will.”

“Hi,” you said, stepping out behind them. “You guys look very cool.”

“We’re here for the star player,” Ingrid said, kissing your cheek.

“And also for the snacks,” Mapi added.

Hanne handed them a tupperware at the door. “Pastelitos. Don’t let her touch them until halftime.”

“I HEARD THAT,” you yelled.

Your sister tugged on Mapi’s sleeve. “I’m gonna wave from the stands.”

“I’ll wave back.”

She looked very serious. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

Mapi nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

Ingrid smiled at you, soft and steady. “Ready?”

You nodded.

Keep reading

[monktwo]

Part 8 of the missing piece series

Blast from the past

“Y/N.”

You didn’t need to look. You already knew.

Zara.

You turned slowly, and there she was. Tall, sleek, smug — every inch of her pressed and polished like the expensive aftershave she always left behind on your sheets. Cream silk blouse, tailored trousers, gold jewelry, sunglasses balanced perfectly on her head. And, of course, two bodyguards. Standing at ease like her silent, expensive shadows.

She didn’t walk like she was intruding.

She walked like everyone else should be grateful she’d shown up at all.

A few players glanced over. Mapi’s arm tensed against your side. Ingrid straightened beside you.

Zara smiled like she knew they were watching. “Can I borrow you for a second?”

Before either of them could speak, you answered, surprisingly bravely considering your nerves were at an all time high.

“Yeah. Just a second.”

⸻

She led you past the back of the building, just out of sight from the pitch, into the shadow of a garden walkway. Quiet and secluded.

Zara stopped, turned, and studied you.

“You’ve filled out,” she said finally. “I like the new muscle. Makes you look… stable.”

You didn’t speak.

She tilted her head slightly. “Do they know you used to show up at my door barefoot?”

You stiffened.

“Middle of the night. Hands shaking. Swearing you just needed to charge your phone.” Her voice dropped. “I always kept the porch light on. Just in case.”

Your mouth went dry.

“You used to lie to me about the bruises. Said they came from falling or chasing a cow. But I knew.” Her tone wasn’t cruel — worse, it was soft. Sympathetic. “I know how he got angry.”

She waited.

You said nothing.

“He taught you to fix fences, right? Drive tractors, take care of the horses. But he also slammed doors so hard you’d flinch when someone raised their voice. You adored him. Even when he called you weak one second because the next he would tell you how strong you were.”

“Stop,” you said quietly.

“He’s dead now, right?” she asked. “And your moms — sweet, blind Hanne — still doesn’t know. You kept it from her. Afraid it would break her. Or worse… she wouldn’t believe it.”

Zara took a slow step forward.

“You always loved her so much. But even then, you couldn’t tell her the truth. So you came to me.”

You swallowed hard, fists clenched.

“I remember your hoodie always smelled like hay and weed,” she said. “You said it helped you sleep. I didn’t care. I let you curl up next to me and sleep until noon.”

Her eyes flicked down your frame, back up.

“And now look at you. Wearing custom boots and flying private with your mami’s name stamped on half the European business market. You didn’t build a damn thing, but here you are. Playing house in Spain.”

You stayed silent. But your pulse was pounding.

Zara’s smile sharpened.

“Sharing now, too? That’s cute. I guess after all that running, two anchors are better than one.”

You tried to keep your expression even. It was getting harder.

“They don’t know,” she whispered. “They don’t know how quiet you get when you panic. How your hands tremble when you think someone’s mad at you.”

She stepped close enough that you could feel the heat of her breath.

“You think they’ll stay when they find out? When they realize how much of you still belongs to that barn?”

You didn’t flinch.

But you didn’t answer either.

Zara leaned back, satisfied.

“I’ll see you around.”

You stood for a long moment after Zara left, trying to slow your heartbeat, trying not to think about the way your hands were still slightly shaking.

When you made your way back across the pitch, no one said anything.

But the eyes followed you.

Ingrid walked toward you slowly.

Mapi lingered behind her, brow furrowed.

You couldn’t tell what either of them was thinking — and that only made the ache in your chest worse.

“She just wanted to talk,” you said, stiffly, as Ingrid reached your side.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

You hesitated but nodded.

“I’m fine.”

But the words were automatic. And clearly unconvincing.

Mapi raised an eyebrow but didn’t press. “Alright,” she said carefully.

Neither of them argued.

Neither of them believed you, either.

⸻

Later, the three of you curled up on the couch. The tv flickering in the background with a random rom com playing softly.

But tonight, the quiet wasn’t peaceful.

Mapi didn’t say anything.

Ingrid wrapped an arm around you, hand resting lightly on your hip. After a few minutes, she turned her head slightly, voice soft against your shoulder.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

You didn’t answer right away. You focused on the screen, even though you weren’t watching.

Then, finally, your voice came out low.

“I used to smoke. Weed. Quite often . When I was younger.”

Ingrid didn’t flinch. Mapi stayed quiet, listening.

“It wasn’t… to be cool or at parties. It just … I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. I felt like something was sitting on my chest all the time. And it was was the only thing that helped.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t anymore. Not in a while. I’m not proud of it, but it got me through.”

They let you sit in the silence a moment.

“She knows,” you said quietly. “Zara. She knows all of it.”

You felt Mapi shift beside you. Ingrid’s arm tightened slightly.

“She was the only person I ever told everything to,” you added. “The version of me I’ve worked hard to leave behind.”

Mapi’s voice came carefully. “She used that against you?”

“She didn’t have to,” you said. “She just reminded me.”

You looked down at your hands.

“She saw me when I was scared. Really scared. And I thought that meant something.”

Ingrid gently turned your chin toward her. “It does mean something. But it doesn’t mean she just gets to come back into your life now”

Mapi leaned her head against your shoulder, voice softer than usual. “You don’t owe her that.”

You let out a slow breath, then nodded. “I just didn’t want to ruin the day.”

“You didn’t,” Ingrid said. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”

And as the silence wrapped around the three of you again — warmer this time — you let yourself lean in.

Not everything was fixed.

But something was healing.

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[monktwo]

Part 7 of the Missing piece series

The first training

The sheets around you were rumpled. You were naked and comfortably tangled in them, the imprint of sleep still heavy in your limbs.

Your first instinct was to roll over and disappear back into the pillows, but the quiet murmur of voices from the kitchen kept tugging you toward consciousness.

With a sigh, you sat up, raked your hands through your hair, and stretched — slow and lazy, bones clicking. You scanned the room and grabbed a pair of loose shorts from where they’d been flung over a chair last night. You didn’t bother with a shirt, just tugged on a sports bra, barefoot and barely awake.

The tile was cold under your feet as you padded into the kitchen.

Mapi and Ingrid were both standing by the counter, mid-breakfast prep. Mapi in loose black sweats and a tank top, Ingrid still in her sports bra and tight shorts, hair tied up.

They looked up the second they heard you.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Mapi grinned.

You rubbed one eye and made a low, indecipherable sound in response that sounded more like hmmm then good morning.

Ingrid laughed softly and handed you a mug. “We made coffee. Come here.”

You took the mug, set it down without drinking it, and did the only thing you were physically capable of before 10 a.m.:

You melted against Ingrid’s back like a warm blanket and wrapped your arms around her middle.

“Så trøtt,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

So tired

Ingrid leaned into you immediately, her hands covering yours where they sat on her stomach.

Mapi came around from behind and draped herself over your back, sandwiching you between them with her chin resting on your shoulder.

“You’re ridiculously cuddly in the mornings,” she murmured in your ear.

“Mmm,” you replied. Still not a person.

Ingrid shifted in your grip, turning around. Your abs flexed involuntarily as you shifted, and you felt Ingrid’s hand trace the line of muscles like she was sketching them into memory.

Mapi’s eyes dropped to the curve of your shoulder blade, still faintly marked from last night.

“Who gave you permission to look this hot before breakfast?” she muttered.

You didn’t answer. You just let them hold you until the world made sense again.

⸻

Eventually, you managed to drink half the coffee and eat enough toast to stop your stomach from growling.

You ended up driving to training in Mapi’s car. Mapi in the passenger seat, Ingrid in the back, because apparently she wanted to stretch her legs and Mapi insisted she couldn’t “drive and DJ” at the same time.

Her playlist was chaos. Spanish punk, early 2000s pop, and one Shakira song you all sang along to at full volume despite being very aware it was too early to function like this.

By the time you pulled into the training ground, the tension in your shoulders had melted to something lighter — just a low, good buzz of nerves.

⸻

The A team was already assembling when you walked out onto the pitch, fresh in your kit, boots tight, pulse steady.

You’d seen most of them in person once — at Ullevaal — but this felt different.

Now you were stepping into their space.

You caught a few curious glances as you jogged out — some amused, some polite, one or two clearly assessing.

Alexia was already stretching near the halfway line. She caught your eye and motioned you over.

You swallowed and jogged toward her.

She stood up, brushing grass from her hands. “You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you said.

She studied you for a beat, then nodded.

“I wanted to say something before we start. It’s not about pressure — it’s about culture. We expect effort. Teamwork. No egos, no stars. We fight for each other.”

You nodded quickly, grateful that she got to the point.

Alexia continued, her tone even. “There’s no shame in making mistakes here. There’s only shame in not trying. If you put the work in — if you listen — you’ll be fine, I think you really can develop here.”

You took a slow breath.

“Thank you,” you said, meaning it.

She gave a faint smile. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

⸻

You were paired with Vicky López for the warm-up drills.

At first, it was simple stuff — passing, movement, basic transition patterns.

But both of you picked up speed fast.

You could tell Vicky was competitive — and also that she’d noticed you were too.

Within ten minutes, you were both grinning, trying to one-up each other with clean turns, tight control, perfectly weighted one-twos.

At one point, she shoulder-checked you mid-pivot, and you nudged her right back.

“You’re fast,” she said, laughing.

“So are you,” you grinned.

The drill finished, and you both jogged back toward the water coolers, sweat already clinging to your forearms.

The 2v2 transition drill started simple: two attackers against two defenders.

Possession turned quickly. Attack, lose the ball, defend. Switch. Go again. Fast and on a smal field.

You and Vicky were paired together again. Which meant two aggressively offensive players in a drill that required… well, defending.

You tried not to make eye contact with Mapi when the coach called your pair up next.

“She’s going to eat us alive,” Vicky whispered.

You snorted. “Not if we outrun her.”

Mapi and Ingrid stepped onto the opposite end of the field.

Of course they were your first opponents.

Mapi grinned, pulling her hair up tighter. “Let’s see what you got sleepy.”

Ingrid just gave you a wink.

The whistle blew.

You passed to Vicky, immediately making a diagonal run behind Mapi’s shoulder. Vicky chipped it into space — it was a little heavy, but you chased it down, kept it from going out with a stretch of your toe, and cut inside hard.

Mapi closed in, but you flicked it behind your standing foot, changed direction, and Vicky was already arriving. You did a fast a one-two with her, then angled your hips like you were going far post.

And slotted it low and in the corner.

Goal.

“Oye,” Mapi called out, throwing her hands up.

“Skilful luck,” Vicky grinned.

You grinned right back. “Calculated chaos.”

⸻

Now came defense.

You turned, heart hammering, as Mapi dropped the ball to Ingrid.

They moved in sync, quick passes, shifting weight.

You stayed tight on Mapi, trying to block her passing lane. Vicky tracked Ingrid, but a quick step-over bought her space — she cut back and sent a fast pass to Mapi’s feet.

You guessed where she’d turn, lunged in awkwardly — your heel clipped the ball just enough to slow her, and Vicky was there in a flash to clear it out.

The whistle blew. Reset.

You turned to Mapi, panting. “You’re really annoying, you know that?”

“You love it,” she said smugly, wiping her brow.

You kind of did.

⸻

The final drill was a full team exercise — high-tempo build-up into a shot on goal. You were grouped with Alexia, Vicky, Patri, Jana, and Ellie.

You started wide right, Alexia holding the middle with Patri and Jana overlapping.

The ball came to your feet, and you immediately cut inside, drawing a defender.

“Vicky!” you shouted, outside of your boot curling a pass behind the line. She ran on and fired — just over the crossbar.

“Better pass next time,” she joked, jogging back.

“Better finish,” you shot back.

The next sequence clicked.

Jana intercepted a ball in midfield, slid it through two pressing defenders to Patri, who turned and fed it wide to you. You took one touch to steady it, one to chop inside, then let it fly from just outside the box — curling left foot, bar-down.

Everyone froze for half a second before Vicky tackled you from the side in a half-celebration.

“Vamos!”

Later in the drill, Ellie sent a perfect low cross through the box. Alexia dummied it. You ran in back post and tapped it in with your left.

Clean. Confident. Clinical.

The whistle blew to end the session, and you stumbled toward the sideline drenched in sweat, grinning like an idiot.

“Foto?” Jana asked, pointing to the guy with the camera on the sideline.

You grouped together without hesitation — arms slung around each other, breath still ragged, but smiles wide.

Alexia pulled you to the center of the photo.

When it was done, she turned to you.

“Good job,” she said, nodding once. “You did really good.”

You opened your mouth to thank her — but someone else got there first.

“Okay, annoyingly impressed,” Mapi said, appearing over your shoulder with a crooked grin. “Didn’t expect all that from someone who got lost yesterday.”

“She’s full of surprises,” Ingrid said, stepping in beside her, handing you a cold bottle of water.

“You did good,” she said, voice soft, fingers brushing your wrist for just a second longer than necessary.

You barely had time to respond before something shifted in the air.

You turned — and froze.

A woman was walking across the edge of the pitch, confident, composed, expensive. Her blazer was cream, her sunglasses designer. She walked like she had every right to be here.

“Y/N,” she called, voice smooth and unmistakable.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

Vicky looked from her to you. “Who that?”

“She looks like she just walked out of a shooting of the real housewife of wealth” Mapi added.

You swallowed, hard.

“That’s my ex …”

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