monktwo

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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 …”

[monktwo]

Part six of the Missing piece series

New Rhythms

You didn’t think your legs could move this fast after a break, but apparently, competition had a way of unlocking new gears.

Your first training session with the Barça B team was nothing short of electric.

Everything moved quickly but your mind clicked into rhythm almost immediately.

Quick give-and-gos, high pressing, midfield switches that demanded precision — and you kept up.

Better than kept up.

You played free, loose, but focused. Your first touch opened up space, your turns made two defenders bite, and more than once, a teammate called out something approving — in Spanish, then laughed when you replied with a grin and your own slang right back.

The atmosphere was competitive but kind. No one played for themselves. It wasn’t about flash — it was about flow. And for the first time at this level, you felt like you were part of it.

⸻

After the cool-down, you were sent to the physio room for some recovery work — light stretches, hydration, and a little muscle treatment.

You lay there quietly as your calf’s get massaged, only half paying attention, until one of the assistant coaches wandered by and leaned against the doorframe.

“You’ve got good vision,” she said without greeting. “And your first touch is excellent.”

You blinked, then sat up slightly. “Thanks.”

She crossed her arms. “You’re going to need to work on stamina. Your fitness is good, but not Barça good yet. That’s what the B team is for. Sharpen you up. Get you running in sync with the system.”

You nodded, alert now.

“And tomorrow, you’re with the A team.”

You almost sat all the way up.

“Seriously?”

The coach smiled slightly. “Seriously. Just don’t overthink it, you’ll do great.”

⸻

Still high off adrenaline — and maybe disbelief — you stepped into the hallway and pulled out your phone, grinning so wide your cheeks hurt.

“Mamma!” you called when she picked up.

“You’re glowing. Tell me everything.”

And you did.

“I played really well — like, I felt good. My passes were clean, I dribbled two defenders and almost scored — but they don’t care about flashy stuff. They want teamwork. And they said I fit into that.”

You paced as you talked, waving your free hand.

“They said I have good instincts! And that I’ll train with the A team tomorrow. Can you believe that? Tomorrow!”

She beamed at you through the screen.

“I’m proud of you, baby.”

“And it was fun, mamma. I know that sounds cheesy, but it really was. I’ve missed feeling like football could be fun and serious at the same time. And I wasn’t the only one trying to look good — it felt like everyone was trying to make each other better.”

“That’s exactly how it’s supposed to be,” she said softly. “And you know I’m here, whatever happens.”

You swallowed, nodding. “I know.”

⸻

You showered, changed, and got ready to meet Ingrid and Mapi, but the complex layout once again betrayed you.

After two wrong turns and a brief crisis involving a locked stairwell, you gave up and FaceTimed Mapi.

She picked up on the second ring, already laughing.

“Tell me you’re not lost again.”

You flipped the camera. “Does this look like a the parking lot to you?”

Ingrid’s voice came from the background. “Stand still, vennen. We’re coming.”

You waited awkwardly next to a vending machine until they arrived — Ingrid looking amused, Mapi clearly enjoying herself.

“There she is,” Mapi grinned, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

Ingrid pulled you into a brief hug, brushing her thumb across your cheek. “I think you need to work on your sense of direction.”

⸻

They took you to a cozy dinner spot tucked into a quiet Barcelona street — old brick walls, soft yellow lights, and the smell of garlic butter drifting from the kitchen.

You ordered without shame — pasta, grilled veggies, a basket of bread, something spicy that you couldn’t quite pronounce but finished anyway.

Mapi watched you polish off your plate with barely-contained amusement.

“Should we have warned them she eats like this?” she asked Ingrid.

“She played today,” Ingrid shrugged. “Let her eat.”

“I trained, thank you,” you corrected through a mouthful of roasted eggplant. “And it went really well.”

You told them everything — the drills, the feedback, how the coach said you’d train with them tomorrow.

Mapi whistled low. “Already? Look at you.”

“I’m not even sure I did that well,” you admitted. “But I think they liked how I see the field.”

“How could they not,” Ingrid said. “You belong here.”

You smiled down at your empty plate, stomach and heart full.

⸻

After dinner, you all headed back to their apartment, laughter trailing behind you like a second shadow.

Shoes came off, sweatpants went on, and a rom-com none of you really intended to watch played softly on the screen.

You sat in the middle, blanket over your knees, Mapi to your right, Ingrid on your left — warm and cozy.

⸻

It started slowly.

Mapi’s hand resting on your thigh under the blanket.

Ingrid’s fingers brushing your hair from your face.

Soft looks. Softer touches.

You leaned into Mapi to whisper something, and her lips met yours before the words left your mouth. Her kiss was firm, familiar, and she deepened it instantly.

Ingrid leaned in too, gently turning your face toward her, kissing you slow, her hand slipping under your hoodie, just barely grazing your waist.

You felt like a lost puppy between them — breathless, blushing, unsure where to focus, and so very, very into it.

They seemed to love it.

Mapi pressed kisses along your neck, whispering teasing Spanish endearments that made your skin burn in the best way.

Ingrid held your jaw gently, kissing your mouth like she already knew your rhythm.

“You’re so soft,” Ingrid murmured.

“And warm,” Mapi added, fingers teasing under the hem of your shirt.

Your head tilted back as their touches grew bolder. You let out a sound that was half a sigh, half a laugh, and they grinned like they’d just won a game.

“You like being between us, hm?” Mapi asked.

You nodded, lips parted, barely able to breathe properly.

They shifted closer — hands on your hips, your back, your thighs. You kissed one, then the other, tugging them in, wanting more.

Eventually, the blanket fell to the floor.

And sometime after that — when kisses turned to slow touches and teasing gave way to something deeper — the three of you moved to the bedroom.

[monktwo]

Alexia x Reader

Falling Apart in Barcelona

[monktwo]

Falling Apart in Barcelona

The sunlight of Barcelona spilled lazily through the windows of the penthouse apartment you shared with Alexia. Once, mornings were filled with sleepy kisses, laughter, and the gentle clatter of breakfast being made together. Now, the only sound was the mechanical hum of the city below and the occasional buzz of Alexia's phone.

You stirred your coffee absentmindedly, eyes lingering on the spot where she used to sit, smiling at you like you were the center of her world. You hadn’t seen that smile in months.

It started after the Champions League final. She was unstoppable, brilliant, the queen of European football. But with the glory came interviews, brand deals, endless events, and—worst of all—the distance.

You still remembered her words from five years ago, when you both were just two girls dreaming about the future. "I'll never let anything come between us," she'd whispered against your skin.

Now she barely looked at you.

You clung to your routines. You folded her laundry, cooked her favorite meals, lit candles in the evenings like you used to. You told yourself she was just tired. Busy. That you were being unreasonable, needy. She loved you, didn’t she?

But the late nights, the unfamiliar perfumes on her clothes, the way she flinched when you tried to kiss her—it all told a different story.

One night, you sat on the couch, scrolling numbly through your phone, when the door slammed open. Alexia stumbled in, smelling of alcohol and something else you didn't want to name, somone.

"You're home," you said, voice too soft, too hopeful.

She barely acknowledged you, tossing her bag aside and heading to the kitchen. You followed, heart hammering.

"Lexi... we need to talk."

She sighed loudly, exasperated. "What now?"

"I..." Your throat closed up. You swallowed. "I miss you. I don't know where you are anymore."

Alexia laughed, bitter and cold. "I'm right here."

"No, you're not."

She slammed the fridge shut, whirling to face you. "I'm doing everything for us! For you! I pay for this apartment, your car, your—your entire life!"

You flinched like she had slapped you. The words hung between you, venomous and cruel.

"I never asked you to," you whispered.

Alexia raked a hand through her hair, looking almost regretful, but then her face hardened. "Maybe you should be a little more grateful."

You stared at her, the woman you had loved before the fame, before the glittering trophies. The woman who once picked flowers from the park and left them on your pillow.

"Is there someone else?" you asked, voice breaking.

She hesitated.

It was all the answer you needed.

The argument that followed was a storm—yelling, accusations, tears. At one point, you begged, humiliated yourself without shame.

"Please, Alexia. Please, just talk to me. Just tell me it's not what I think."

"I don't know what I want anymore!" she screamed back, voice hoarse with anger and something deeper—self-loathing.

By the end, your bags were packed. You didn't even remember doing it.

You moved into a small, modest apartment on the outskirts of the city. Alone.

The first few weeks were hell. You wandered the rooms like a ghost, clutching your phone, praying for a message that never came. You struggled to breathe some days, the pain a physical weight on your chest.

But you survived.

You found a part-time job at a bookstore. You made your own coffee in the mornings. You folded your own laundry. You cooked for one.

And slowly, painfully, you began to remember who you were before Alexia.

Meanwhile, in the lavish penthouse, Alexia sat alone.

The house was spotless. Silent. Empty.

She realized it first when she opened her closet to find the clothes messy and  disorganized—because you had always done it.

She realized it when she came home from training and there was no soft music playing, no smell of home-cooked food, no light waiting for her.

She realized it when she woke up from a nightmare and found no one there to hold her, no sleepy voice murmuring, "I'm here."

The women she had flirted with meant nothing. The attention, the fame—it all tasted so bitter now.

She missed you. God, she missed you.

Alexia sat on the couch one night, staring at her phone. Your number lit up her screen from time to time—but it was only in her mind.

She pressed her forehead to her knees and sobbed.

One rainy evening, months later, you sat reading by the window when you heard a knock.

You opened the door to find her there—soaked, shaking, eyes red-rimmed and desperate.

"Can we talk?" she asked, voice cracking.

You hesitated. Your heart screamed to throw yourself into her arms. Your mind warned you to run.

"Please," she whispered. "I’m so sorry. I made the biggest mistake of my life."

Tears filled your eyes. "I don't know if we can fix this, Lexi."

"I'll do anything," she said, stepping closer but not touching you. "I—I didn't realize how much of my life... how much of me was because of you. Your love. Your patience. Your heart. Without you, I have nothing."

You wiped at your cheeks. "You cheated on me."

She nodded, crying openly. "And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to piece us back together. If you'll let me."

The rain dripped from her hair, her clothes. She looked like a fallen queen, stripped of everything but raw, naked regret.

You stood there, heart shattering all over again.

Maybe, just maybe, some things could heal.

But not tonight.

"I need time," you whispered.

She nodded, stepping back, misery carved into her beautiful face.

"I'll wait," Alexia said. "For as long as it takes."

And for the first time in a long time, you closed the door—not out of anger, but to protect the broken pieces still healing inside of you.

Outside, the rain fell harder.

Inside, you could finally breathe.

[monktwo]

Part 5 of The Missing piece series

New Steps

Two weeks had passed since Ullevaal. Since you had stepped onto the field alongside the best in the world. Since you had somehow left not just with memories, but with something softer, more uncertain, stretching quietly between you, Ingrid, and Mapi.

Two weeks of long texts, sleepy FaceTimes, teasing jokes that left you grinning for the entire day.

No promises. No labels.

Just a quiet understanding: "This was good. Let’s explore it."

Now, tucked into a private jet seat, you stared out at the deep blue coastline of Barcelona drawing closer.

Next to you, your mom smiled and reached over to squeeze your hand.

You squeezed back automatically, heart beating a little too fast.

Without her, you weren’t sure you would have come at all.

Even now, at twenty-two, the thought of moving away from her and your mami — from the safe bubble they provided around you — made your chest tighten painfully with anxiety.

You knew it wasn’t normal. It was embarrassing. But you clung to her presence like a life vest all the same.

Your twin brother and little sister sat behind you, arguing softly about beach plans and Abuela’s dinner.

The trip wasn’t only about football. It was about family too.

But the weight of what today could mean was all you could think about.

The training grounds of Barcelona gleamed as you stepped inside. You trailed after your mom through the halls, clutching your backpack tighter.

Inside the meeting room, Pere Romeu waited, along with a few sharply dressed staff members.

He greeted you with a polite handshake and a kind smile that didn’t quite ease the knot in your stomach.

"Thank you for coming," he said easily in English.

You nodded, mouth dry, not trusting your own words enough to speak.

Your mom, calm, composed, slid into the conversation naturally, answering most of their early questions while you tried not to squirm.

They spoke about your performance against Barcelona. Your technique. The offers coming in from other clubs.

You ducked your head, feeling exposed.

Finally, Pere leaned slightly forward, folding his hands neatly on the table.

"What matters most to you?" he asked, clearly to you directly, not to your mom, to the potential of a player that he saw.

You hesitated, fumbling for words.

"I... I love playing," you said quietly. "The team part. The comradery. The joy."

You twisted your fingers together under the table.

"I play now, back home. My team — I love them. It’s fun. We work hard, and it’s... it’s not rigid. We enjoy it. We fight together."

You paused, heart hammering.

"But I miss... the challenge," you admitted. "The serious competition. I want to win against harder competition, but not by losing the joy."

Pere nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful.

"And your previous academy experience?"

You shifted uncomfortably.

"In Norway, when I was sixteen," you said. "It was different. Everyone was fighting for themselves. Waiting for someone else to fail so they could step up."

The words stumbled a little, catching in your throat.

Your mom touched your arm lightly, picking up without taking over.

"She knows this isn’t the same," she said.

"But after what she experienced... she wants to be sure it's a good fit. In every aspect."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Pere smiled — a real, warm smile.

"That makes sense" he said. "And I have to say, I think you might enjoy how we do it here then."

You let out a slow breath, nodding tightly.

You spoke a bit longer, some back and forth to really come up with something that could work for both parties.

The agreement was simple:

A trial period. A few weeks. Training mostly with the A team, occasionally with the B team, to see if the fit was right.

No pressure. No promises.

You agreed, it was a good opportunity and because your mom would be staying with you the whole time.

It wasn’t really moving out. Not yet.

Baby steps.

Afterward, you were handed a training kit and directed toward the fields for a chill technical session.

You changed quickly, nerves buzzing.

The second your cleats bit into the grass everything became clear and calm.

The ball rolled under your foot like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for you.

You flowed into the drills without hesitation — step-overs, nutmegs, quick bursts of footwork that made a few players whistle appreciatively.

Someone shouted from across the pitch:

"¡Mira esa técnica!" (Look at that technique!)

You grinned breathlessly and flicked the ball through a defender’s legs, laughter bubbling up around you.

When another player called out directions in rapid Spanish, you answered back without thinking:

"¡Sí, la tengo!" (Yeah, I got it!)

The dynamic shifted instantly, walls falling, energy buzzing.

Teammates nudged you, laughing, encouraging.

Light teasing, good-natured shoves after missed shots.

Exactly what you’d always dreamed football could feel like — challenging, yes, but full of warmth.

It was the first time at such a competitive level you were experiencing a team playing for the team and not for individual fame and glory.

You were just playing.

You were home.

And a tiny, dangerous thought crept in: Maybe you could be brave enough to chase this after all.

You trotted back toward the locker rooms after training, sweaty and grinning, tugging your jersey halfway over your head.

You barely made it inside before a low, familiar whistle sliced the air.

You turned, heart leaping.

Mapi lounged against the lockers, arms crossed, her grin pure mischief. Ingrid stood beside her, softer but just as bright.

You let out a shriek and sprinted straight into them.

Mapi caught you easily, spinning you around once, laughing.

Ingrid wrapped her arms around you too, pulling you close, warm and steady.

"Missed you," Ingrid murmured against your hair.

You beamed up at them, heart hammering wildly.

"I’m staying for a trial!" you blurted. "Training with you guys! I think?"

Mapi raised an eyebrow, amused.

Ingrid smirked.

"You think?" she teased.

Before you could stammer out an explanation, your mom appeared, walking into the locker room with a small smile.

You flushed brightly.

"Uh... mamma, this is Mapi and Ingrid."

Your mom stepped forward, shaking their hands warmly.

"Hanne," she introduced herself.

"Mapi," Mapi said, shaking back.

"Ingrid," Ingrid added, slipping into soft Norwegian: "Hyggelig å møte deg."

("Nice to meet you")

"Hyggelig," your mom replied immediately, smiling even wider.

You stood awkwardly for a second while they chatted, half in Norwegian, half in English.

"So," Mapi said after a beat, nudging you playfully. "Want to hang out later? Get food? Do something fun?"

You lit up instantly.

"Yes!" you said, mabye too fast, too eager.

Your mom chuckled gently.

"Y/n, no you can't," she said. "We have dinner at your abuela’s house tonight."

"But I wanna go with them," you whined, slumping against Mapi dramatically.

Mapi laughed, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

"Tomorrow," Ingrid promised, grinning.

"After training," Mapi agreed, winking.

You sighed, loud and exaggerated, before grinning.

"Mamma you're being kind of an asshole here, but deal, I guess," you said dramatically but jokingly.

Your mom gave you a stern look before shaking her head, chuckling softly.

"Okay, it’s time to go so I'll wait in the car while you say goodbye," your mom said with a pointed look, motioning between the three of you.

"Don’t make me wait too long."

"Yeah, I'll be right out!" you yelled after her, and when she was past the point of sight you turned to two of your favorite people.

"So no permission to stay out late from mamma?" Ingrid asked teasingly, while she slowly pulled you closer to her by your waist. Lazily making out with you like you hadn't waited for two whole weeks.

"Mmm," you could barely get out before her lips were on you.

Mapi not far behind, grabbing your jaw to have her own turn.

"Don’t know if we mentioned it but we missed you," Ingrid said while kissing your neck softly.

"Lots and lots," Mapi added between kisses.

"Missed you guys too."

"You say so much stupid shit and I just really want to hear all of it," you said, referring to Mapi and her stupid impulsive thoughts.

"Well you can hear all her stupid thoughts tomorrow," Ingrid said.

"But I think we should let you go before your mom comes back angry," she added, with one last soft kiss and a playful slap to your butt.

You chuckled softly at that.

"Yeah, I better get going."

"See you tomorrow," Mapi said before stealing one last kiss.

[monktwo]

Part 4 in the Missing piece series

Morning

You woke slowly, floating up from a dream you couldn’t quite remember.

The first thing you noticed was warmth, someone solid under you. The second was the smell of clean skin, something faintly like lavender. The third was the slow, steady rise and fall of breathing under your cheek.

You blinked blearily and realized you were curled into Ingrid, tucked into the crook of her neck, your arm wrapped around her waist like a koala bear.

You sighed contentedly and nuzzled closer.

Ingrid stirred, groaning softly.

You squeezed her tighter instinctively.

“Nooo,” you mumbled.

Ingrid laughed under her breath, brushing hair gently out of your face.

“You’re cute,” she said, voice thick with sleep. “But I need coffee.”

You clung harder, making a soft noise of protest.

Mapi’s voice mumbled from somewhere to the side:

“You’re doomed, Engen. Accept it.”

Ingrid sighed dramatically.

“New plan,” she muttered.

She shifted, carefully rolling you over and depositing you — whining softly — onto Mapi’s shoulder.

You automatically burrowed into Mapi’s warmth, sighing happily.

Mapi draped an arm lazily over you, half-asleep herself.

“Problem solved,” Ingrid whispered, disappearing toward the bathroom.

Eventually, after a lot of stretching and yawning and groaning, the three of you managed to get dressed and head down to breakfast.

The buffet was already half-cleared — players dotted the room looking half-dead, clutching coffee like lifelines.

You grabbed a plate and made a beeline for the food. Eggs. Bacon. Toast. Cheese. Pastries. Heaven.

While you loaded your plate, you found yourself chatting with Vicky, Jana, and Salma — the younger cluster of players, still full of chaotic energy despite yesterday’s match.

You laughed along with them, swapping stories about the game, about stupid tackles and the worst cramps ever.

It was easy.

Natural.

Harmless.

You carried your mountain of food back to your table, still chuckling.

But the second you slid into your seat, you felt it, a shift, something was just a smudge off.

Ingrid watched you carefully, her fingers drumming lightly against her coffee cup. “You looked cozy,” she said casually.

You blinked, confused.

“What?”

“Talking. Laughing. Getting real close,” Ingrid said, tilting her head slightly.

You frowned.

“I was just talking,” you said slowly.

Mapi leaned back in her chair, clearly amused, letting the tension crackle between you and Ingrid.

You set your fork down.

“Why are you mad at me?” you asked, voice quieter now, confused and a little hurt.

“I’m not mad,” Ingrid said quickly shaking her head.

“I just—”

She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

“You looked… happy. With them. And I guess it got to me.”

You stared at her — heart stuttering — as realization clicked slowly into place.

Oh.

She was jealous and a hint of territorial.

“I wasn’t flirting,” you said again, softer now.

“I don’t even know how.”

Ingrid’s face softened immediately.

She reached across the table, squeezing your hand briefly.

“I believe you,” she said. “Sorry.”

You smiled back, feeling the tension between you ease into nothing.

You dug back into your plate, causing Mapi to snorted quietly.

“You missed something? ” she asked teasingly.

You blinked and looked down, realizing your plate was a mountain of bacon, bread, eggs and dessert… and not a single piece of fruit or vegetable.

You shrugged unapologetically.

“Fruit’s boring,” you said. “Bacon, eggs, and cake are better.”

Ingrid shook her head fondly and got up without a word.

Two minutes later, she was back, setting a plate of brightly colored fruit next to your elbow.

“Eat it,” she said firmly.

You whined, poking at it.

“But it’s not bacon.”

“Eat it anyway,” Ingrid said, fighting a smile.

You grabbed a slice of melon reluctantly and shoved it into your mouth, making a show of suffering.

Mapi threw her arm dramatically over your shoulders.

“Our growing girl,” she declared, and you laughed so hard you almost choked on your juice.

The room around you felt warm, safe — even with a few curious glances from other players that you chose to ignore.

You were still polishing off your plate — eyeing the pastries again — when you felt a new presence near your table.

You looked up and immediately stiffened.

Pere Romeu, Barcelona’s head coach, stood there, hands tucked casually in his jacket pockets, face polite but unreadable.

You shifted instinctively closer to Ingrid and Mapi, your fingers tightening slightly on your napkin.

“Could I borrow you for a moment?” Pere asked.

You hesitated.

Everything in you wanted to stay.

You glanced quickly at Ingrid, who gave you the tiniest encouraging nod.

Reluctantly, you pushed back your chair and stood, following Pere a few steps away from the table.

He led you into the hallway just outside the breakfast room.

You folded your arms loosely, nerves prickling under your skin.

Pere offered a small smile. “Relax,” he said lightly. “You’re not in trouble.”

You didn’t move.

“…Then what is this about?” you asked cautiously, voice low.

Pere smiled again, a little wider this time.

“I want to set up a conversation. About your future.”

You blinked, thrown completely off balance.

He pulled a small card from his pocket with his name, number, and email on it and held it out.

“Have your agent reach out,” he said simply. “We’ll schedule a real talk.”

You stared at him, frozen for a beat.

“I don’t have an agent,” you blurted out.

Pere raised an eyebrow, amused.

You fumbled, cheeks heating.

“I guess… my mamma can be my agent?”

Pere chuckled, nodding approvingly.

“Family works.”

He pressed the card into your hand, then turned, casual and unhurried, walking back into the breakfast room.

[monktwo]

Part 3 in the missing piece series

Late calls and pillow talk

The party had thinned out, laughter fading into quieter conversations.

You stayed curled at a side table with Ingrid and Mapi, caught in a bubble that felt strangely separate from everything else.

Your phone buzzed against the table.

You glanced at the screen.

Mamma.

You flipped it face down quickly, biting your lip.

Mapi leaned over, her grin wicked.

“Ooh, is your girlfriend getting jealous?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “No, I don’t have a girlfriend. It’s just mamma.”

Ingrid’s smile turned teasing, her eyes sparkling.

“Permission to stay out late?” she asked, nudging your knee under the table.

You laughed under your breath.

“Something like that.”

The phone buzzed again, more insistent this time.

You sighed, pushing back from the table.

“Sorry. I should call her before she sends a search party.”

“Tell her you’re in good hands,” Mapi called after you with a wink.

You stepped a few feet away, hitting call and pressing the phone to your ear.

“Mamma?” you said, voice low.

“Hvor i all verden er du?”

(Where in the world are you?)

Her voice cracked sharp with worry.

You smiled, guilt curling tight in your chest.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly. “I’m at a little afterparty. Just football people. Free food, drinks… it’s nice. Nothing crazy.”

There was a pause on the line.

“Er du alene?”

(Are you alone?)

You glanced back at Ingrid and Mapi, still sitting casually, half-watching you with soft smiles.

“No,” you said. “I’m with nice people. Football people. Safe.”

“Hvem da?”

(Who?)

You shifted your weight.

“Ingrid Syrstad Engen. And Mapi León Cebrián.”

Another long pause.

Then a sigh, softer now.

“Så lenge du er trygg, jenta mi. Kos deg. Takk for at du ringte opp, men neste gang svar med en gang.”

(As long as you’re safe, my girl. Enjoy yourself. Thanks for calling back but next time answer on the first one.)

The knot in your chest loosened.

“I am, Mamma,” you said quietly. “Jeg lover.”

(I promise.)

“Glad i deg”

“Glad i deg også,” you whispered back.

You hung up, tucking your phone deep into your pocket before heading back to the table.

Ingrid raised an eyebrow as you approached.

“Permission granted?”

You laughed, feeling lighter.

“Yeah. Permission granted.”

Mapi mock-whispered to Ingrid, loud enough for you to hear:

“Good girl.”

You flicked her lightly on the forehead, grinning.

The walk back to their hotel was easy, filled with laughter and low conversation.

The Oslo night was cool and sweet against your overheated skin.

The second the door to their room clicked shut, Mapi was on you.

She pushed you gently against the wall, grinning into the kiss.

“You’re hot,” she murmured, already tugging at your shirt.

“And sexy,” Ingrid breathed as her hands found the hem, pulling it up.

You let them strip the shirt off — laughing breathlessly — your skin buzzing under their touch.

You stumbled back together onto the bed, making out lazily, hands tangled in hair, hips brushing too close.

The kisses weren’t urgent — just endless.

Soft, slow, the kind of touch that said I want you without rushing.

You sighed against Ingrid’s lips, arching into her instinctively, smiling when Mapi bit gently at your shoulder.

The heat spiraled between you, dizzy and warm.

But after a long, slow moment, Ingrid pulled back, forehead pressed lightly against yours.

“I would love to keep going,” she whispered, her voice thick and low.

“But… I’m so tired I think I’m about to pass out.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“Same.”

Mapi groaned, rolling off you dramatically.

“I’m dead.”

You all laughed, the tension loosening into something sweeter.

Getting ready for bed took longer than it should have.

Ingrid called dibs on the bathroom first, grabbing her little skincare bag and disappearing inside.

You flopped onto the bed in your underwear, grabbing your phone and opening TikTok.

You scrolled for a few minutes, half-humming along to random audio clips.

After another few videos, you sighed loudly.

“She’s been in there for hours,” you complained, flopping back like you’d been shot.

“I’m lying here, half-naked, abandoned… it’s cruel.”

Mapi laughed from where she was rifling through her bag.

Two minutes later, she ditched it and climbed into bed beside you, stealing half the blanket.

“Let me see,” she said, scooting closer.

You angled the screen toward her, both of you giggling at the endless chaos of TikTok.

When Ingrid still didn’t appear after a few minutes, you and Mapi yelled together:

“Ingrid! Hurry up!”

The bathroom door finally creaked open, and Ingrid stepped out — her face fresh, hair hanging lose down her shoulders.

You and Mapi immediately flexed your arms dramatically, striking bodybuilder poses on the bed.

“Look at what you’re missing!” Mapi crowed.

“Pure power,” you added, trying not to laugh.

Ingrid rolled her eyes, but her smile was impossibly fond as she crossed the room and crawled into bed with you.

The lights went low.

The three of you settled into a tangle of limbs under the covers, warmth sinking deep into your bones.

Mapi’s hand wandered lazily over your arm, tracing invisible patterns.

You caught the movement and, impulsively, tapped your finger against a tattoo just inside her bicep — a sleek, fierce-looking panther.

“What’s this one?” you asked softly.

Mapi smiled, proud even in her sleepiness.

“My pantera,” she said, shifting so you could see it better.

“Reminds me to protect the people I love. To be fast. Fearless.”

You traced the lines gently with your fingertip.

“Fits you,” you murmured.

Mapi bumped your shoulder lightly.

“Fits you too.”

You shook your head a little, laughing softly.

“I’m not fearless.”

“Maybe not,” Ingrid said quietly beside you, her hand brushing along your ribs.

“But you’re strong.”

You blinked at her — feeling the words land somewhere deep, somewhere you hadn’t realized was empty until now.

“You’re all strong,” you said, voice teasing but honest.

“And you,” you added, nudging Ingrid lightly with your foot under the blanket, “are disgustingly gorgeous.”

Ingrid flushed, ducking her head so her hair slid forward, hiding her face.

“Right back at you,” she mumbled, voice a little wrecked with tiredness and something softer.

Mapi stretched against you, grinning sleepily.

“You’re pretty much perfect,” she muttered into your shoulder.

You laughed quietly, feeling yourself melting into the mattress, into them.

You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But right now, this, it was good.

[monktwo]

Part 2 of the Missing piece series

Ghosts and beginnings

The afterparty wasn’t huge — just players, staff, a few friends but it felt overwhelming the moment you stepped inside.

The private hall near Ullevaal Stadion was strung with warm lights, the air thick with the smell of food, laughter buzzing from small groups.

Barça players moved easily through the room, plates piled high, drinks in hand, perfectly at home.

You hovered near the door for a moment, suddenly unsure.

Everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

You shifted your weight, scanning the room, looking for any familiar face.

And then —

“¿Eres tú?”

You turned, heart jumping, to see Aitana Bonmatí smiling at you, head tilted in surprise.

“Uh… sí?” you answered, awkward.

She laughed, slipping into easy English without missing a beat.

“I knew it. From La Masia, right?”

You nodded slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction.

“Yeah. A long time ago.”

“I remember you,” Aitana said, eyes crinkling. “Tiny, wild with the ball. Impossible to defend. You certainly grew up, tall and strong to say the least”

You laughed quietly, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Ahhh yeah, I lived with my grandparents in Barcelona for a while,” you said. “Before moving back to Norway.”

“You didn’t speak Spanish well back then,” Aitana said, remembering.

“People were kind of�� rough about it.”

You shrugged.

“I understood enough. Just… wasn’t exactly easy to fit in.”

“You didn’t need words,” she said warmly. “You had magic in your feet.”

The compliment made you duck your head, a little embarrassed.

“I didn’t really think about going pro,” you said honestly.

“I just loved playing. That’s all.”

Aitana smiled.

“I always thought you’d come back, you know” she said quietly. “You had something different. Special.”

You looked down at your shoes, heart tugging strangely.

“I liked farm work too,” you said, surprising yourself by admitting it.

“It wasn’t bad. It just… meant football wasn’t really an option. Too much to do.”

Aitana’s brow furrowed.

“You grew up working a farm?”

You nodded.

“My moms — they took over when my grandfather got a bit too old to run it all himself. They didn’t know much about farming, so… me and my twin brother, we had to pick up the slack. Learned everything from my grandfather.”

A soft whistle escaped Aitana. “No wonder you’re built like that,” she said, half-laughing, half-awed.

You smiled wryly.

“Yeah. I guess carrying sheep and keeping cows in line builds muscle.”

You both laughed, the tension between you easing into something more natural.

Then — two more shadows joined. Ingrid Engen and Mapi León, slipping in without a sound.

They didn’t interrupt — just hovered, listening, smiling.

“She just showed up and wrecked us today,” Aitana said, laughing, jerking a thumb toward you. “Like old times.”

You opened your mouth to protest but Mapi grinned and cut you off.

“And she cursed like a sailor doing it,” Mapi teased.

You flushed immediately, remembering the anger boiling out of you.

“Heldigvis forstod jeg alt” Ingrid added with a smirk. “Very… colorful.”

You laughed, burying your face in your hands for a second.

“Sorry,” you muttered. “Got a little carried away.”

“You should’ve heard me at your age,” Mapi said, clapping you on the back. “You’re fine.”

Ingrid grinned wider. “Come eat,” she said firmly, tugging gently on your sleeve.

You blinked, startled, but let her lead you toward the food.

Mapi caught your other side with a playful look “And drink,” she added. “Big girls need fuel.”

You laughed despite yourself as they steered you to a table already piled with plates.

Ingrid handed you a full plate, Mapi shoved a cold bottle of pepsi max into your hand like a victory prize.

“Eat,” Ingrid commanded lightly.

You obeyed, digging in hungrily. Realizing only now how hungry you actually were.

“She eats like a Viking too,” Mapi said, watching you with amusement.

“Explains the muscles,” Ingrid added, pretending to study your arms with seriousness.

You snorted into your drink, flipping them both off lightly.

The conversation spun easy after that.

They asked about your life — about growing up on a farm, about your brother and little sister.

You told them about farm chores, about how your little sister had once dyed the sheep pink by accident, about how winters made everything harder but also better.

They listened — really listened — leaning in, laughing at the right places, never making you feel like you didn’t belong.

“You know,” Mapi said thoughtfully, twirling a fork between her fingers, “we could use someone like you at Barça.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“You’d fit right in,” Ingrid agreed, grinning.

“Big heart, big fight, bigger appetite.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“I’m not pro material.”

“You sure about that?” Ingrid said, eyes glinting.

Later, you found yourself drifting toward the drink table again when you almost bumped into someone.

Alexia.

She stood there, drink in hand, looking every inch the queen of the room.

You froze for half a second.

“Hey,” you said awkwardly. “Um… sorry. About earlier. On the field. I didn’t mean to ”

Alexia arched an eyebrow coolly.

“You played well,” she said, crisp, polite. “But next time, maybe watch your mouth.”

You winced, nodding.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

She gave a small nod, not unfriendly, but distant, and moved past you without another word.

You blew out a breath, feeling like you’d dodged a bullet.

When you turned back, Ingrid and Mapi were watching from a distance — casual, pretending not to have noticed anything.

But the looks in their eyes said they had noticed.

Everything.

You made your way back to them, your stomach flipping oddly when Ingrid smiled at you — warm and sure, like she already knew you belonged.

Maybe, you thought — just maybe — you did.

[monktwo]

The Missing piece series:

Chapter 1 - The first encounter

Chapter 2 - Ghosts and beginnings

Chapter 3 - Late calls and pillow talks

Chapter 4 -Morning

Chapter 5 - New steps

Chapter 6 - New Rhythms

Chapter 7 - The first training

Chapter 8 - Blast from the past

Chapter 9 - Game prep

Chapter 10 - Game time baby

[monktwo]

Ingrid x Mapi x Reader:

- The Missing piece series

[monktwo]

Masterlist:

Welcome!

This is my masterlist. I’m new to posting on Tumblr, so everything’s still a little fresh here. I’m not open for requests, but I hope you enjoy the stories!

Woso:

Ingrid x Mapi x Reader

Alexia x Reader

[monktwo]

Part 1 of the Missing piece series

The first encounter

The late summer sun painted Ullevaal Stadion in gold and fire, a Norwegian flag whipping high above the stands.

You stood in the center of your team’s huddle, your heartbeat drumming in your ears.

Around you, the girls you had fought and grown with — strong, sun kissed, calloused hands from years of work.

Bønda i fra nord.

Farmers from the North. Fighters, most of them having grown up on a farm.

You steadied your breathing. Time for the pep talk.

“De er raskere,” you said, voice steady. “De er bedre trent.”

Some heads dipped slightly. Doubt.

“Men ingen — ingen — har mer sjel enn oss. Hvis vi står sammen, kommuniserer, og nekter å gi oss…”

You swept your gaze across them all, voice rising.

“Da kan vi ta dem. La oss vise dem hvem vi er.”

Sofie bumped your shoulder, grinning.

“Bønda i fra nord!”

“Bønda i fra nord!” the team shouted back.

The whistle blew.

The world snapped into motion.

Barcelona pressed high from the first second — sharp passes, cutting runs.

But you had a secret weapon.

You caught every clipped Spanish command.

“Izquierda, cuidado!”

“Centro abierto!”

And you fired back instantly in Norwegian:

“ Dekk opp venstre!”

“Press midtbanen nå!”

Your girls responded like lightning. They didn’t know how you knew — they just trusted you, like always.

Across the pitch, Ingrid Engen’s head lifted in surprise.

Mapi León shot you a curious look.

Fifteen minutes in, you drew first blood.

You scooped a loose ball deep in your half, spun past the first marker like smoke.

• One feint — defender wrong-footed.

• Sharp cut — two more beaten.

• A burst of pace — free and flying.

You slipped the ball past the charging keeper calm and composed.

1–0.

You kissed two fingers to the sky, bowed low to the roaring stands, a grin splitting your face.

Barcelona struck back, fast and sharp.

1–1.

Frustration boiled up inside you.

“Faen!” you barked when you lost a sloppy touch.

“Fitte!” when a pass didn’t come off.

Your coach’s voice ripped across the field:

“Y/n ikke la deg påvirke, pust og spill ball!”

(Y/n don’t let it get to you, breathe and play the ball!)

You squeezed your fists, pulled a breath deep into your lungs, and reset.

Your second goal came minutes later.

Sofie tore down the wing, ball glued to her foot, and floated a perfect cross into the box.

You exploded forward, timed the leap. You rose, muscles flexed, body stretched to the sky, and slammed the header into the net.

2–1.

You sprinted to the corner flag with Selma and Emma at your sides, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, mimicking the old “MSN trio” celebration.

The crowd thundered their approval and you were loving it.

But the battle raged on.

Barça found the cracks.

2–2.

You were tiring, you could feel it , but so were they.

You pulled a clever switch, dragging defenders out and sliding a perfect ball through for Ella to smash home.

3–2.

And then the breaking point came.

You snatched a turnover near their box, spinning toward goal and Alexia Putellas, frustrated with your excellent attempt at beating the, so she lunged.

You felt the studs rake across your shins and you hit the ground hard, skidding across the grass.

The whistle shrieked.

You slammed your hand into the grass, chest heaving.

“FAEN!”

You pushed yourself up, fists clenched, rage painting your vision red. You lunged toward Alexia but Selma and Leah caught you, strong arms pulling you back.

“Ro deg ned!” Selma hissed in your ear.

“Ikke lag noe tull nå!” Leah added.

You struggled against them for a second, breathing heavy with rage.

As you were dragged away, you caught Alexia’s superior, dismissive smirk, and you snapped, your voice sharp and venomous in perfect Spanish:

“Cuando no puedes ganar limpio, ¿verdad?”

(When you can’t win fair, right?)

Alexia’s face froze.

You saw it ripple across Barcelona, the shock. She speaks Spanish.

The ref pointed to the spot: free kick, right outside the box.

You brushed yourself off, teeth clenched, stepping up.

The whistle blew. You struck it clean, pure, bending it into the top corner like it was the only place the ball belonged.

4–2.

The stadium detonated, roaring with Norwegian roars.

You sprinted toward the corner flag, white-hot adrenaline tearing through you and without thinking, you ripped your shirt off, muscles flexed, a few scars flashing across your strong back from years of labor at the farm.

“BØNDA I FRA NORD!!!” you howled.

The Norwegian fans roared it back, shaking the stadium.

Selma tackled you, laughing, pounding your bare shoulders.

The referee jogged over — yellow card already raised.

You accepted it with a grin, slinging your shirt over your shoulder, not caring at all.

But Barcelona weren’t finished.

4–3. 4–4.

Your legs felt like stone, but you could tell, so did everyone else’s.

You pulled yourself upright, chest heaving, voice strong and determined.

“Kom igjen jenter, én siste sjanse!”

(Come on girls, one last chance!)

They followed you, one more run, one more attack.

You pulled two defenders with you, drawing the trap before sliding the ball across for Ella to finish cleanly.

5–4.

The final whistle blew and you collapsed to the grass, laughing and gasping, arms spread wide.

Your whole team lay there, spent and victorious under the Norwegian sky.

You barely heard the footsteps at first.

You cracked an eye open.

Ingrid Engen.

Mapi León.

Both still shining with sweat, watching you with open amusement.

Ingrid crouched down, her braid slipping over her shoulder.

“You were… incredible,” she said softly in English.

You blinked up at her, brain still fogged, and managed a crooked grin.

“Thanks.”

Mapi smirked, resting her hands on her hips.

“We’re having a little thing after,” she said. “Food, drinks, you know. You should come.”

Still half-dazed, you pushed yourself to your feet.

“Sounds cool! Have fun, then!” you said brightly, clapping them both awkwardly on the arm and jogging toward the tunnel.

You heard a startled laugh behind you.

“Hey!” Ingrid called after you, laughing openly now. “We mean you’re invited!”

You skidded to a stop, confused.

“Oh! Uh— I can’t, I have to shower!” you blurted out, heart hammering.

Mapi snorted, half-choking on a laugh.

“It’s after showers, chica,” she said, teasing.

“Yeah,” Ingrid added, biting her lip to hide her grin. “You know — when we all smell like humans again.”

You stared for a beat — then laughed, loud and a little embarrassed.

“Right. After showers. Cool. Got it.”

You gave a clumsy thumbs-up and jogged away, face burning, but smiling so hard you thought your cheeks might split.

Behind you, you heard Mapi’s voice in Spanish:

“Es adorable, no tiene ni idea.”

(She’s adorable, she has no idea.)

Ingrid chuckled low, eyes lingering on you.

“And she’s got a temper,” she said, grinning. “I heard it. ‘Faen.’ ‘Fitte.’ Real sweet.”

Mapi laughed, throwing her head back.

“Me encanta,” she said.

(I love it.)

[monktwo]

Dose anyone have any idea how to get tickets to the final for the women’s euros this summer?