ouiouibaguettt

[ouiouibaguettt]

Off the Pitch

YN -> your name

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

k of words! request from @liverpoolfan96

For Aggie one reader and Aggie both play for cheslea and after beating United to win league celebrate together but no one know there together until someone catches them kissing

The match was over. The final whistle had blown, and Chelsea had won. 1-0.

You and Aggie, both on the pitch, had fought through the tension of the game. A hard-fought battle against Manchester United that was more than just a game—it was a statement.

The league title was yours.

The crowd erupted into cheers, but you barely heard it, your mind on the feeling in your chest. Your pulse was still racing from the match, but more from something else. Something you and Aggie had kept just between the two of you.

From the moment she’d passed you the ball for that final goal, there was no going back. You had become more than just teammates.

Back in the locker room, everyone was jubilant. The squad was exchanging hugs, taking photos, and celebrating the victory with loud cheers. But for you and Aggie, it was different. You slipped away from the crowd together, down the hall toward the quieter, secluded hallway that led to the team's private rooms.

You grabbed her hand, intertwining your fingers. Aggie shot you a playful look but didn’t pull away.

"We did it," she said, voice filled with excitement, but also something else. Something intimate that only the two of you understood.

The quiet between you in the hallway was a stark contrast to the chaos outside. Neither of you wanted to join the throngs of celebrating teammates just yet. Not until you had a moment.

Aggie stopped in front of the door to your shared hotel room and glanced over at you. “You’re unbelievable out there, you know?”

You grinned, feeling the weight of everything—the victory, the adrenaline, the love that had secretly grown between you two—crash into your chest.

Before you could reply, she was already closing the door behind you. And suddenly, you were alone together in the room.

The heat between you both had been building for weeks, months even. In the quiet of the hotel room, it felt impossible to deny it anymore.

Aggie’s eyes flickered to yours before she closed the gap between you, her hands resting on your hips. “I’m so proud of us.”

“You really think we can keep this quiet?” you asked, voice teasing but with an underlying question.

She smirked. “I don’t think we’ll have to for long.”

You tilted your head, leaning in just a little more. “Why’s that?”

Her lips brushed against yours, soft at first, like a promise. “Because we’re worth the risk.”

You didn’t wait another second before your lips met, and in that instant, the world outside faded. There were no press conferences, no fans cheering—just the two of you, finally allowing everything you had kept hidden to unfold.

Hours later, you were still in your room, in a quiet haze of celebration. The team had partied into the night, but you and Aggie had stayed out of the limelight.

But even in the privacy of the room, you knew it wouldn’t stay hidden forever.

You were about to slip into the shower when there was a knock at the door.

Aggie raised an eyebrow. “Who is that?”

“Maybe it’s just the team,” you said, tossing on a robe. “Let me get it.”

When you opened the door, however, you weren’t greeted by a teammate. It was the team photographer—caught off guard when they realized they had the wrong room.

But what they saw through the cracked door stopped them.

There you were, just inches apart, your hair disheveled, the flush still on your cheeks, with Aggie standing too close for anyone to mistake what was happening.

And before you could even close the door, it was already too late.

The photographer blinked in shock. “Oh… um, sorry!” They turned to leave, but the damage was done.

You closed the door quickly, heart pounding. “This is bad.”

Aggie chuckled nervously. “It’s okay. We can handle this.”

But it was already all over the social media platforms. Someone—maybe from the other side of the hallway—had already taken a photo of you two, standing just moments after the kiss.

It was the morning after the win, and the media had exploded.

You and Aggie hadn’t spoken since the photographer incident, but you knew the world would know about your relationship now. You were just hoping the team wouldn’t think it was a distraction.

Your phone buzzed incessantly—group chats, notifications, Instagram comments. But the most important message came from Sonia, Chelsea’s manager.

She wasn’t angry. Far from it.

“You two should’ve just come out already,” her message read. “Get it over with. Don’t let anyone make you feel like your love is a headline.”

Later that afternoon, in the media room, you both sat before the cameras. Everyone was waiting for some explanation, some comment.

Aggie took your hand under the table, and you squeezed back. You’d both been preparing for this moment.

But you didn’t shy away.

“You might have seen us on social media last night,” you said, looking directly into the cameras. “And, yes, we’re together. We’ve been together for a while now, but we’ve kept it private for our own reasons.”

Aggie smiled at you softly. “But we’re not hiding anymore. We’ve won the league, and we’re proud of that—proud of each other.”

The media exploded.

And Chelsea? Well, they were behind you every step of the way.

You and Aggie had made your relationship official, and now the world knew. No more secrets. No more hiding.

The celebrations weren’t over—they’d only just begun.

It had been hours since the world found out about you and Aggie.

The phone buzzing. The notifications flooding in. People commenting. Speculating. But the moment the photos hit the press, there was no turning back.

The squad had celebrated the league win all night, but today was a new day—and the media had already latched onto every word and photo they could get their hands on.

You sat on the edge of the bed, scrolling through Twitter. Every post, every headline, every message was about you and Aggie. You were officially out.

But despite the frenzy, there was still a sense of calm between the two of you. You glanced up from your phone and met her gaze as she walked into the room, still in her training gear, a sly smile playing on her lips.

“Well, I guess we’re officially public now,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, but your heart was still racing.

Aggie crossed the room, sitting next to you on the bed. Her fingers found yours as she squeezed your hand. "Guess there’s no turning back now."

The two of you had danced around it for months—secret dates, stolen moments, hidden kisses. But now? It was all out there for the world to see.

Later that afternoon, after a quiet discussion about how to approach the situation, you and Aggie made the decision to take control.

You pulled up your Instagram, and Aggie did the same, side by side. No more letting the media run with their assumptions. No more letting the world write your story for you.

This was your moment.

You posted first.

It wasn’t much—just a simple photo of the two of you in a moment of happiness. It was taken during the match celebrations, a candid shot of you both laughing, hands intertwined, clearly in your element.

No caption at first.

Just the raw, unfiltered image of the two of you.

After a beat, you added the caption:

“Sometimes the best thing in life is what you never expected. 💙 #LoveIsLove #ChelseaFamily”

It was short. It was simple. And it was all you needed.

Within minutes, the comments exploded.

From your teammates, you got love and support:

Keira Walsh: “Finally! You two are impossible to ignore. 🔥 #Proud”

Lucy Bronze: “Love you both!! 🌟 #DreamTeam”

Sonia Bonpastor: “Chelsea women are unstoppable both on and off the pitch. 🔥❤️ #ProudCoach”

The fans were more of a mixed bag, some celebrating your relationship and others trying to stir the pot. But you didn’t care. This was your truth, and you weren’t hiding anymore.

But it wasn’t just the Chelsea team reacting.

From the Barça squad, comments flooded in too:

Alexia Putella: “I knew it! 😏 So happy for you both! #LoveAlwaysWins”

Aitana Bonmatí: “Two incredible players and two even more incredible people. ❤️”

Salma Paralluelo: “Love you both so much!! 💜”

And even some players from the other side—Manchester United—showed their support. They all had witnessed the magic of your partnership on the pitch, and now, they were seeing it off the pitch.

Aggie’s Post Not to be outdone, Aggie posted her own hard launch a few minutes later.

It was a simple but powerful picture: the two of you from the previous night, just after the match, standing on the pitch with your arms around each other. You were holding the trophy, and Aggie’s head was resting on your shoulder, a smile lighting up both of your faces.

Her caption was even more direct than yours.

“No more secrets. #MyPerson #Chelsea❤️”

It was clear now.

You were a couple. No longer hidden in shadows or secret hotel rooms.

As expected, the press went wild. The story of Chelsea’s victorious league season now included the love story of two of its brightest stars.

Headlines flooded in:

“Chelsea’s Stars Shine in More Ways Than One: Player’s Secret Relationship Revealed!”

“League Winners and Lovers: Aggie and YN Make it Official”

“From Teammates to Soulmates: Chelsea’s Unlikely Power Couple”

By the evening, your love story was the main topic of conversation across social media. The world was catching up to what had been an unspoken truth among the team: you and Aggie were the perfect match.

Later that night, you sat together in your shared apartment in London, watching TV, the excitement of the day starting to die down. But even now, it was hard to believe that everything had changed so quickly.

"You okay?" Aggie asked, nudging you with her shoulder.

You let out a soft laugh, feeling both relieved and overwhelmed. "Yeah. Just… I didn't think it would be this big. I mean, everyone already knew, right?"

Aggie smiled, brushing her hair back. "Yeah, but now they know for sure."

You looked down at your phone again—your feed still flooded with messages from friends, family, and fans. Some were supportive, others less so. But none of that mattered. Because in that moment, it felt like the whole world had finally caught up to you.

"I guess this is our new normal," you said, leaning against her.

"We'll handle it," Aggie said confidently. "And I’ll always be with you, no matter what."

You smiled and kissed her softly, the world fading away for just a moment. You didn’t need anything more than this.

The hard launch on social media had sent shockwaves throughout the football world, but it wasn’t just fans who were reacting. Your Chelsea teammates were the first to share their thoughts, and honestly, their support was exactly what you needed.

Keira Walsh was the first to text you, as expected. She was always your ride-or-die, someone you could count on in both the locker room and outside it.

“Finally, you two made it official! 🎉💙 Love you both. So happy for you. I saw the whole thing play out on Insta this morning. What took you so long? 😉”

You chuckled, shaking your head. Aggie was right next to you, her head resting against your shoulder as you both read through the messages.

"I think Keira might have known before we did," you replied to her, sending Keira a laughing emoji.

Lucy Bronze, who had been part of the team even before you both made it to Chelsea, was quick to comment on your Instagram post, but she followed it up with a heartfelt message.

“Couldn’t be happier for you both. You’ve been amazing together for so long—just glad everyone knows now. Proud of you. ❤️”

You smiled, grateful that someone like Lucy, who had always kept things professional, was openly supportive. It felt like a weight had been lifted.

Fran Kirby wasn’t far behind. Fran had always been the prankster of the team, and her message reflected her playful spirit.

“The worst-kept secret in football… but so glad it’s out! 😆 Big hugs to both of you, you deserve all the happiness in the world. Don’t forget to invite me to the wedding! 💍”

You rolled your eyes and laughed. “We’re not getting married yet, Fran,” you texted her back, but you couldn’t help feeling a little giddy. The excitement of your love story being celebrated was contagious.

Sonia, Chelsea’s manager, sent you a more professional message but with the same warmth.

“We’re proud of you both. The love and support from the team is unwavering. Let’s keep our focus on what we do best: winning. But I’m so glad you’re both able to be yourselves now. #ChelseaFamily”

You could tell that Sonia was genuinely proud of you, and the fact that she was so supportive made the entire process feel more natural.

The reactions from the England squad were just as swift, if not more vocal. You’d both shared your time with them at international camps, and now, the spotlight was on you.

Ellie Roebuck, England’s star goalkeeper and one of your closest friends, was quick to message you.

“So proud of you both. You two were always adorable, and now the world knows! Finally!! 💕 Can’t wait to catch up next camp. I might need a few more tips on keeping my relationship a secret, though. 😂”

You giggled at Ellie’s comment. “I think you’ve got that part down better than we did,” you replied. "But maybe we should have just told everyone ages ago."

Lauren Hemp didn’t waste any time either. You had known Lauren for years, and she was always known for her energy and infectious enthusiasm.

“YESSSSS!! I knew it. You guys are too cute for words. Honestly, you two are what dreams are made of. Couldn’t be happier for you!!”

Her excitement was contagious. You showed the message to Aggie, who rolled her eyes and smiled. “Typical Lauren,” she laughed, shaking her head.

Georgia Stanway also chimed in, sending a private message.

“Took you long enough! I swear I’ve been waiting for this moment for ages. You’re both amazing, and now the whole world knows it. Can’t wait to see you both at the next England camp. ❤️”

You grinned, knowing that Georgia had probably guessed from the start but respected your privacy. “See you soon, Stanway!” you texted back.

Alex Greenwood, a player you had always respected, sent a more emotional message, showing just how much your love story had touched everyone.

“Seeing you both finally share this with the world is so special. You two are the real deal. Can’t wait to celebrate with you both in person soon. Much love, YN and Aggie. 💖”

The sincerity in Alex's message hit you harder than you expected, and you shared a soft smile with Aggie, feeling deeply grateful for the support surrounding you both.

The next international break was approaching, and both Chelsea and England were preparing for matches. The press conference was set at St. George’s Park, where the England team usually gathered for media sessions.

When the time came, you and Aggie were prepared for a full-on media storm. The press had already gone crazy over your relationship. Now, it was your chance to address it head-on.

The conference room buzzed with questions, but the moment you and Aggie walked in together, hand in hand, the room went silent for a beat.

The press officer cleared their throat and motioned for the questions to begin. A reporter from a major tabloid, who was notorious for trying to stir drama, asked with a grin:

"So, now that the cat's out of the bag, how does it feel to go public with your relationship, especially being a part of the England squad?"

You met Aggie’s eyes and smiled, squeezing her hand under the table. "It feels good. We’ve always been supportive of each other, both on and off the pitch. Our teammates, both here at Chelsea and with England, have been amazing. We’re excited to continue being part of this team and supporting each other."

Aggie added, "It's important for us to live our truth, and we’re both proud to be open about who we are. But above all, we’re focused on winning for England, for Chelsea, and for the people who support us."

The room erupted in flashes from cameras, but no one asked anything that felt intrusive or disrespectful. The reporters, sensing the sincerity in your words, respected the moment.

After the press conference ended, the England squad gathered for a quick team photo. You and Aggie stood side by side, hands not far apart, but this time, there was no hesitation.

Ellie Roebuck leaned in, whispering loudly, "You two are the power couple of football now!"

"Shhh," you teased, laughing, but you couldn’t suppress the proud grin on your face.

The team posed together for the shot, and as the cameras clicked, you realized something important: the world had caught up, but this—being surrounded by the love of your team, the love of Aggie—was all that truly mattered.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Rival Heat

YN -> your name

masterlist - (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

3,7k of words! request from @liverpoolfan96

For aitana bonmati one reader is Aggie big sister and there close and she protective of Aggie and aitana and reader don’t get on and she says something in her press conference about Aggie and in gagne fouls aggie in 1st leg and second leg so that when they come to blows but later airana aplgosies to Aggie but yn still stubborn but I’m end do and end up getting together but add all the teams both Barca and Chelsea in it

The announcement of the Champions League semi-final draw had barely echoed through the halls of Cobham before your jaw tightened. Chelsea vs. Barcelona.

Again.

The memories of past battles flooded your mind—tight games, brutal tackles, heartache and celebration all tangled into ninety-minute wars. But this time, it wasn’t just about the badge on your chest or the rival colors across the pitch.

This time, it was about Aggie.

Your little sister, still fresh-faced despite the number on her back, had fought tooth and nail for her place in Chelsea’s midfield. She wasn’t just talented—she was fearless. You’d trained with her, protected her, watched her bloom. And now, she was about to line up against the player you loathed most.

Aitana Bonmatí.

You didn’t hate many people. In fact, most days you stayed cool, composed, professional. But Aitana had a way of setting every nerve on edge. It wasn’t just her skill—it was her smirk, her icy focus, her arrogant interviews. You’d clashed more than once on the international circuit, and sparks flew every time.

So when the Spanish media published Aitana’s pre-match interview and you saw the quote—

“Aggie’s got talent, sure, but talent and experience are not the same. At this level, pressure exposes everything.” —you nearly threw your phone across the locker room.

Aggie didn’t react. She’d always been good at brushing things off. But you weren’t Aggie.

The press conference that followed was tense. You didn’t bother hiding the edge in your voice when a reporter asked if you’d seen Aitana’s comment.

“Some players talk more than they should,” you said calmly, staring straight at the camera. “We’ll see who crumbles under pressure.”

Aggie gave you a look later that night, one of those soft, warning glances.

“She’s not worth it,” she said.

But you didn’t agree.

You knew Aitana. And something told you she knew exactly what she was doing.

Camp Nou was packed to the brim. The crowd, vibrant and electric, pulsed with Catalan pride. Barça had something to prove after last year. So did you.

The first twenty minutes were fast. Chelsea held firm, Aggie holding her own in midfield against giants like Keira Walsh and Patri. But then came minute twenty-two.

Aitana.

You saw her sprinting into a 50/50 with Aggie, and everything in your body screamed too late, too hard.

Aitana’s studs scraped down Aggie’s ankle, and your sister crumpled. The whistle blew, but the damage was done. You rushed in, shoving Aitana back instinctively.

“Touch her again and I swear—”

“Control yourself,” she hissed in Spanish, brushing off your hand. “She wants to play at this level? Then she plays.”

Yellow cards were shown. You barely noticed. Your vision was locked on Aitana’s unreadable expression, and the heat between you could have burned the stadium down.

The match ended 4–1 for Barça. Caroline Graham Hansen was unstoppable, and even Sam Kerr’s equalizer couldn’t spark a comeback.

In the tunnel, you caught Aitana glancing at you once, eyes unreadable. She looked… tired.

You didn’t care.

The second leg at Stamford Bridge should’ve been about redemption. Instead, it felt like salt in an open wound.

Aitana was everywhere—pressing, weaving, pulling strings in midfield. You’d trained like hell for this game, but Chelsea struggled again. Down 2–1 at halftime, you were barely holding it together.

Then came the seventy-second minute.

Aggie made a turn near the halfway line, and Aitana closed in fast. The tackle wasn’t violent, but it was late—calculated. Another clip to the ankle. Aggie yelped and stumbled.

You snapped.

The red mist descended as you ran toward Aitana, chesting into her, shouting in her face in front of 40,000 people.

“You think you’re so clever?” you snarled. “Pick on someone your own size.”

She didn’t back down.

“I didn’t touch her hard. You're just always looking for a reason to hate me.”

And that was when it hit you.

You weren’t angry because Aitana fouled Aggie. You were angry because you didn’t know how to deal with what Aitana made you feel.

You’d watched her brilliance for years. Watched her win. Watched her dominate. And part of you had always wanted—desperately—to match her, fight her, prove something. But maybe you also wanted to understand her. Maybe you already did.

The ref stepped in before it turned into a brawl. You got a yellow. Aitana got a warning.

The match ended 4–1 again. An aggregate embarrassment. You didn’t speak in the locker room. Aggie did, quietly:

“She said sorry, you know. After the final whistle. I think she meant it.”

You scoffed. “Not interested.”

But even as you said it, something inside you shifted.

Two days later, while leaving Cobham late, you found someone waiting in the parking lot.

Aitana.

She stood there in a hoodie and jeans, hands in her pockets. No cameras. No boots. Just her.

“I came to talk,” she said in a low voice. “Not about football.”

You stared at her, frozen.

She sighed. “You think I hate Aggie. I don’t. I respect her. She’s… fearless. And I fouled her because I was frustrated—not with her. With you.”

You blinked. “With me?”

Aitana stepped closer. “You always act like you’re protecting her. But I think what you’re really doing… is avoiding this.”

She gestured between you.

“This fire. This tension. This… whatever it is. You don’t hate me. You just don’t know how to admit you feel something.”

You clenched your jaw. “I don’t.”

A small smile ghosted across her lips. “Then stop looking at me like that.”

Silence.

You should have walked away. You should have told her to go. But you didn’t.

The season was over. The wounds still fresh.

Champions League dreams? Crushed.

Media speculation? Nonstop.

You were doing your best to avoid it all—until Emma Hayes cornered you in the hallway with that familiar glint in her eyes.

“There’s a UEFA player gala this weekend. You’re on the guest list.”

You frowned. “Can’t someone else—?”

“No,” she said. “You need to show face. And so does Aggie. And before you ask, yes… Barcelona will be there too.”

You didn’t ask, but your stomach turned anyway.

You knew Aitana would be there.

The venue was a glass-wrapped museum on the Seine, all minimalist decor and floor-to-ceiling views of the city. The kind of place that made you feel like you didn’t belong no matter how expensive your dress was.

You wore black satin. Sleek. Sharp. Enough to send a message: don’t mess with me.

Aggie stuck close early in the evening, but the crowd swept her away in a sea of laughter and teammates. You didn’t mind. You preferred the edge of the room anyway.

Until you saw her.

Aitana.

She stepped in wearing a deep wine-colored gown with a low back and the kind of confidence that made the whole room notice. Her hair was swept up, lips painted, eyes lined in something that made them look even more dangerous than usual.

She caught your stare from across the floor. Didn’t look away.

Your throat dried.

A waitress passed with champagne. You took two.

God help you.

You tried ignoring her. Really, you did. But every time you turned, she was there—talking to Alexia, laughing with Salma, slipping into a conversation with Keira Walsh and Lucy Bronze.

And then she started walking toward you.

You weren’t ready.

“Didn’t think you’d come,” she said, voice low.

“I didn’t want to,” you replied honestly, sipping your drink.

“But you did.”

You glanced at her. “Curiosity. Morbid, maybe.”

She smirked. “You always have an excuse.”

There was music playing softly in the background, some jazzy instrumental you didn’t recognize. The air between you shifted as people drifted away.

It felt like you were alone in a crowded room.

“You clean up nice,” she added, eyes trailing down your dress. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you like this.”

Your pulse kicked up. “Don’t flirt with me.”

“Why not?”

“Because it won’t work.”

She stepped closer. “It already is.”

You swallowed hard.

Later, after dodging a dozen photographers and polite conversations you didn’t care about, you slipped into a quiet hallway with glass walls and dim lighting. The city blinked in the distance beyond the river.

You needed air.

You didn’t expect her to follow.

Aitana’s heels clicked softly on the marble floor. “You keep walking away.”

“I keep needing space,” you muttered.

“And yet here we are,” she said, stepping in front of you. Blocking your exit. Not touching. Just… looking.

You met her eyes.

She was close enough to kiss.

Close enough to hurt you, too.

“Say it,” she whispered.

“Say what?”

“That you want this.”

You didn’t answer.

Instead, you backed her into the wall and stared at her lips.

She gasped—softly—but didn’t back down. Her hands hovered at your waist, not quite touching.

“I hated you,” you said, voice hoarse.

“I know,” she replied. “I hated you too.”

There was something electric between you, heavy, charged.

Your hands found the edge of her jaw before you could stop them.

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“I plan to be.”

And then, finally—finally—you kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t slow.

It was months of tension, years of rivalry, confusion, anger, and burning need.

It was her fingers gripping your hips, your lips claiming hers like you’d starved, your back pressed to the glass, her breath hot against your skin.

It was reckless and perfect and overdue.

You pulled away only when a burst of laughter echoed down the hall.

She leaned her forehead against yours, smiling, breathless. “So… what now?”

You stared at her.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “But I’m not walking away again.”

The kiss didn’t end in the hallway. It just paused.

Barely.

There was a silence between you, but it wasn’t awkward. It was the kind of silence that buzzed, thick with what hadn’t been said—and what you both were desperate to do.

Aitana’s hand lingered at your hip. Yours was still curled near her neck, thumb brushing over her pulse.

And then, without a word, she stepped back, slid her fingers down your wrist, and laced them through yours.

“Come with me,” she murmured.

You nodded.

The gala faded behind you. You walked fast, half-laughing when someone called your name and you ignored it completely. Aitana’s heels clicked down the marble stairs. Your hand didn’t leave hers.

You didn’t wait for a car.

Her hotel was too far. Yours was only five blocks away.

The Paris air was cool, but your skin burned.

Neither of you spoke, not really. Every glance said more than words could. Aitana’s eyes were dark, unreadable, but her jaw was set like she was daring herself not to lose control too fast.

When the elevator doors closed behind you both, you turned to her slowly.

She was already watching you.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to hers. “Not even a little.”

Her lips parted—but didn’t argue.

You kissed her again before the doors even opened.

The second the door closed behind you, it was like someone struck a match.

Aitana pushed you against the wall with more need than finesse. Her mouth was on your neck, your hands tugging the zipper down the back of her gown. You weren’t thinking, not clearly, not at all. All that rivalry, all that hatred—it had always just been tension in disguise. And now?

Now it was coming undone.

She kissed like she played—fierce, precise, demanding. She tasted like champagne and trouble. You let yourself get lost in her, dragging her onto the bed like gravity gave you no choice.

Clothes hit the floor. One by one. Slowly. Then all at once.

You learned each other’s skin like you'd been waiting a lifetime to do it.

It was hot. Messy. More intense than anything you'd let yourself imagine. Her voice in your ear. Your fingers curling into her back. Gasps swallowed between kisses. It was more than sex—it was a battle neither of you wanted to win.

And when it was over—or rather, when you paused long enough to breathe—you lay tangled in sheets, chest heaving, her body pressed against yours, face tucked into your neck.

You stared at the ceiling for a long moment, heart still racing.

“You’re going to ruin me,” you whispered.

Aitana laughed, low and raw. “Too late.”

You didn’t sleep much.

But when you did, it was in her arms, the silence between you finally calm.

It felt dangerous.

It felt good.

And it wasn’t just physical—not anymore.

The sun cut through the sheer hotel curtains like a slow blade of gold. Paris looked soft from the twelfth floor—muted, early, still asleep.

You weren’t.

Aitana’s breath warmed your collarbone, one leg tangled over yours, her fingers curled loosely around your wrist like she’d held on even in her sleep.

Your heart thudded, calm but alive. The ache in your muscles wasn’t from training. It was from her.

You should’ve moved.

But instead, you studied her. Her lashes against her cheek. The faint smudge of mascara under one eye. A love bite on her neck.

Your neck.

You’d made a mess of each other—and it had felt inevitable.

You closed your eyes again.

The door buzzed once. You barely heard it.

Then again—louder.

A sleepy groan left your throat. Aitana stirred, tightening her grip on your waist.

Then the knock turned into a voice.

"Hey, you awake? Mom and Dad are on FaceTime—they want to see you real quick before they head out.”

Your stomach dropped.

Aggie.

“No—Aggie, wait, don’t—”

The door creaked open before you could get out of bed.

She stepped in, phone in hand, grinning. “I told them you were probably—”

And froze.

You were half-sitting up, hair wrecked, the hotel sheets clinging to bare skin. Aitana was on her side, propped on one elbow, the straps of her bra still tangled near her shoulder.

The covers barely covered either of you.

Aggie’s mouth fell open.

You stared at her, stunned.

Aitana blinked once, then slowly pulled the duvet over both of you with impossible calm. “…Hi.”

Aggie didn’t respond.

But her phone was still up.

And on the screen, your parents' faces were squinting in confusion.

“Is that—who is that?” your mom asked, leaning toward the camera.

“Aggie, sweetheart, are you—what’s happening?”

Aggie quickly flipped the camera to face the ceiling and backed out of the room with the most horrified look you’d ever seen on her face.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, walking into the hallway and shutting the door behind her. “What the actual hell.”

You collapsed back onto the mattress and groaned into your hands.

“She’s never going to let this go,” you mumbled.

Aitana laughed—laughed—as she flopped onto her back and stared at the ceiling. “You know… that could’ve gone worse.”

You looked at her like she was insane. “She walked in on us. Half-naked. While on FaceTime with our parents.”

“And?”

You blinked.

“You’re very calm about this.”

“I’ve been caught in worse situations,” Aitana said with a smirk. “Also… this is kind of hilarious.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re a menace.”

She turned toward you, her smile softening. “Maybe. But you didn’t push me away last night. Or this morning.”

You met her eyes.

The teasing was gone. What lingered was something quieter. Something real.

“I don’t want to,” you said, voice low.

“Even if it complicates everything?”

“Especially then.”

Aitana leaned in and kissed your shoulder. “Good.”

Outside the Room You emerged an hour later, dressed, showered, and bracing for disaster.

Aggie was sitting on the hotel bed in your shared suite, phone abandoned, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“You okay?” you asked, voice tentative.

She stared at you.

Then at Aitana, who was trailing a few steps behind you, still tying her hair up.

Then back at you.

“You’re sleeping with my rival,” she said flatly. “You’re literally sleeping with the enemy.”

“Not… the enemy,” Aitana offered carefully.

Aggie ignored her.

You sighed. “Okay. Yeah. Last night happened. But it’s not just… that.”

Aggie squinted. “Is this like… a thing?”

You looked at Aitana, then back at your sister. “Maybe. Probably.”

Aggie stared at you.

And then—shook her head. “I don’t want the details. But for the love of god, lock the door next time.”

You thought things might settle down.

They didn’t.

If anything, it was worse.

Because now that you’d kissed Aitana… touched her… slept next to her, it was impossible not to think about it every time you saw her name in a headline or her face in a highlight reel. It was like your brain refused to shut up.

And worse—your teammates noticed.

Back at Cobham, pre-season was already starting to loom. Some girls were still trickling back from international duty, but enough of the core squad had returned for the locker room to buzz with gossip again.

Especially Lucy and Keira.

They’d already been looking at you funny since the gala in Paris.

“Okay,” Lucy said one morning, leaning across the bench with a suspicious squint. “What’s going on with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re glowing,” Keira added with an obnoxiously smug grin. “Did you hook up with someone at the gala?”

You scoffed. “No.”

They exchanged a look.

Lucy raised a brow. “No no or mind-your-business no?”

You pulled your jersey on and muttered, “Drop it.”

They absolutely did not drop it.

A Message from Aitana Later that night, your phone buzzed while you were doing recovery stretches alone in the training center.

Aitana: miss me yet?

You rolled your eyes.

You: don’t flatter yourself Aitana: already do. Aitana: also… I can’t stop thinking about that night. Aitana: when can I see you again?

Your breath caught. You stared at the screen like it might combust in your hands.

Before you could type, another message came through.

Aitana: I want to do this for real. No games.

That… wasn’t what you expected.

You sat with it for a second, heart stammering in your chest.

Then typed:

You: Me too.

In Barcelona Three days later, you found yourself in Spain under the pretext of "personal downtime." A short break before club training got serious again.

Aitana met you in a quiet coffee shop in Gràcia. Sunglasses. Hoodie. The most suspiciously obvious disguise you’d ever seen.

You couldn’t stop smiling.

When she kissed your cheek, her hand lingered at your back just a little too long.

When you sat down across from her, you couldn't stop staring.

This was dangerous.

But it felt like breathing.

Her Apartment Later, when she invited you up to her place—just to “talk,” obviously—it was less intense than Paris. Softer. More curious. More hers.

She showed you her music playlist. You laughed at her kitchen magnet collection. She made you tea she didn’t actually know how to make.

And when you kissed on her couch, it wasn’t desperate. It was careful. Lingering. Her thumb brushing your cheek. Your hands curling into her oversized Barça hoodie, the one she’d insisted you borrow “just in case.”

“I still don’t know what this is,” you murmured later, curled into her side.

“I don’t either,” she said softly. “But I want to find out.”

Back at Chelsea You didn’t think you were being obvious when you returned.

You wore your hoodie up. You kept your phone face-down. You didn’t smile that much.

But Keira and Lucy? Bloodhounds.

“So,” Keira said casually at lunch. “Enjoy your downtime?”

You sipped your smoothie. “Yeah.”

Lucy leaned her chin on her hand. “Anyone special involved in that ‘downtime’? Anyone who, I don’t know… wears number 14 for Barça?”

You nearly choked.

Keira’s mouth dropped open. “NO WAY.”

Lucy actually squealed. “You did!”

You buried your face in your hands.

“We’re doomed,” you muttered. “I’m doomed.”

They high-fived.

“Welcome to hell,” Keira whispered gleefully. “We live for this drama.”

It started quietly.

After all the sneaking around��gala nights, hotel kisses, silent hallway exits, and nervous glances—it only made sense that going official would be… subtle.

But of course, nothing with you and Aitana had ever stayed quiet for long.

The first to know were your teams.

On Barça’s side, Aitana sat next to Alexia on the team bus one morning, earbuds in but not playing music.

Alexia noticed right away. “You’re twitchy,” she said, not unkindly.

Aitana hesitated.

Then: “I’m seeing someone.”

Alexia smiled knowingly. “Yeah?”

A beat.

Aitana lowered her voice. “It’s… her. From Chelsea.”

Alexia turned slowly.

“Aggie’s sister?”

Aitana nodded.

Alexia’s face went through shock, surprise, amusement—and then approval. “God, I was wondering how long it would take before that tension exploded.”

Salma overheard. She cackled.

Meanwhile, you told Aggie first.

Properly, this time.

Sitting beside her in your shared flat, scrolling through a reel of Aitana’s recent game clips.

“She makes you happy?” Aggie asked, arms crossed.

“Yeah,” you said without hesitation. “More than I expected. More than I thought was possible with her.”

Aggie leaned back. “Fine. But if she hurts you, I’m fouling her next time. Elbow to the ribs. No regrets.”

You grinned. “Deal.”

Lucy and Keira were next. Their reaction? More dramatic.

They screamed.

They dragged you to brunch and demanded every detail.

“We’re helping you hard launch,” Lucy declared. “This deserves strategy.”

It happened three weeks later.

Barça had a weekend off. Chelsea did too.

You both met up in Ibiza—discreetly at first, until it wasn’t.

Because Aitana posted the photo.

No caption. Just a beach snapshot.

You were sitting on the sand, wearing her hoodie again. She had her chin on your shoulder. The sunset behind you both made everything golden.

You weren’t kissing.

But her hand was resting on your thigh.

It was intimate.

Undeniable.

Instagram exploded.

Thousands of comments in minutes.

Alexia dropped fire emojis. Keira commented “FINALLY” in all caps. Aggie just posted a gif of someone putting on sunglasses and looking away dramatically.

You didn’t even need to post your own picture.

You just reposted hers on your story with a single emoji: 💕

You were lying on a rooftop lounger together, soft music playing. Her arm draped across your waist, your phone buzzing endlessly with notifications you refused to check.

“Now the world knows,” she whispered.

You turned to her, brushing hair from her face. “Let them.”

Aitana smiled—and this time, it wasn’t sharp or teasing or competitive.

It was soft. Real.

“You still think I’m the enemy?” she teased.

You leaned in, kissing her gently.

“Not anymore.”

[ouiouibaguettt]

Under The Lights

YN -> your name

2,5k of words!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

request from @liverpoolfan96

Hear is Jana one Jana and reader both play for Barcelona and she aitana younger sister and are Together but scared to tell aitana but do after Chelsea second leg has celebrate and kiss on pitch

Being Aitana Bonmatí’s little sister was a blessing. And a curse.

People always smiled the same way when they saw you in the Barça kit. "You’re her sister?" they’d ask, as if your name came second to your bloodline. As if everything you did had to pass through the filter of who she was—midfield maestro, Ballon d’Or winner, club icon.

You didn’t resent her. Not for a second. Aitana was brilliant, and she loved you more than anything. But she was intense. Fiercely loyal, brutally honest, and protective in ways that were both sweet and, at times, impossible.

Which is exactly why you hadn’t told her about Jana.

It had started slow. A few extra touches during rondos. A shared laugh on the bench. Then came the lingering glances after training, the late-night texts, the excuses to sit next to each other on team flights. Eventually, Jana kissed you in the locker room after a late recovery session, when the rest of the team had already gone home.

You kissed her back. Hard.

The secrecy wasn't because you were ashamed—it was because of Aitana. You knew how she’d react. Not because she didn’t like Jana. She adored her. Had practically helped bring her into the first team. But she would scrutinize everything. The age gap. The power dynamics. The effect on the squad. On you.

So you and Jana agreed to keep it quiet.

But hiding something like that—something so real—was like holding your breath in a game that never stopped.

April 19 – Champions League Semi-Final, First Leg at Stamford Bridge

You could barely hear the whistle over the roar of the English crowd.

The first leg against Chelsea was always going to be a battle, but nobody had expected Barça to come out that dominant. By halftime, you were up 3–1. Ewa had scored a screamer. claudia with a first one and Irene.

You sat on the bench in the first half, nerves coiling in your stomach. You weren’t in the starting XI often, not yet. But Coach Pere trusted you more and more each week.

“Warm up,” he said midway through the second half.

Your heart skipped.

You jogged down the touchline, glancing at the pitch. Jana caught your eye. Just a second. A small nod. That was all it took to steady your pulse.

You subbed in for Keira with fifteen minutes left. A tactical switch—more speed, more pressure. You chased down a ball from Patri, danced past a tackle from Erin Cuthbert, and squared it to Claudia for the fourth goal.

4–1.

The away end exploded.

You ran toward the bench, arms wide, but your eyes went to the one person who mattered. Jana met you halfway, throwing her arms around you in a hug that lingered just a second too long to be “just teammates.” You pulled away quickly. Cameras were everywhere. And Aitana was watching.

Back in the locker room, the atmosphere buzzed. Music. Laughter. Shouts in Catalan and Spanish. Jana stood a few feet away, pretending to scroll her phone. You drifted close enough to brush your pinky finger against hers.

“I’m proud of you,” she said quietly.

You smiled. “Back at you.”

You stayed late to do recovery. Jana, too. You were careful. Always careful. You left ten minutes apart. But still, you shared the same hotel room later that night. And when the door shut, you kissed her like the match was still going.

“Four–one,” she whispered against your lips. “Maybe we should celebrate like this every time.”

You laughed, breathless. “If it gets us to the final? I’ll take that deal.”

But beneath the jokes, a quiet truth tugged at your chest: you were falling in love.

And at some point, you were going to have to stop hiding it.

Three days after Stamford Bridge, the high still hadn’t worn off.

Everyone at the Ciutat Esportiva was smiling. Journalists called it a “masterclass.” Analysts couldn’t stop praising your assist. And the locker room felt electric. One step closer to the final.

But you barely noticed the headlines. Your mind was on Jana.

And on Aitana.

She had been quiet since London—quieter than usual, even for her. Something simmered beneath her sharp glances and half-finished sentences. You caught her watching you in training. Watching Jana, too.

You weren’t sure if she knew. But she felt something.

In the gym, you lay on a mat doing post-training stretches when she dropped down beside you.

“You played well,” she said, finally.

“Thanks.” You kept your tone casual. “You too.”

She nodded. “Ingrid said you’ve been staying late for recovery sessions a lot.”

Your heart jumped. “Yeah. I’m trying to be more consistent.”

She gave a soft hum. “With Jana?”

There it was. Not a question. A quiet challenge.

You looked over—but her eyes were on the ceiling.

“She’s a good influence,” you said, carefully. “She pushes me.”

Aitana’s brow tightened for a second. She sat up, wiping sweat from her forehead. “Be careful,” she said, standing.

You blinked. “Of what?”

“Of confusing things that feel good with things that are good.”

Then she walked away.

You sat in stunned silence.

That night, you told Jana everything—about the conversation, about the way Aitana had looked at you.

“She knows,” you said.

Jana exhaled slowly, hands tightening on her water bottle. “Do you think she’ll say something to the coaches?”

You shook your head. “No. Not unless she thinks I’m losing focus. But she doesn’t approve.”

“I figured that would happen eventually,” Jana said quietly.

You leaned into her shoulder. “I’m tired of hiding.”

Jana stayed quiet for a long time.

Then: “What if we didn’t anymore?”

You looked up.

“What if we didn’t hide?” she asked, voice soft but steady. “What if, after the next match… we stopped pretending?”

You hesitated. “In front of everyone? On the pitch?”

“Yes.”

It sounded reckless. Risky. But something inside you lit up at the thought.

“We’d have to win,” you whispered.

“We will,” she said. “We’ll beat Chelsea. Then we’ll kiss under the lights, and let everyone else catch up.”

You smiled.

“Okay,” you said. “Let’s do it.”

April 27 – Match Day, Second Leg at Barcelona

The crowd roared from the first whistle.

The Estadi Olímpic was packed. Home soil. Home noise. Home pride.

Aitana led the team out with that fire in her eyes, the kind that made defenders flinch before the first touch. Jana ran beside her. You jogged out right behind them, your chest full of nerves and adrenaline and something that felt like fate.

The 4–1 advantage from the first leg didn’t mean comfort. It meant expectation. Chelsea played like they had nothing to lose.

But Barça was Barça.

Aitana scored first—an explosive burst down the left and a near-post finish. Then Ewa, with her usual grace, and Claudi made it 3–0 before the half.

You didn’t start, but you were warming up from the 55th minute. Coach nodded. You came in for Claudia in the 62nd.

It was 3–1 in the match now, but 6–2 on aggregate.

You pressed. You tackled. You fed Alexia a perfect through ball. And then, in the 90rd minute, Salma broke down the wing. You sprinted to the edge of the box.

She looked up—and there it was. That silent connection.

The cross came in. You hit it first time. Top corner. Net.

Goal.

8–2 on aggregate. Game over.

You screamed. You ran.

Straight to Jana.

And this time—you didn’t stop.

You wrapped your arms around her neck and kissed her, right there, under the floodlights, in front of the cameras, the crowd, and your sister.

Gasps rippled through the stands. Then cheers. Then roars.

Jana grinned against your lips. “Told you we’d win.”

You laughed. “Told you I’d stop hiding.”

Post-Match Locker Room

The music was loud. Players were shouting, dancing, spraying water like it was champagne.

Aitana sat in the corner, peeling off her socks. You approached slowly, heart thumping.

She looked up at you.

“You’re not subtle,” she said.

You winced. “I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I noticed.”

She stood. For a moment, you were ten again, about to be scolded for sneaking into her training sessions without permission.

But then her expression shifted.

“Is it serious?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She looked over your shoulder—at Jana.

Then back at you.

“She makes you better,” Aitana said. “On the pitch. That’s all I care about.”

Your eyes stung.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“But,” she added, smirking now, “if you break her heart, I’ll two-foot you in training.”

You laughed, relieved and full of something warm and old and familiar.

“Deal.”

The locker room emptied slowly after the win, but your head was still buzzing.

You had done it. Made it to the Champions League final. Scored in both legs. And kissed your girlfriend in front of the world.

The kiss was already trending online. Headlines flooded social media. “Bonmatí’s sister and Fernández seal victory—and their relationship—with a kiss.” Photos of you and Jana, arms tangled, bathed in stadium light, were everywhere.

And it didn’t feel scary anymore.

Back at the Team Hotel – 1:12 AM

You lay in bed next to Jana, still wearing your Barça hoodie, hair damp from a quick shower. She was scrolling through her phone beside you, glowing in the dim light of the screen.

“Everyone’s talking about it,” she murmured. “We broke the internet.”

You turned toward her. “Good. Let them talk.”

She smiled—soft and slow. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

“You dared me.”

“Half the team was crying. I think Patri yelled ‘finally!’ loud enough for London to hear.”

You laughed, then went quiet.

“I meant it,” you said. “No more hiding.”

She set her phone down and leaned over, brushing her lips against yours. The kiss was slower this time—quiet, private, full of everything that didn’t need to be said.

She pulled back just enough to speak.

“We should probably sleep.”

“Probably,” you whispered, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw.

But neither of you moved.

You kissed again, slower still, letting the adrenaline melt into something warmer, something safer. She cupped your cheek, her other hand slipping around your waist, grounding you. The match was over, but this—this—felt like the real victory.

You eventually drifted off in her arms, tangled in sheets and limbs, as the sound of celebration outside faded into silence.

The Next Morning

You found Aitana at the hotel breakfast bar, already halfway through a plate of fruit and eggs. She looked up, raised an eyebrow.

“Sleep well?”

You coughed into your coffee. “Fine.”

She smirked.

Jana slid in beside you, nodding respectfully. Aitana didn’t blink.

“You’re sitting with us now?” she asked Jana, still with that same dry tone.

Jana cleared her throat. “If that’s alright.”

Aitana looked between you, then speared a piece of pineapple with her fork.

“As long as she eats enough before training,” she said. “You’re not allowed to wear her out.”

You choked. Jana froze.

“Aitana!”

She grinned, unapologetic. “What? I’m just looking out for my teammate.”

Jana turned bright red. You buried your face in your hands.

It was chaotic. It was embarrassing. But it was love—the kind only family could offer.

Your parents had watched the match, of course. Everyone had.

They had seen the kiss.

You weren’t sure what to expect when your phone buzzed with Mama 💛 on the screen. Jana sat beside you on the couch in your apartment as you answered.

“Mama?” you said.

“Hola, estrella!” her voice rang, full of joy. “You scored! And that kiss, mi niña…”

You blinked. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad? For loving someone brave enough to kiss you on the pitch? Never. You looked so happy. And Jana? We like her. Your father said she has good footwork and good manners.”

You laughed, teary-eyed. “I love you.”

“We love you, too. Bring her home for dinner.”

You looked at Jana. She was biting her lip, trying not to smile too wide.

“She’d love to.”

Later, when the house was quiet and the city lights blinked through your window, you curled into bed with Jana again—only this time, no secrets clung to the dark.

She kissed the inside of your wrist, then your collarbone.

You breathed her name like a prayer.

She leaned over you, fingers tracing your skin like she was memorizing you, all over again. The rhythm between you was unhurried. Soft laughter. Quiet gasps. Sheets twisted around ankles. Skin against skin.

“Stay,” you whispered afterward, your forehead pressed to hers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she murmured.

And you believed her.

The apartment was dim and quiet, the city humming softly outside the window. You’d been quiet too—soaked in the kind of stillness that comes only after something seismic. After you change your life in one choice. One kiss.

You’d taken off your hoodie. Then your shirt. And now you were straddling Jana in the middle of your bed, knees pressed to either side of her hips, skin flushed warm from the weight of her gaze.

Her hands sat still on your thighs, reverent, like she was afraid to move too fast now that the world knew. Now that it was real.

“I can’t believe you kissed me,” she whispered, voice husky from celebration and emotion. “Right there, on the pitch.”

“I’ve been waiting to kiss you like that for months,” you said, brushing your fingers into her hair. “But I wanted to wait until I knew I could keep you.”

Her expression softened, and then she pulled you down, your lips catching hers with heat and certainty.

There was nothing gentle about the way her hands moved this time—sliding up your back, under your sports bra, fingers memorizing the way your breath caught. You leaned into her touch, hungry, teeth grazing her bottom lip before your mouths deepened the kiss.

Your hips rocked forward, and she groaned softly into your mouth.

“No more hiding,” you murmured into the kiss, pulling back just enough to strip off your bra, your chest bare now under the soft streetlight that spilled through the window.

Jana’s breath hitched. Her eyes roamed—slow and deliberate—like she wanted to remember this exact version of you for the rest of her life.

“You’re so—” she started, but stopped.

You kissed her before she could finish.

Her hands cupped your waist as she sat up, kissing down your neck, across your collarbone, down the curve of your chest—each press of her lips reverent, slow, as if worshipping not just your body, but what you gave her with it: trust, love, vulnerability.

You sighed her name when her mouth found the places you ached for.

Time blurred. Clothes disappeared. The heat between you grew unsteady, frenzied, sacred.

She whispered how much she loved you between every breath.

You answered with your hands, your mouth, your hips—every part of you learning the shape of her all over again, but this time without fear. This time with the doors open and your names out loud.

It was slow and then fast, gentle and then not, but it was always real.

You reached for her hand as everything inside you broke into starlight, her name falling from your lips like a secret no longer needing to be kept.

Later, breathless and tangled in each other’s limbs, you rested your head on her chest, her heartbeat still quick beneath your ear.

“I’m scared,” you whispered, your voice raw. “Not of us—just… of how fast it’s going. How deep.”

Jana kissed your temple.

“I’m not scared,” she said softly. “Not anymore.”

She pulled the blanket over your shoulders, and with her arms tight around your waist, you fell asleep again—body warm, heart full, no secrets left between you and the one you loved.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Tackling the Hearts

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

5,7k of words! Hope that you will love it!!

request from @liverpoolfan96:

Aggie one but this time enemies to lovers reader plays for Barcelona first leg they got into and always commenting on each other instagram and in 1st leg had a fight players at to stop same second leg but in end after game second leg sorted it out and had a date and got together

The sun had just begun to dip behind the mountains as the first leg of the Champions League semi-finals approached. The atmosphere at Camp Nou was electric, buzzing with anticipation. Barcelona, led by their formidable goalkeeper YN, was facing off against Chelsea, and the stakes were higher than ever.

YN had always been competitive, driven by a desire to be the best, but there was something about Aggie Beever-Jones that made their rivalry more intense. The Chelsea forward was not only a force on the pitch but also a constant presence in YN's notifications. They had exchanged barbs on Instagram for weeks now—snarky comments, teasing memes, and the occasional underhanded dig. What started off as harmless fun quickly escalated into something far more personal.

On the field, the intensity of their rivalry reached a boiling point. Every tackle, every run, every pass felt like it carried more weight. YN’s eyes constantly flicked to Aggie, who was always close by, a cocky smile never far from her lips. The crowd roared as the match hit full swing. Barcelona’s players were moving with precision, working as a unit, and the energy was palpable.

It was clear that the semi-finals were the most intense challenge yet. But for YN and Aggie, it was more than just a game—it was about proving who was better. As the match neared its climax, YN found herself in a race to stop one of Aggie's dangerous runs. But just as Aggie reached the edge of the box, she took a harsh tackle from Barcelona's defense, leaving YN on the ground.

Frustration boiled over. YN shot up, glaring across the pitch at Aggie. The Chelsea player smirked, mouthing something that only fueled the fire. Without thinking, YN took a few steps toward her, fists clenched. "You think you can walk all over us?" YN’s voice was low and sharp.

"Maybe you’re just mad because you’re not as good as me," Aggie retorted, her voice dripping with condescension.

The taunts flew back and forth, and before long, the two were nose to nose, shouting over each other, pushing each other in a physical confrontation. It didn’t take long for their teammates to rush in.

Jana and Aitana, YN's best friends, were the first to intervene, standing between the two players. "Stop it!" Jana snapped, shoving both players back. "This is a game, not a personal vendetta!"

But the intensity of the moment was palpable. Chelsea players, including Lucy and Keira, rushed over, trying to separate them, their eyes full of disbelief and frustration.

“Both of you need to calm down,” Lucy said, her arms crossed and her tone firm.

Despite the scuffle, the match went on. The tension hung in the air like a storm cloud, but Barcelona pulled away with a dominant 4-1 victory. The final whistle blew, and while Barcelona celebrated the win, YN couldn’t shake the feeling that the altercation had done something more than just distract her.

The locker room was buzzing with excitement, but YN’s head was somewhere else. As her teammates laughed and joked about their impressive scoreline, YN’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, seeing a new comment from Aggie on one of her posts: a simple smirk emoji. It stung more than it should have.

Jana, noticing her quietness, raised an eyebrow. "You good?" she asked, as she threw on her shirt.

YN didn’t respond immediately. She stared at the screen of her phone. "She’s insufferable," YN muttered under her breath.

"I get it, but you need to let it go," Jana said softly. "We won the game, that’s what matters."

"I know," YN replied, trying to push the tension away. "But it's like she’s trying to get to me. It's not just the game, it’s everything—every comment, every match."

Aitana, who had been quietly lacing her boots, looked up with a knowing expression. "She's baiting you. Don’t take the bait. Focus on the next match. This is far from over."

As YN left the locker room, the weight of the first leg still lingered, but her teammates were right—there was more to come. The second leg was just around the corner, and Barcelona had the advantage with their 4-1 victory.

But as the bus ride to the hotel continued, all YN could think about was Aggie. How much longer would their rivalry last? And why, despite the animosity, did YN feel like there was something more there?

As the night settled in, YN found herself scrolling through her Instagram again, the same comment from Aggie staring back at her. Despite everything, there was a part of her that felt something other than irritation.

The second leg couldn’t come soon enough.

The second leg was set. Barcelona had an incredible 4-1 lead from the first match, but YN knew that Chelsea would come out strong. This wasn’t over. The tension had only escalated since the last time the two teams met, and YN could feel the heat of the rivalry burning through every practice, every comment on social media, and every glance on the pitch. Aggie was relentless. YN was equally so.

The match kicked off at Stamford Bridge, and it was clear that both teams were giving everything they had. The crowd was alive with energy as Barcelona and Chelsea battled for control. Aggie and YN were once again glued to each other, every moment of the match felt like it was filled with bad blood. However, Barcelona’s offense was too strong for Chelsea to handle, and by the end of the match, Barcelona won 4-1 again, securing a resounding 8-2 aggregate score.

While the team celebrated, YN couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling of unfinished business. The rivalry with Aggie still burned inside her, and she knew deep down that she wasn’t done with it yet. It wasn’t just about the game—it was about everything. The frustration, the jabs, the way Aggie seemed to get under her skin in ways no one else could.

As YN walked back to the locker room, she could see the Chelsea players, including Aggie, moving toward the exit. Aitana, always perceptive, noticed YN’s eyes lingering on Aggie and approached her with a determined look.

“You’re not going to keep stewing about this, are you?” Aitana asked.

YN just shook her head, letting out a frustrated breath. “It’s not over. I need to talk to her. I can’t let this go.”

Aitana looked at her friend with a serious expression. “Then you need to apologize. This thing, this fight—it’s not you. It’s bigger than just the game. But if you want to fix this, you have to make the first move.”

YN hesitated for a moment, then nodded, knowing Aitana was right. “Okay. I’ll go.”

After a few minutes, Aitana led YN down the hallway toward the Chelsea locker room, where Aggie was talking to her teammates, clearly frustrated but holding her composure. It was then that Keira Walsh, who had been a quiet but steady presence in the chaos, stepped up and grabbed Aggie by the arm.

“You need to go,” Keira said quietly, but with a sense of authority. “It’s time for you two to talk.”

Aggie’s eyes widened in confusion, but before she could say anything, Keira was already pulling her along.

“What the hell—?” Aggie started, but Keira didn’t let her finish. She walked her right into a quiet corridor, where YN and Aitana were waiting.

Aitana threw YN a knowing glance, and YN stepped forward. “Aggie,” she began, her voice sincere. “Look, I know we’ve been at each other’s throats, and I’m sorry. I don’t want this rivalry to be personal anymore.”

Aggie took a deep breath, her face softening slightly. “I get it,” she said. “I don’t want to hate you, YN. I don’t want this either. But… damn, you’ve made me want to kick your ass every single time we play.”

A small laugh escaped YN’s lips at that, but the tension was still palpable. They were both on edge, but there was something softer now, something real between them that neither could deny.

Before either of them could say anything else, Keira suddenly clapped her hands, a mischievous grin on her face. “Alright, girls, you’ve had your talk,” she said, practically dragging both of them towards the supply closet down the hallway. “Time to make sure you don’t run off and keep fighting.”

“What the hell are you doing?!” YN exclaimed, eyes wide as Keira pushed them both into the small, dimly lit room.

“Just talk it out. No distractions,” Keira said, as she closed the door behind them with a wicked grin. “You two clearly need to sort things out. No one leaves until you do.”

Before either could protest, the sound of footsteps faded away. They were alone.

For a moment, it was quiet. Both players stood there in silence, the weight of the situation suddenly hitting them. YN and Aggie, trapped in a small space, surrounded by cleaning supplies and boxes. They were close—too close—and neither was sure how to break the silence.

“You know this is ridiculous, right?” YN said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Aggie sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah. It’s kind of embarrassing, to be honest. I don’t even know what we’re doing anymore.”

“Yeah, me neither,” YN admitted, shaking her head.

They were both standing a little too close, the air charged with tension that wasn’t quite as angry as it was before, but still thick with something neither of them could name.

“You think this is stupid?” Aggie asked, voice quiet. She was looking at YN now, something unspoken between them.

YN nodded slowly, her breath caught in her throat. “Yeah. But it’s hard to ignore when you’re constantly… in my face.”

The words hung between them, but there was something different in the air now. Instead of the biting insults, there was a strange understanding. Their rivalry had always been more than competition. Now, it felt like it was shifting into something they couldn’t control.

Before YN could say anything more, Aggie leaned in, closing the space between them with an intensity that took YN by surprise. The kiss came quickly—suddenly—but neither of them pulled back. It was raw, heated, and for the first time, it felt like the rivalry had finally found an outlet.

In the small supply closet, what started as a confrontation turned into a kiss neither could deny.

And just like that, the line between enemies and lovers blurred.

The small, dimly lit supply closet was silent except for the quiet breaths of both players. Aggie and YN, still close enough that their lips could practically taste the words they hadn’t yet spoken, were breathing heavily, their hearts racing. The kiss, sudden but inevitable, seemed to have no end in sight. It was as though they had been waiting for this moment all along, hiding behind a rivalry that had kept them apart for too long.

YN's hand found its way to Aggie's neck, pulling her in closer, feeling the heat of their bodies clash in a way neither of them had expected. Aggie, just as lost in the moment, slid her hands around YN's waist, tugging her even closer. The world outside of the closet seemed to disappear as their bodies and lips spoke a language neither of them had prepared for. The competitive edge they had built up between them for years slowly melted away, replaced by an undeniable pull.

They didn’t know how much time had passed, but every moment felt like it had been building up for an eternity. YN could feel the way Aggie's hands moved with a gentle urgency, and it was as if they were both finally letting go of everything that had kept them apart.

However, Aitana and Keira were just outside, leaning against the door, their eyes wide in amusement. They had initially intended to give the two players time to "discuss" their differences, but seeing how heated things were getting, they exchanged knowing looks.

"You think they're really talking it out?" Aitana whispered, grinning. Keira raised an eyebrow, folding her arms.

"I think they've said everything they need to say already," Keira replied with a smirk. "But let's make sure they don’t lock themselves in here forever."

Without another word, Keira gave the door a soft push. It creaked open, revealing the two footballers tangled in a passionate kiss. Aggie’s hands were buried in YN's hair, and YN was pressed so close to Aggie that it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

Aitana stifled a laugh, and Keira’s eyes widened, both of them clearly surprised but not entirely shocked. They’d known the tension between YN and Aggie had been simmering, but this? This was more than they had bargained for.

“Uhm… well, this is definitely… not what we expected,” Keira said, her voice breaking the charged silence.

Both Aggie and YN froze, their eyes snapping open in simultaneous shock. Their faces flushed with embarrassment as they quickly pulled away, standing awkwardly, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

“What the hell, Keira?” Aggie managed to say, her voice low but tinged with something else now. “What are you doing?”

“We were just checking if you two were ‘discussing,’” Keira responded, her voice teasing but with an undertone of amusement. Aitana, still grinning, nudged her friend.

“You know, I think they were discussing a lot more than just football,” Aitana said with a sly wink.

YN couldn’t help but laugh awkwardly, running a hand through her hair. “I… uh, we were just… well, it’s complicated.”

“You think?” Keira teased, smirking as she stepped back and opened the door fully, ushering both of them out into the hallway.

“I didn’t think we were going to walk in on that,” Aitana added, her laughter echoing as the tension in the room began to shift. The two players had gone from rivals to something else entirely, and the realization was still settling in.

Aggie and YN exchanged a glance, both of them smiling in spite of themselves. The heat between them was still present, but now, there was a new sense of understanding. No more fighting. No more competition. Just… whatever this was.

Keira, ever the instigator, looked at YN and Aggie with a knowing grin. “So, what’s next for you two?”

Aggie bit her lip, clearly still processing everything. “I think we’re going to need some time to figure it out. But I’m not going to lie… it’s definitely… different.”

YN nodded. “Yeah, a little too different for comfort.”

“But I think I’m okay with it,” Aggie said, her smile softening as she glanced at YN.

Aitana raised an eyebrow. “Well, as long as no one tries to kill each other next time you play, I think we’re all good.” Her teasing tone made the moment feel lighter, and YN chuckled, feeling the last of the tension between her and Aggie evaporate.

Keira smirked, clearly pleased with the turn of events. “I can’t believe we’re witnessing this. You two… from hating each other to this? What’s next?”

“We’ll figure it out,” YN said softly, her gaze lingering on Aggie. “One step at a time.”

Aitana gave them both a knowing look, her grin never faltering. “Good. Now go have that date, and no more hiding in supply closets, alright?”

As the group of players made their way out of the hallway, YN and Aggie lingered behind, still processing everything that had just happened. Their rivalry, their anger—it all seemed like a distant memory now, replaced by something new. Something neither of them had expected, but both of them couldn’t ignore.

And so, as the day ended, YN and Aggie found themselves walking side by side for the first time without animosity, without resentment. Whatever had started in that small supply closet had marked the beginning of something else entirely.

And neither of them could say what it was. But it was theirs.

The following evening, the chaos of the semifinals had calmed, but the whirlwind between YN and Aggie was far from over. The tension had shifted into something entirely new, and after what had happened in the supply closet, neither of them could pretend they weren’t intrigued by what was blossoming between them. What had once been fiery rivalry was now turning into something neither of them had anticipated.

YN sat in the lobby of her hotel, staring down at her phone in her hands. She’d managed to shake off the nerves, but they had returned the moment she received the text from Aggie earlier that day.

I’ll be at your hotel at 8. Be ready, no excuses.

A few hours later, she was standing in the lobby waiting, dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a loose top, but even in the simple outfit, she felt a rush of excitement—something was shifting in the air, and she was ready to see where it would take them.

She barely registered the sound of footsteps approaching until she heard a soft voice calling her name.

"YN."

Turning around, YN’s breath caught in her throat. Standing in front of her was Aggie, her blonde hair falling just right, her outfit more polished than usual but still effortlessly beautiful—she was wearing a sleek black dress, one that hugged her figure perfectly, paired with a leather jacket thrown over her shoulders.

"Hi," Aggie said softly, her voice warm. She smiled shyly, glancing at YN for a moment before looking down at her shoes, a rare moment of vulnerability flashing across her face. "You look… amazing."

YN grinned, feeling her own heart skip a beat. "You don’t look so bad yourself."

Aggie’s smile widened at that, and for a moment, it was as if everything outside of this moment didn’t matter. The last few days—the rivalry, the fight in the supply closet, the teasing from their teammates—it all seemed like distant memories. In front of YN now was a new Aggie, someone who was no longer a stranger, and yet, someone she was only beginning to understand.

"Ready?" Aggie asked, breaking the silence.

YN nodded, a little giddy but trying to play it cool. "Lead the way."

The two of them walked through the quiet streets of Barcelona as the sun dipped below the horizon, the city lights beginning to twinkle above them. The soft hum of the evening felt intimate, like the world had shrunk just for them.

Aggie led YN to a small, cozy restaurant tucked away on a side street. It wasn’t flashy or pretentious, but it had a warmth to it that made YN feel instantly at ease. It was a little Italian place, a nod to Aggie’s own heritage, and YN couldn’t help but feel a little touched that Aggie had chosen something so personal.

As they sat down at a small table in the corner, their conversation naturally flowed. They talked about their childhoods, what it was like growing up in different countries, and the struggles of balancing football with everything else in their lives. They shared laughs, small smiles, and even a few shy glances as their newfound connection began to bloom.

YN found herself relaxing into the date, feeling her walls come down. For once, there was no tension, no bitterness—just the warmth of a woman she was starting to see in a new light.

Aggie, on her part, was just as captivated by YN’s presence. Every time their eyes met, there was a certain energy between them, an understanding that they had been enemies for too long but were now something different. She was learning to appreciate YN in a way she never had before—away from the pitch, away from the competition.

"So," YN said, breaking the comfortable silence between them, "what happens now? I mean, after everything that’s happened… are we still pretending we hate each other?"

Aggie raised an eyebrow, leaning back in her chair, a playful smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I might be ready to start pretending I like you."

YN laughed, shaking her head. "You mean that?"

Aggie’s smirk softened, and for a brief moment, her eyes flickered with something deeper. "I think so. Honestly, I never thought I’d say it, but… I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad you’re here."

The sincerity in her voice caught YN off guard, and for the first time, she allowed herself to fully acknowledge the connection between them. The competitive edge, the rivalry, the fights—it all felt irrelevant now. In front of her was Aggie, a woman who, despite their differences, had shown her something new about herself.

"I’m glad too," YN murmured, her heart racing. She had no idea where this would go, but for once, she wasn’t afraid of it. "I never thought we’d end up here, but I’m glad we did."

Aggie smiled warmly at YN, her gaze lingering a little longer than usual. The air around them shifted again, and suddenly, the walls between them had crumbled entirely.

They spent the rest of the evening talking and laughing, enjoying the simplicity of being together. There was no pressure, no expectations—just the quiet comfort of two people finally allowing themselves to be vulnerable.

As the night came to a close, Aggie walked YN back to her hotel. They stood outside for a moment, the cool night air brushing against their skin.

"Well," YN said, trying to suppress a smile, "I guess this is goodnight then?"

Aggie nodded, a soft smile spreading across her face. "Yeah, I think it is."

And then, in an impulsive move, Aggie leaned in, pressing her lips gently to YN's cheek before pulling away, her cheeks flushed. "Thank you for tonight," she whispered.

YN, completely caught off guard, smiled softly, feeling a rush of warmth spread through her chest. "It was perfect."

As the cool night air surrounded them, Aggie turned to walk away, a slight smile still lingering on her face after the soft kiss to YN's cheek. But before she could take more than a few steps, she heard YN call her name.

"Aggie!" YN's voice was firm, but there was a vulnerability in it that made Aggie pause and turn around.

Aggie raised an eyebrow, wondering if something had shifted in the air once again. "Yeah?"

YN took a deep breath, her heart racing a little faster. She was suddenly aware of how much she had been holding back. The walls, the rivalry—everything that had kept them apart for so long—seemed so irrelevant now. She needed to take the plunge, needed to stop pretending that she wasn't feeling something real, something more than just competition.

Aggie looked at her, and for a moment, there was silence. Then YN took a step forward, closing the distance between them. Aggie's eyes widened slightly, but before she could speak, YN was right there in front of her, their gazes locking for a split second before YN moved in, their lips crashing together.

It was different this time—not tentative or shy, but full of the emotions they’d been hiding for so long. YN's hands found their way to Aggie's waist, pulling her closer, and Aggie responded with equal intensity, her arms winding around YN’s neck as they deepened the kiss. The world around them seemed to blur—there was no rivalry, no Chelsea and Barcelona, no fights or tension. Just them, the heat between them rising with every second, everything building to something they both knew they couldn’t deny.

The kiss was desperate, urgent, and it left both of them breathless when they finally broke apart, their foreheads resting against each other.

"God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long," YN muttered, still catching her breath.

Aggie laughed softly, her chest heaving with the same excitement. "You and me both."

She paused for a moment, looking into YN’s eyes with a look that was almost vulnerable, something she hadn’t shown before. "Are you sure about this?"

YN smiled, the uncertainty from before finally slipping away. "I’m sure."

Aggie chuckled softly, a glint of playfulness returning to her eyes. "Good. Because I’m not letting you go now."

Without another word, they kissed again, slower this time, savoring the closeness and the spark between them. It was no longer about proving something to each other—it was about this moment, the undeniable pull they shared.

As they pulled away again, this time lingering in the embrace, YN smiled softly.

"Stay," YN whispered.

Aggie hesitated for a brief moment but then nodded, her hands sliding up to cup YN's face as she leaned in for one more kiss before they continued walking into the hotel together, leaving the world outside to fade away.

The next morning, YN woke up with a soft smile on her face, still feeling the warmth of the previous night’s kiss lingering on her lips. She wasn’t sure what was happening between her and Aggie, but whatever it was, it felt right. She turned over to see Aggie still sound asleep beside her, her hair tousled and her breathing steady. YN couldn’t help but smile, her heart feeling light for the first time in a long while.

But that peace was quickly shattered by a loud, familiar knock on the door.

"YN! Time to wake up, we’ve got to go back to Barcelona!" Mapi’s voice rang through the door, followed by a few more knocks that were more insistent than necessary.

YN groaned, reluctantly pulling herself out of bed. The last thing she wanted was to deal with Mapi’s teasing—especially not when Aggie was still lying beside her. She glanced over at the bed, making sure Aggie was still asleep, then quietly tiptoed to the door to open it just a crack.

"Mapi, please… Give me five more minutes," YN mumbled, still half asleep.

Mapi, however, was having none of it. She pushed the door open wide, practically barging into the room. The instant her eyes landed on the bed, her eyes widened, and she stifled a laugh.

"Well, well, well," Mapi teased, her grin widening mischievously. "Look who’s been busy."

YN froze, her heart racing as she spun around to see Mapi standing in the doorway, a knowing smirk plastered across her face. She quickly turned back to Aggie, who was still snoozing peacefully, oblivious to Mapi’s intrusion.

"Mapi," YN hissed, her face flushed with embarrassment. "Not right now."

Mapi, however, wasn’t backing down. She leaned casually against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her chest as she watched YN squirm. "Oh no, I’m not going anywhere," Mapi teased. "I have to make sure this isn’t a dream."

"Seriously," YN groaned, her voice a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "You can’t just come barging in like this!"

"Oh, but I can," Mapi said, clearly enjoying herself. "You’ve been keeping secrets, YN. I thought you were the ‘good girl’ of the team."

YN sighed, her face now completely red. She really didn’t need Mapi digging into her right now, especially not with Aggie still in the bed. She gave Mapi an exaggerated look of frustration.

"Mapi, I swear to God, if you don’t get out, I’ll—"

But before YN could finish her threat, Mapi took one last look at the bed, raised an eyebrow, and walked out of the room, throwing a playful parting shot.

"Ingrid! Ingrid!" Mapi’s voice echoed down the hallway. "YN has a girl in her bed!"

YN’s eyes widened, and she sprinted toward the door, ready to shut it before Mapi could cause even more chaos. But of course, it was too late.

"Ingrid, you heard that right?" Mapi continued, her voice getting louder as she made her way down the hall. "YN's been hiding a girlfriend! Oh my God, this is so juicy! We have to talk about this later!"

By now, the entire Barcelona team had likely heard Mapi’s shouting, and YN could only imagine the teasing that was about to ensue. She quickly closed the door with an exaggerated sigh, locking it behind her.

Mapi’s voice rang out once more, this time in a playful shout from the hallway. "I’ll let everyone know what I saw—don’t worry, YN, I’ll make sure the whole team hears about your secret romance!"

YN groaned and walked back to the bed, where Aggie was still sleeping peacefully, completely oblivious to the storm that had just erupted outside the room. YN sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing her face in embarrassment.

"Great," she muttered. "Now the whole team’s going to know."

Aggie stirred in the bed, blinking her eyes open. She stretched and yawned, and when she finally saw YN’s flushed face, she raised an eyebrow.

"Everything okay?" Aggie asked, clearly still groggy from sleep.

"Well, Mapi just told the entire team that I’ve got a girl in my bed," YN replied, her voice filled with mock frustration.

Aggie’s lips curled into a grin. "Wait, what? That’s hilarious. You know, I think your team’s going to have a lot of questions for you now."

YN gave her a look, but then her face softened, and she leaned in to kiss Aggie on the forehead. "I don’t care what they think. But maybe we should get out of here before Mapi comes back with more gossip."

Aggie chuckled, then pulled YN closer. "Yeah, let’s do that. But after everything, I’m still glad we’re doing this."

YN smiled, her heart fluttering. "Me too."

As they got ready to leave the room, YN couldn’t help but feel a little grateful for Mapi’s teasing, even if it had been embarrassing. It had made the situation feel real, like everything between her and Aggie was no longer a secret.

And as they walked out of the hotel room, YN knew that whatever happened next, the Barcelona team—and probably the rest of the football world—was about to find out that YN wasn’t just a competitor on the pitch, but a woman in love.

YN stood at the entrance of the hotel, her team already gathered and ready to leave. The energy was mixed—some were excited for the upcoming games, others were already chatting about the next training session. YN, however, was distracted, her mind not entirely on the trip back to Barcelona. Her thoughts kept drifting back to Aggie.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Aggie standing at the door, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket. The sight made YN’s heart skip a beat. The whole situation felt surreal—less than a day ago, they’d been enemies, and now here they were, barely able to keep their hands off each other.

"YN," Mapi’s voice cut through the air, and YN turned to see her friend grinning widely, clearly ready to tease her more. "The team’s waiting."

"Yeah, I know," YN said, trying to keep the smile off her face. She took one more look at Aggie, who was still standing there, watching her with those soft, knowing eyes.

Just as YN turned to walk toward the bus, she felt a sudden hand on her arm, pulling her back.

"YN!" Aggie called out softly, her voice making YN’s stomach flip.

She stopped, turning slowly, only to find Aggie right in front of her. The world around them seemed to fade into the background as Aggie cupped YN’s face with both hands.

"I just wanted to say goodbye properly," Aggie said quietly, her eyes filled with a mixture of affection and something deeper, something more real than the rivalry they’d once shared.

Before YN could respond, Aggie leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss. It was slow, tender, and completely unbothered by the chaos happening around them. In that moment, nothing mattered but the two of them.

The kiss was soft, but it lingered, both of them savoring the moment before they had to part ways. YN’s heart raced, her hands finding their way to Aggie’s waist, pulling her closer. She felt the warmth of Aggie’s body against hers, the passion and sincerity of the kiss making her forget the world around them.

But as they finally pulled away, reality hit. The Barcelona team, who had been watching from the windows of the bus, erupted into loud, exaggerated whistles and cheers.

"Oh my God!" Ingrid shouted from inside the bus. "YN’s got herself a girlfriend!"

Mapi, standing nearby, grinned wickedly. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun to tease you about."

YN rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin that tugged at her lips. She glanced back at Aggie, who was now smirking, clearly enjoying the teasing from her side as much as YN was on hers.

"Well," Aggie said with a playful wink, "I guess this is it for now."

YN nodded, still grinning. "I’ll see you soon."

With one last lingering kiss on the cheek, Aggie stepped back, giving YN the space to climb onto the bus. As she did, the entire team inside greeted her with exaggerated gasps, winks, and even a few catcalls. The teasing was relentless, but YN didn’t mind one bit. She knew exactly what she wanted, and this moment felt like the beginning of something new.

As the bus doors closed, YN settled into her seat, her heart still racing. She caught sight of Mapi across the aisle, who shot her a knowing look.

"So, is that your girlfriend now?" Mapi asked with a smirk.

"Yes," YN answered confidently, not bothering to hide the smile on her face. "And I’m proud of it."

The team around her erupted into laughter and more teasing, but YN didn’t care. She was no longer the girl caught up in a rivalry—she was someone who had found something real, something worth fighting for.

As the bus pulled away from the hotel, heading toward the airport, YN looked out the window at Aggie one last time. Their eyes met, and Aggie gave her a little wave. YN smiled back, feeling a sense of peace she hadn’t expected to find.

This was just the beginning.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Fading Echoes

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

2,4k of words!!

I will do a part 2 i think, let me huys know!!

You always knew football was a business, but nothing prepares you for the moment you hear the words:

“We’re not renewing your contract.”

Just like that. No thank you for the crucial saves, no tears for the bruises on your ribs from diving headfirst into chaos week after week. No hesitation.

Just a clean, cold decision.

You stare at the glass of water on the table, not quite tasting the lump forming in your throat. Your agent looks furious, but you? You’re numb. Arsenal — your home for the past three years. The club that made you feel like you belonged. The place where you met her.

Lia.

You’d known this conversation was coming. The signs were there — fewer starts, more bench time, silent glances during training. But you told yourself it was just rotation. That Jonas still believed in you. That Lia's steady presence in your life could keep the storm at bay.

But now you’re out. Just like that.

Later that night, Lia is the one who finds you sitting alone in your apartment, your kit bag still by the door like you're waiting to go back.

She doesn’t speak right away. She doesn’t have to.

She just sits beside you, pulls your hand into hers, and breathes with you.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “You didn’t deserve this.”

You nod slowly, not trusting your voice. “I guess I’m disposable now.”

She squeezes your fingers, her eyes sharp. “Never to me.”

Barcelona signs you by the end of the week. You walk through the doors of a new training ground, bright sun overhead and red-and-blue all around you, but you feel hollow.

The team is warm. Patri and Mapi welcome you instantly. But every corner reminds you that this isn’t London. This isn’t Arsenal. This isn’t Lia.

Time zones suck. So do La Liga fixtures and Champions League flights and the silence when Lia doesn’t text back for six hours because she’s on the pitch or in recovery.

You still talk. FaceTime every night when you can. Send voice notes. Pictures of your cats.

But it’s not the same.

It’s not her hand in yours at the Emirates tunnel. Not her sneaking a kiss behind closed doors after a clean sheet. Not her stealing your hoodie and acting like she didn’t.

It’s loving her in fragments. And missing her in full.

The text comes at 10:04 PM on a Thursday.

Lia: Guess who just booked a flight. Weekend. Yours. No football. No excuses.

You stare at it, rereading it three times, blinking like she might disappear if you look too hard. It’s been nearly two months since you left London. Two months since you last touched her in anything other than a dream.

You send back a reply so fast your fingers cramp:

You: You better not be joking. I will riot in Catalan.

She sends a picture of her boarding pass, and just like that, you’re standing in your kitchen with a stupid grin and tears threatening to spill into your coffee.

Saturday. 4:17 PM. You’re pacing at the airport pickup, sunglasses hiding the part of you that’s fraying with anticipation. And then, there she is — Lia, wearing that oversized navy hoodie she stole from your drawer last year, wheeling the world’s tiniest suitcase and smiling like you put the sun in the sky.

You don’t even speak.

You just run.

She drops the handle of the case, arms wide, and you crash into her chest like muscle memory — like gravity. Her hand finds your waist, your fingers bury into her hair, and for a full minute, Barcelona could fall into the sea and you wouldn’t care.

“I missed you,” she whispers, forehead against yours.

“You have no idea,” you breathe.

Later, at your apartment The windows are open. There’s soft jazz playing from the kitchen speaker. You made pasta — her favorite. She teases your Spanish accent; you tease her pronunciation of calçots. She laughs more here, you notice. Her guard down. Shoulders loose.

When she finishes her plate, she props her chin on her hand and just looks at you.

“You seem tired,” she says softly.

You shrug, biting your cheek. “Barcelona’s beautiful. But it’s not home.”

She nods, slowly. “Not yet.”

A beat passes.

Then, quietly: “I miss watching you walk off the pitch into my arms. Miss kissing you, holding you.”

You reach for her hand across the table, squeezing it.

“I miss all of it.”

She stands first, walks around the table, and tugs you gently to your feet. Her arms wrap around your waist like she never wants to let go.

“Then don’t,” you whisper, pressing your face into her neck.

And when she tilts your chin up and kisses you — soft and warm and slow — it tastes like all the things you’ve missed and all the things you still have.

It’s matchday at Estadi Johan Cruyff, and you’re lacing up your boots in the locker room, trying not to check your phone for the fifth time in ten minutes.

But Mapi sees it. She always sees it.

“Still waiting for her to text she made it to the stands?” she teases in rapid Spanish.

You roll your eyes but fail to hide your smile. “She landed yesterday. I’m just making sure she’s not… lost in the crowd.”

“Mmhm,” Patri grins. “Or lost in your eyes, maybe.”

“You guys are unbearable,” you mutter, cheeks heating.

Pina throws an arm over your shoulder. “No, cariño, we’re supportive. Now go out there and impress your novia.”

That word — novia — always makes your heart skip.

The warmups fly by, but your eyes scan the crowd every few minutes. Then you spot her: fourth row, in your Barça jacket, sunglasses perched on her head, waving when you finally meet her eyes.

Lia Wälti, sitting front and center like she belongs here — and maybe, you think, she does.

You pretend you’re cool. You’re a professional, after all.

But then Irene bumps your shoulder and says with a wicked grin, “Careful, cariño. If you keep smiling like that, they’ll think you’re in love.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

The game is tight. You make two key saves in the first half, and the third one — a full-stretch dive that sends the ball rattling off the crossbar — gets the whole stadium on their feet.

You don’t look toward the stands, but you feel her. Somehow, you always do.

The final whistle blows. 2–0. Clean sheet.

As the team walks back toward the tunnel, Mapi slings an arm around your shoulder and leans in.

“She’s still watching you like you hung the moon.”

You bite your smile.

“She’s wrong,” you say, glancing over. “She’s the moon.”

Lia meets you by the security gate, just past the crowd. She doesn’t care about the cameras or the fans trying to get selfies with you both.

She just wraps her arms around your waist and murmurs into your ear, “You were amazing.”

You bury your face in her shoulder, sweaty and grinning.

“I’m glad you came,” you say. “Makes everything feel… normal again.”

She pulls back, brushing damp hair from your forehead.

“I’ll come back,” she says. “As many times as it takes.”

The sun is setting in Barcelona, painting the sky in watercolor streaks of coral and lavender as you and Lia sit tucked away on your balcony in the quiet Gràcia district.

Dinner was simple — tapas from the market, a bottle of Catalan wine half-empty between you, and a lemon tart she picked out just because “it reminded me of you — sweet and sharp.”

She’s curled beside you now, her head resting on your shoulder, bare feet brushing yours. There’s music playing low from your phone — a mellow acoustic playlist she made for you when you first moved.

“I hate goodbyes,” she murmurs.

You nod, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They’re starting to feel permanent.”

“They’re not,” she insists, fingers tracing slow, thoughtful lines on your forearm. “We’re not done. Just… stretched.”

You swallow hard, then shift so you’re facing her fully.

“Sometimes I worry it’s unfair,” you admit. “That I’m here, and you’re there, and we’re trying to build something with time zones and FaceTimes and… and missing each other.”

She lifts your chin, soft but certain.

“It’s only unfair if we let it be,” she says. “I’d rather miss you than not love you.”

You can’t help it — you kiss her.

It starts tender, but deepens quickly — all the unsaid words, the quiet ache, the longing tucked into every syllable neither of you could say. Her fingers find the back of your neck, your hands press into her waist, and when you finally pull apart, you’re breathless.

She smiles, leaning her forehead against yours.

“Tell me you’ll win something big,” she teases, “so I have an excuse to fly back before the season ends.”

You laugh softly. “I’ll win everything if it means seeing you sooner.”

“Cocky.”

“Confident.”

She brushes her thumb over your bottom lip. “I love you.”

It’s not the first time she’s said it. But it hits different tonight.

“I love you too.”

And then silence — not awkward or empty, but full of everything you’ve both said and everything you don’t need to say. Because tonight, you’re not a thousand miles apart. You’re here. Together. For a little while longer.

It starts with missed calls. Then rescheduled ones. Then silences that grow longer than either of you meant them to.

You’re in the middle of Champions League prep — training double sessions, film review, press. Your phone buzzes during dinner and you flip it face down, telling yourself you’ll answer later.

Later never comes.

Across the Channel, Lia is juggling the WSL grind and captaincy. Arsenal is in the title race again, and she’s leading with a clenched jaw and tired eyes.

You both say “I’m proud of you” more than “I miss you” these days — because pride is easier than grief.

One night, you get home past midnight. You’re soaked from post-match rain and your body aches. You kick off your boots, check your phone, and find a voice message from Lia.

Lia: I don’t know if you’re asleep. I hope you are. I just… I feel like I’m losing you in inches. Like we’re still us, but underwater. I miss your laugh. The one that sounds like it’s trying not to wake the neighbors. I miss your coffee. I miss knowing what your day looked like without having to ask. (beat) Do you still feel like we’re okay? Because I need to know if I’m holding on alone.

You sit on the edge of your bed, phone clutched in your hand, chest aching.

You don’t respond right away. You can’t. You’re not even sure what to say.

Because you love her. But love doesn’t stop your heart from aching when you fall asleep alone. It doesn’t stop the cold when she’s not in the stands. It doesn’t make it easier when everything you want is a country away.

And maybe that’s what scares you most — that love might not be enough this time.

The next morning, you record something. You try to sound composed. You try not to cry when you speak.

You: Lia… I’m not letting go. Even when it feels like we’re fraying at the edges, I’m still here. I promise. But I miss you so much it physically hurts. And I’m scared too. I’m scared of the silence. Of saying the wrong thing. Of saying nothing at all. I don’t know how to fix this. But I want to try — if you still do too.

You hit send and bury your face in your hands.

You’re both tired.

But tired hearts can still hold on — even when it feels like they’re breaking.

It’s late in Barcelona when the FaceTime finally connects. You’re curled up on your couch, knees tucked to your chest, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.

Lia looks tired — more than tired. Her hair is tied back messily, her eyes red like she’s been crying, or trying not to.

You offer a soft, “Hi.”

There’s silence.

And then she says it.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

Your heart drops.

“Lia…”

She shakes her head. “No, I need to say this. Because I feel like I’ve been pretending we’re okay when we’re not. I wake up without you. I go to bed without you. I spend my days thinking about when I’ll see you next, and it’s never soon enough. And then we talk and… and it’s not the same.”

You blink fast, words stuck in your throat.

“I’m tired of watching you on a screen,” she continues, voice shaking. “I’m tired of missing you after every win, every loss, every bad day. I’m starting to forget what it feels like to feel you. To hold you. I’m starting to forget what we were.”

The sentence lands like a knife.

You whisper, “Are you saying you don’t want to try anymore?”

“I—” she pauses. “I don’t know anymore.”

It’s like the air’s been sucked from your lungs. “So you’d rather end it than keep trying?”

She wipes her face with the back of her hand. “I’m saying I don’t want to keep hurting.”

You bite your trembling lip, swallowing the sob building in your chest.

“I’m hurting too,” you say, voice breaking. “But I’ve never stopped choosing you. Even when it was hard. Even now.”

Lia looks away, jaw clenched. “Maybe I’m the weak one then.”

“No,” you whisper. “Maybe you’re just scared.”

Her eyes finally meet yours. And for a split second, they soften — because she knows you’re right. But the damage has already started to crack through the glass between you.

“I need time,” she says. “I just… I need to figure out what this is doing to me. To us.”

You nod slowly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Take your time.”

But as the screen goes dark and you’re left with your own reflection, arms wrapped around your shaking frame, you can’t help but wonder if time will only take her further away.

[ouiouibaguettt]

life’s actually worth living

i’m sat sunbathing reading woso fics wow

what a dream

[ouiouibaguettt]

Amore e Pasta

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,7k of words! Sorry in advance for my italian lmao

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

The sea always smelled like memories.

Every summer, the coastal air carried that same blend of sun, salt, and the sharp scent of lemon trees. You'd grown up with that scent, with the hiss of olive oil in a hot pan, the laughter of families filling the cobblestone alleyways, and the soft buzz of cicadas under a golden sun.

This year, though, that air carried something else too—Alessia Russo.

She was here again. Just like every summer since you were kids. And just like every summer, your heart did that stupid little flip the second she stepped off the ferry with her duffel bag and impossibly soft smile.

She was still yours. Somehow. After all the years, the distance, the growing up.

Alessia Russo, half-English, half-Italian striker, and all heart — and somehow still in love with the local chef who used to burn pancakes at 10 years old but now ran the town's most adored trattoria.

This summer, though, was a bit different. She hadn’t come alone.

Behind her followed Beth Mead, Vivianne Miedema, Victoria Pelova, Leah Williamson, Lia Wälti, Steph Catley, and Kyra Cooney-Cross — all sweat-slicked and sun-kissed, dragging their suitcases down the stone road, muttering “it’s so hot” and “this is heaven” in alternating breaths.

Your mother was already hugging everyone at the gate. Her voice rang out: "Vai, Y/N! Vieni a salutare la tua fidanzata!" ("Go on, Y/N! Come say hi to your fiance!")

You blushed. Of course she had to say it like that. In front of literally every Arsenal player.

But Alessia just turned, wide smile, arms open. "Ciao, amore."

She still looked at you like she was sixteen and you’d just stolen her gelato and kissed her on the cheek to make up for it.

Later that night, your trattoria was alive with energy. The team sat at the long wooden table in the courtyard, passing around antipasti, sipping limoncello, dipping bread into your nonna’s recipe of olive oil and sea salt. You were in your element—commanding the kitchen with ease, every dish kissed with intention.

And every now and then, your eyes would flick to the table, where Alessia sat like she belonged there. Where she always had.

She caught your glance, holding it for just a second too long. Leah elbowed her, smirking. “God, you two are disgustingly in love,” she whispered. Alessia rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. “Yeah. I know.”

That night, as the stars settled above the ocean, you walked hand in hand through the sleepy streets of the village. The others were scattered—some back at their rented villa, others still nursing wine on your restaurant’s patio.

“You know,” Alessia said softly, her thumb brushing your knuckles, “I could stay here forever.”

“You say that every year,” you teased.

“I mean it this time.”

You stopped walking, turned to face her fully. Her hair was damp from the sea, her cheeks still pink from the sun, and her eyes—her eyes were home.

“I never stopped loving you, you know?” she whispered, her accent softening into something warm and familiar.

“I know,” you replied. “I didn’t either.”

She kissed you under the moonlight, in the middle of that cobblestone street, where the scent of lemon trees still lingered in the air.

You were hers. And she was yours. From gelato-stealing kids to grown women, with summer in your veins and love like wine — better with age.

The trattoria could survive without you for a few days.

At least that’s what your mamma promised — even if she made the Sign of the Cross when you handed over your apron and kissed her on the cheek. “Vai, vai,” she said with a smile. “Godersi la vita con la tua ragazza.” ("Go, go. Enjoy life with your girlfriend.")

And so you did.

You packed a small bag, threw a bottle of prosecco in the basket, and took Alessia by the hand like you always had — like you'd never stopped.

You drove out of town on that same winding road you used to take as teenagers, the one that curved along the cliffs and opened onto the hills of wildflowers and olive groves. Alessia sat in the passenger seat with her feet up on the dash, sunglasses too big for her face, hair tied in a lazy bun.

She hummed to the radio, completely off-key, and you could barely keep your eyes on the road.

You reached the cottage by late morning — a family friend’s place, rarely used, hidden among vineyards and fig trees. No phone signal. No schedule. Just time. Just the two of you.

You cooked together that first afternoon — or tried to. Alessia burned the bruschetta and dropped a tomato between the stove and the counter.

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, arms around her waist as you stood behind her, guiding her hands on the knife.

“You’re lucky I’m still hungry,” she shot back, bumping your hip with hers.

You kissed her temple.

Later, you ate under a trellis of grapevines, the dappled sunlight painting golden shapes on her bare shoulders. Wine stained your lips, but hers still tasted sweeter.

That night, with the windows open and the summer air still clinging to your skin, you lay tangled in the linen sheets, heartbeats slow, limbs bare.

Alessia leaned in, her voice hushed in the dark.

“Do you ever think about how lucky we are?”

You turned to her, brushing her cheek with the back of your fingers. “All the time.”

She smiled, then leaned closer — and kissed you like she meant it.

It was a slow kiss, not rushed, not desperate. A kiss that said I’m here. That said I never really left. A kiss that made your chest ache in the best way.

She pulled away, forehead resting on yours. “This. This is what I want. For good.”

You nodded, breath catching. “Then let’s make it forever.”

The next morning, she woke up to you standing on the balcony with a cup of espresso, the sun behind you, a sleepy smile on your face.

She joined you, arms slipping around your waist from behind.

“Chef Y/N,” she whispered into your neck, “I love you.”

You turned, kissed her softly, slowly.

“Ti amo, Alessia Russo.”

And in that moment, with nothing but cicadas and the scent of figs around you, it felt like the world had stopped just for you both.

The trattoria glowed that night.

Strung-up lights hung like fireflies above the stone courtyard, casting a soft golden haze over the worn wooden tables, the clay pots full of basil and lavender, and the red-checked tablecloths fluttering gently in the breeze. The scent of roasted garlic and fresh oregano floated through the air, wrapping around laughter and wine-fueled conversations like a familiar blanket.

And right at the heart of it all — the Arsenal girls.

Beth was already halfway through the bread basket. Viv was arguing (playfully) with Lia about the proper way to say “parmigiana.” Leah had stolen a bottle of limoncello from the kitchen. Victoria and Kyra were making a TikTok, much to Steph’s horror. It was loud, unfiltered, and undeniably warm.

Then you stepped out.

Apron tied tight around your waist, a clean dish towel slung over your shoulder, a teasing smirk already tugging at your lips. And the noise died just for a second — just long enough for Alessia’s eyes to find yours.

You’d been apart for less than a few hours, but it didn’t matter. The second she saw you, her smile softened. Her shoulders relaxed. Home.

“Buona serata, ladies,” you greeted, pen in hand. “Welcome back to my chaos.”

“Oh god,” Steph muttered, eyeing the menu. “I’ll take one of everything.”

“I’ll take the chef,” Alessia added, grinning as she leaned back in her chair.

You raised a brow. “That one’s not on the menu.”

“Pity,” she said, still holding your gaze.

You winked and started taking orders, scribbling down requests in a mix of Italian and English, throwing in little jokes and flourishes for the girls you now knew well. But when you reached Alessia, you just smiled softly, hand resting on her shoulder for a beat longer than necessary.

“Surprise me,” she whispered.

“Oh, I will,” you replied.

The dinner unfolded like something out of a dream. You moved between the kitchen and the tables like a well-rehearsed dance — plates of ricotta-stuffed zucchini flowers, slow-cooked ragu, hand-rolled pasta, and flaky sea bass garnished with lemon slices passed from your hands to theirs.

And then dessert came.

Except, this time, it was different.

You stepped out of the kitchen carrying a single plate. On it, a delicate panna cotta with a drizzle of berry coulis. Nestled beside it — a small velvet box.

Alessia blinked, her fork halfway to her mouth. “What’s…?”

Beth gasped. Viv’s jaw dropped. Leah grabbed Kyra’s arm like they were watching a live proposal on TV.

You walked straight to Alessia, setting the plate down in front of her. No big speech. No microphone. Just you, her, and the twinkling lights above.

“Surprise,” you said quietly.

Alessia looked at the box. Then at you.

“You didn’t,” she breathed.

You just smiled. “You said this was what you wanted. For good. So… let’s make it forever.”

Tears sprang to her eyes. She covered her mouth with one hand, then looked around at her teammates — all frozen in giddy anticipation, phones out, trying (and failing) to stay quiet.

Then she stood.

And she kissed you. Right there. In front of everyone. No hesitation. No filter. Just the kind of kiss that said yes a thousand different ways.

When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy, but her smile was unstoppable. “Of course it’s a yes, idiota.”

Cheers erupted. Wine glasses clinked. Beth was crying. Lia was crying. Even Viv looked emotional.

You slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly. Just like everything else about you and Alessia Russo.

The trattoria had never been this loud after closing.

Chairs had been pulled into loose circles on the patio. String lights overhead danced with the breeze. Empty wine bottles lined the walls like trophies. Someone had found a speaker, and a mix of English pop and old Italian classics bounced between the stone walls and the laughter of half-drunk footballers.

The sign on the door said “Chiuso per Festa Privata” — Closed for a Private Party — but that felt like an understatement.

This was your engagement party.

And it was perfect.

Inside, your mamma and Alessia’s parents were laughing over espresso and biscotti. Outside, Beth Mead had taken over DJ duties, pairing Eros Ramazzotti with Spice Girls. Vivianne was holding court with Lia and Victoria over a tiramisu that somehow kept regenerating from the kitchen. Steph was trying to teach Kyra how to dance to Italian folk music, failing miserably.

And in the middle of it all — Alessia, barefoot on the tiles, a glass of prosecco in hand, wearing a soft red summer dress and the diamond ring you’d placed on her finger the night before.

She was glowing. Not just from the wine or the fairy lights — but from joy.

Real, warm, overwhelming joy.

You stepped behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist. She leaned into you like it was second nature — like it had always been.

“Are you happy?” you murmured into her hair.

She hummed. “I’m in Italy. I’m engaged to the love of my life. There’s cake. I’d say I’m more than happy.”

“Even with Beth playing a techno remix of ‘Volare’?”

She laughed, head tipping back against your shoulder. “Especially because of that.”

Later, your mamma insisted on a toast.

Everyone gathered around, some perched on countertops, others squeezed onto benches, wine glasses or espresso cups raised. You stood beside Alessia, your hand never leaving hers.

“She has burned pasta in my kitchen,” your mamma began in Italian, “but she has never failed to love you with her whole heart.”

Alessia blushed. You translated quickly as your mamma went on, her voice soft and proud.

“She is sunshine, and you are fire. She is wild, and you are steady. You’ve been each other’s since you were bambini. And now, you will be each other’s… per sempre.”

A soft chorus of “awwws” and a few sniffles followed. You and Alessia clinked glasses, kissed — and the party picked right back up.

As midnight approached, Beth shouted, “Speech! Speech!” while clinking a spoon against a Prosecco flute.

You stood on one of the tables (against your better judgment), pulling Alessia up with you. Arms wrapped around each other, shoes long gone, you looked out at the people who’d made your world feel so full.

“I don’t know how to say all of this,” you started. “But I’ll try.”

You turned to Alessia.

“You’ve known every version of me. The shy one who wouldn’t speak to you at eight. The mess of a teenager who used to sneak you leftover cannoli. The young adult who stayed up at night dreaming of what this — us — could be again.”

You paused, voice catching just a little.

“And now I get to call you mine. Forever. I can’t wait to cook with you. Laugh with you. Grow old with you. Maybe burn some pasta with you, too.”

She kissed you before you could say more, the crowd cheering, glasses clinking, someone yelling “Ti amo!” from the back (probably Victoria).

That night, as the music faded and the stars settled over the hills, Alessia took your hand and whispered:

“Let’s never leave here.”

And you nodded, because for the first time in your life, you didn’t want to be anywhere else.

The trattoria was silent now.

The party had faded into memory — half-drunk wine glasses left on tables, confetti still caught between the cobblestones, the faintest scent of basil and lemon lingering in the morning air. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting golden streaks across the walls of the apartment above the restaurant, where the shutters were half open and the bedsheets were still warm with sleep.

Alessia stirred first.

Her hair was a soft mess across the pillow, her face still flushed with joy, her arm lazily draped across your bare waist. She blinked slowly, the world still quiet and hazy, and smiled before her eyes had even fully opened.

“Mmm,” she murmured, voice gravelly with sleep. “What time is it?”

You, lying beside her on your stomach, turned your head just enough to see the light spilling across the wooden floor.

“Early. Too early.”

She buried her face against your shoulder and sighed. “Let’s never get up again.”

You chuckled, rolling onto your side, your fingers tracing soft, sleepy lines across her ribs. “We have a trattoria to clean, remember?”

“Nope,” she replied, eyes still closed. “That’s a tomorrow problem.”

There was something so sacred about mornings like this — the kind where no alarms existed, where you could hear the birds waking up and the clink of a delivery truck down the road, but none of it reached you, not really.

Alessia opened her eyes fully now, locking into yours with a lazy grin.

“Hi, fiancée.”

You smirked. “Hi, future Mrs. Chef.”

She rolled her eyes, giggling, and then kissed you. Soft. Slow. Still tasting a little like prosecco and panna cotta. Her hand found your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye like she was memorizing the curve of your face all over again.

“I dreamt about you last night,” she whispered when she pulled back, her forehead against yours.

“Oh yeah?” you asked, voice still raspy.

“Mhm,” she said, kissing your jaw, “you were making pasta…”

You laughed, your body shaking gently beneath hers.

“Of course I was.”

“…in just an apron.”

You blinked. “Alessia!”

“What?” she said, all faux-innocence, kissing your shoulder now. “You looked very professional.”

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to playfully hit her with, but she caught your wrist midair and kissed your knuckles instead. Everything stilled again.

“Ti amo,” she whispered.

You didn’t rush the answer. You just looked at her, your everything, with a heart full of warmth and a future full of love, and replied:

“Ti amo anche io. Da sempre.”

I love you too. Always have.

Outside, the trattoria waited to be cleaned. The town slowly blinked awake. The world continued turning.

But in that quiet apartment, in your tangled bed of sun-drenched sheets and sleepy smiles, you and Alessia stayed exactly where you belonged:

Together.

Forever.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Rivals in the Paddock

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

4,12k of words!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

It was the kind of event where glamour, sport, and a bit of rivalry all blended together. The charity gala was buzzing, everyone dressed to the nines in tuxedos and floor-length gowns, sparkling glasses in hand, the hum of idle chatter filling the grand ballroom. You’d just finished a quick media appearance for Ferrari, shaking hands and posing for pictures, but you couldn’t get the gleam of the racetrack out of your mind.

The last thing you expected when you turned your head and spotted her was the infamous gleam of a green Aston Martin jacket. It wasn’t like you didn’t know Leah Williamson; her name was all over the media. But seeing her in person, looking every bit as stunning as she did in the tabloids, was a different story entirely.

She was leaning against the marble pillar, chatting animatedly with a few others, but the second she saw you, the conversation stopped. Her eyes—those dark, playful eyes—met yours from across the room, and you couldn’t help but smirk.

She was, without a doubt, one of Aston Martin’s most passionate fans. You knew that. But her unwavering loyalty to the team didn’t exactly put Ferrari in her good books.

"Well, if it isn’t the pride of Ferrari," Leah’s voice carried over, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. The casual challenge in her tone made it clear that she had no intention of letting the rivalry go, even in the midst of this glamorous charity event.

You raised an eyebrow, stepping toward her, your own playful smile forming. "And here I thought I’d find a fellow motorsport enthusiast who wasn’t determined to ruin my reputation."

Leah chuckled, crossing her arms with a glint of mischief. "I make no promises, Ferrari. Aston Martin all the way, you know that."

You laughed, not one to back down. "I’ve heard," you said, eyes scanning the room before locking back onto her. "But you know, you might find the view from the Ferrari garage a little more… impressive."

"Oh, I’m sure it’s lovely," Leah teased, taking a deliberate sip of her drink. "But nothing beats the roar of a real engine. Aston Martin's got that raw power you only dream about."

"You sure about that?" You leaned in a bit, just enough to make the conversation feel a little more intimate, the competition between you two simmering just beneath the surface. "It’s cute that you think your green machine can keep up."

She raised an eyebrow, unbothered. "I think we both know which car has the best chance of beating yours."

You couldn’t help but laugh, the flirtatious tension crackling in the air between you. The rivalry was always playful when you were face to face with her—intense, competitive, but with a spark that made it feel like the only race worth running was the one between you two.

Leah pushed off the pillar, stepping closer, as if daring you to disagree with her. "What’s the matter, Ferrari? Afraid to admit you might actually be a little… intimidated by a rival?"

"Intimidated?" You gave her a teasing look, pretending to be offended. "Please. I can barely hear Aston Martin’s engines over the sound of Ferrari’s perfection."

"Is that so?" she said with a smile that told you she was far from fazed. "Well, Ferrari’s perfection may just be a little outdated, don't you think?"

You shook your head, laughing softly. "Tell me you’re not talking about the 2022 season, because if you are, that’s a whole other conversation."

She rolled her eyes, but the teasing smile remained. "Okay, okay, you got me there. But don’t think for a second that I’m gonna start liking Ferrari any time soon."

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said, your smile turning a little softer, a little more sincere. “But you might find yourself rooting for us in the future. You never know.”

Leah paused for a moment, eyeing you carefully, her gaze turning just a touch warmer. "Maybe. But for now, I’m perfectly happy keeping my allegiance to Aston Martin. It’s a tradition, you know?"

“Tradition’s all well and good,” you responded, “but when your car crosses the finish line first, tradition might need to change.”

She chuckled, her eyes meeting yours, and for a split second, the competitive banter faded. There was something else in the air now, a subtle pull that wasn’t about the race track or your teams. You both knew it, but neither of you was ready to admit it out loud.

Leah shifted her stance, her voice a little quieter as she asked, “What if we both won one day?”

“Then,” you said, taking a small step closer, “we’d have a hell of a celebration.”

Leah grinned, clearly enjoying the tension, but there was a hint of something else in her expression—a curiosity, maybe even something deeper. "Maybe we should start planning for that celebration now, then.”

You laughed, but the smile you gave her was genuine, something that had nothing to do with your teams, your cars, or the competition. It was just… you and her, in that moment, standing side by side, rivals in the paddock, but something more when the race ended.

The weekend of the Silverstone Grand Prix arrived, and with it, the high-octane buzz of home race energy. The entire paddock was alive with excitement—especially for you, as this was the race you considered home, the track that always held a little extra magic. Silverstone wasn’t just a race; it was a chance to show your fans and the home crowd just how well you could perform when the pressure was on.

Leah had been invited to the race by none other than her Arsenal teammates, who were clearly eager to see her at the most prestigious motorsport event in the country. Despite her loyalty to Aston Martin, Leah was never one to shy away from enjoying the spectacle, especially when she knew it meant spending time with you—though she’d never openly admit it.

You were doing your usual pre-race routine, getting yourself in the zone in the Ferrari garage, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that the day would be different. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the fact that Silverstone felt more personal, but as soon as you saw her across the paddock, the energy shifted.

Leah was with her teammates, laughing, taking photos, and enjoying the pre-race festivities, but she was unmistakably still Leah—competitive and unapologetically Aston Martin through and through. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop noticing how she seemed to gravitate toward your pit area, her eyes flicking between your Ferrari car and the crowd around her.

After a few moments, Leah finally broke away from her group, making her way toward you. The teasing glint in her eyes was still there, but now, there was something else—something more open, more genuine, even as she made sure to give you a smirk.

“Hope you’re ready to lose in front of your home crowd,” she teased, her voice light but confident. She was dressed casually, but you could still see that spark of determination in her posture.

“Oh, I’m ready,” you said, your smile never wavering as you leaned against the Ferrari car. “But you might want to reconsider your expectations. This track’s got my name all over it.”

Leah raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “We’ll see about that. You know, it’s not the Ferrari I’m worried about; it’s you. I’ve seen how you handle pressure, and I’m not sure you can handle the weight of a home win.”

“Oh, I can handle it,” you replied, taking a slow step toward her. “I’m more worried about you, with your loyalty to Aston Martin. Gotta keep that rivalry alive, don’t we?”

Leah chuckled softly, not backing down. “As long as you don’t get too cocky when you’re in the back of the grid, I’ll let you enjoy your moment of glory. For now.”

You could see the flicker of something in her eyes, a challenge wrapped in playfulness. There was always this teasing, flirtatious energy between the two of you that neither of you seemed willing to let go of. It wasn’t just about the rivalry anymore, not entirely. But neither of you was ready to admit that yet.

“You’re lucky I’m not distracted by the fact that I might have a beautiful woman rooting for me today,” you said, leaning in just enough to make your words linger in the air. The moment between you both was just a touch too intimate, and Leah’s playful smirk faltered for half a second before she regained her composure.

“Well, I don’t know about beautiful,” Leah responded, her voice quieter now, a little warmer. She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a teasing whisper. “But I can’t say it wouldn’t be fun to see you try and beat Aston Martin today.”

You leaned in just a little bit closer, feeling the hum of the track in your veins. “I think you’ll be impressed with what Ferrari can do. Don’t worry. I’ll put on a show just for you.”

She smiled, her eyes holding a flicker of something deeper now, but she pulled back with a sly grin, clearly not ready to let down her guard. “You better. I’m not an easy audience to impress.”

With that, she gave you one last lingering glance before rejoining her teammates. You watched her walk away, a knot of anticipation settling in your chest. You were about to go head-to-head with Aston Martin, and there was a fire inside you to win—not just for the victory, but to prove to Leah that this rivalry was something more than just competition.

The race itself was a blur of speed, strategy, and nail-biting moments. As the laps flew by, you kept your eyes on the prize: Silverstone, your home track. The energy from the crowd was electric, cheering you on as the Ferrari team executed flawless pit stops. You could feel the pressure mounting with every turn, every challenge thrown at you by the other drivers, but you were focused, determined to make this your moment.

With just a few laps left, you were neck-and-neck with Aston Martin—Leah’s beloved team. The tension in the air was thick as you took the final stretch. Your heart pounded in your chest, and the roar of the crowd around you only intensified your concentration.

You pushed yourself harder, feeling every shift of the car as you fought for the lead. When the checkered flag waved, it was your name that echoed through the loudspeakers. Ferrari had done it—you’d won your home race at Silverstone.

The celebrations were wild. The Ferrari team was over the moon, and you could barely hear yourself think over the cheers, but you knew exactly where to look: Leah.

She was there, standing just outside the Ferrari pit, hands on her hips, a huge grin on her face as she clapped. Despite her allegiance to Aston Martin, there was no hiding her pride for you—something that only deepened the connection between you both.

You made your way over to her, still buzzing from the adrenaline. “Well, looks like I didn’t disappoint,” you said, breathless but with that same playful grin you’d had all day.

Leah looked you up and down, her smile softening a little as she took a step toward you. “You were brilliant,” she admitted, her voice filled with something that wasn’t just about the race. “You earned this one.”

You leaned in, the moment between you feeling more charged than before. “And I had a great cheerleader.”

Her eyes met yours, soft and steady. “You’re making it hard to stay loyal to Aston Martin.”

You chuckled, brushing a hand through your hair. “Maybe it’s time you switched teams.”

She smiled, shaking her head. “Maybe… but not today. Today, I’ll just enjoy watching you celebrate.”

You grinned, taking her hand in yours for a brief, intimate moment. “Maybe next time, you’ll be cheering for me all the way to the top.”

Leah squeezed your hand, her gaze lingering on you just a little longer than necessary. “Maybe. But for now, I’ll just enjoy this victory of yours.” She gave you a teasing wink. “Enjoy it while it lasts, Ferrari.”

You laughed, heart racing in a completely different way now. “Oh, don’t worry. I plan to.”

The Silverstone victory was a distant memory now, but the stress of the next race loomed heavily. Ferrari had faced a brutal battle on the track in the days that followed—strategy errors, pit stop misfires, and mechanical failures had cost you valuable points. The pressure of being the home favorite, of being expected to perform, had begun to wear on you. The familiar sounds of the garage had been replaced by the haunting silence of the hotel room, and all you could hear was the weight of your own thoughts.

You stared out of the window, the city lights flickering in the distance, trying to calm your racing mind. Every mistake, every missed opportunity from the race felt like it was on replay, echoing through your head. You couldn’t shake the feeling of disappointment. You’d let down Ferrari, your team, and most of all, yourself.

A knock on the door broke your focus, and you instinctively looked at the clock. It was late—too late for anyone but your team or, possibly, Leah.

You stood up and made your way to the door, heart skipping a beat when you saw her standing there. Leah was dressed casually, wearing a soft sweater and jeans, her eyes soft but concerned. The usual teasing energy between you both was gone, replaced by a more sincere warmth.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low and gentle. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, stepping aside to let her in. The door closed behind her with a soft click, and you watched as she slowly made her way across the room, her eyes scanning the space before finally landing on you.

“You doing okay?” Leah asked, her voice calm but filled with concern. She was always good at reading people, and right now, she could see the weight of the race had hit you hard.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, running a hand through your hair in frustration. “I just… feel like I could’ve done better. We could’ve done better.”

Leah crossed the room and stopped in front of you, close enough for you to feel her presence but not invading your space. Her gaze softened as she reached up to gently take your hands in hers, squeezing them reassuringly.

“You’re allowed to be frustrated,” she said, her tone steady and soothing. “You care. That’s why it hurts. But you’re also allowed to take a breath and know that you can’t control everything. You’ve given your best. That’s all anyone can ask for.”

You looked down at her hands, feeling the warmth of her touch, and her words settled in your chest, wrapping around your heart like a lifeline. The room was still, the world outside fading into nothingness as Leah stood there, anchoring you in the moment.

“I just… I want to do better,” you whispered, the weight of it all finally catching up to you. “I want to make it right.”

“You will,” Leah said firmly, her voice a quiet promise. “You’re going to learn from this, and you’ll come back stronger. But you need to give yourself a little grace, okay? No one’s perfect.”

You nodded slowly, the tension in your shoulders easing just a little. Her presence had always had this calming effect on you, even when you were on opposite sides of the paddock, competing like crazy. But tonight, it felt different. Tonight, Leah wasn’t just a rival. She was someone who understood—someone who, despite all the competition, was here for you, in this moment, to help you find your footing again.

You took a deep breath, finally meeting her gaze again. “How do you do it?” you asked softly, your voice catching a little. “How do you stay so calm, so centered?”

Leah’s eyes softened further, and she stepped just a little closer, her hand gently brushing against your arm in a way that felt more intimate than anything before. “I don’t know if I stay calm all the time,” she admitted with a small smile, “but I try to remember that, at the end of the day, it’s not about being perfect. It’s about learning, growing, and still loving what you do—even when it’s hard.”

Her words, so simple yet so powerful, hit you right in the chest. You were used to pushing yourself, striving for perfection, but maybe, just maybe, Leah was right. You didn’t have to have all the answers tonight. You didn’t have to win every race.

For the first time in a while, you felt the urge to let go. To surrender, if only for a moment, to the warmth and comfort Leah offered.

Without thinking, you reached for her, pulling her gently closer. There was no rivalry now, no competition. Just the two of you, standing in the quiet of the hotel room, the silence filled with everything unspoken.

Leah’s breath caught when she realized what you were doing, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let you guide her, her gaze softening as you closed the space between you. Your heart was pounding in your chest, the moment stretched taut with anticipation, and then—finally—her lips met yours.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, like two people testing the waters after a long time of careful distance. But once your lips touched, it felt like everything that had been held back finally came pouring through. There was no rivalry in this kiss, no teasing, no games. Just a shared understanding, an unspoken connection.

You deepened the kiss slowly, your hands moving to her back, pulling her closer as Leah responded with equal fervor. The world outside faded even further as you lost yourself in the warmth of her touch and the sensation of her lips against yours. It was a kiss that spoke of more than just the competition between you two—it spoke of trust, of vulnerability, and something you couldn’t quite name yet, but that you knew was real.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other as you caught your breath. Leah’s eyes were still closed, but she was smiling softly, a smile that said everything without words.

“Is this a Ferrari move?” she teased gently, her voice hushed but playful.

You laughed, pressing your forehead to hers, “Maybe. But I think we’ll just call it a winning move.”

Leah chuckled, her fingers lightly brushing your cheek. “I think I can get behind that.”

And for the first time in days, you finally felt at peace. With the race behind you, and with Leah here, there was no pressure, no expectations—just the two of you, together, in this moment.

The season had been a rollercoaster—tensions, rivalries, moments of doubt—but now, as the final race of the year loomed on the horizon, all that mattered was the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. It wasn’t just any race; it was the race. The one that would determine the champion, the one where the pressure reached its peak.

Ferrari was ready. You were ready. But more than that, this race felt like it was the culmination of everything you had fought for—not just for the team, but for yourself. The highs, the lows, the mistakes, and the triumphs had all led to this one final challenge. And you were going to give it everything.

The weekend had gone smoothly, with a flawless performance in qualifying and an intense focus on the final setup. The pressure was palpable, but there was something different in the air now. Something deeper. You were no longer just focused on the race; you were also thinking about Leah—about how your connection had shifted, how something once playful and competitive had evolved into something far more meaningful.

Leah had become a constant presence in your life over the past few months. After that night in the hotel room, things had changed between you two. The flirtation had deepened, the teasing had turned into late-night conversations, and before long, it became clear that what you had was real. There was no denying it anymore.

And today, as you lined up on the grid in Abu Dhabi, you knew you had more than just the race to win. You had the support of the woman who had been there for you through it all, the woman who had once been a rival but was now your partner.

The lights went out, and the roar of the engines filled the air. The race started fast and furious, with you in the thick of it, pushing yourself to the limit. The battle was fierce, with rivals from all teams trying to outpace you, but you were determined. Every corner, every straight, you could hear the echoes of the fans cheering, but more than anything, you could feel Leah’s presence, even though she wasn’t physically there.

You had her voice in your head, reminding you to focus, to stay calm, to give it everything without overthinking. You knew she was watching, and that was enough to keep you grounded.

The laps flew by, the battle for the title heating up, but in the final moments, it was clear—you were going to win.

With a smooth and calculated maneuver in the final laps, you crossed the finish line first. The crowd erupted in a deafening cheer, the Ferrari team going wild as you climbed out of your car, fists raised in triumph. The emotion of it all washed over you—this was your moment. This was what you had worked for.

The podium ceremony felt like a dream. The champagne was flowing, the music was blaring, and the crowd was chanting your name. But the best part was when you finally made your way off the podium, your heart still racing with excitement.

And then, there she was—Leah, standing in the pit lane, dressed in a bold red outfit that made her look stunning. The colors of Ferrari suited her so well, the red standing out against the shimmering backdrop of the lights and the crowd. She had always been loyal to Aston Martin, but tonight, she was here for you—her eyes bright with pride, her smile wide as she waited for you to approach.

You could feel the joy radiating off of her, and without thinking, you moved toward her. The crowd around you seemed to fade as you walked toward Leah, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.

She met you halfway, her arms open as you stepped into her embrace. The scent of her perfume mixed with the smell of the champagne still on your skin, the heat of the race slowly giving way to the heat between the two of you.

"You did it," Leah whispered, her hands resting on your back as she pulled you in closer. "You were incredible."

"I couldn't have done it without you," you replied softly, your hands brushing against her red outfit as you leaned back slightly to look at her. "I think I’ve been racing for more than just the win lately."

Leah smiled, a knowing look in her eyes. “Yeah, I think we both know that now.”

You leaned in, your heart racing, not from the race but from the moment you were sharing. It felt like everything had led to this. The competition, the rivalry, the late-night talks, the laughs, the connection—it had all come down to this. And now, with the season behind you, the world at your feet, and Leah here with you, it felt right.

Without hesitation, you cupped her face in your hands, and before either of you could say another word, you kissed her. It was soft at first, slow and deliberate, as if you were both savoring the moment you had been building up to. The champagne bubbles fizzed in the air around you, but none of it mattered except the way her lips felt against yours.

When you pulled away, you rested your forehead against hers, both of you smiling as the cheers continued in the background. Leah’s eyes were full of warmth, her hand gently brushing through your hair.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ve earned this.”

You smiled, brushing your lips against hers again, a quick kiss this time, and whispered back, “We’ve earned this.”

And as you stood there, drenched in champagne, with the Abu Dhabi skyline twinkling behind you, you knew that this wasn’t just the end of the season. It was the beginning of something new—something that was more than just winning a race.

You had Leah by your side, and that was the victory that truly mattered.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Tangled Hearts

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

3,3k of words!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

TW: some suggestive stuff

You weren’t supposed to fall for Frida Maanum.

You weren’t supposed to even like her. You played for Chelsea — she played for Arsenal. Rivals on the field, teammates only when wearing the red and blue of Norway. And yet… here you were, tangled up in the sheets of her London flat, your heart beating in rhythm with hers.

No one knew. Not your coaches. Not your Chelsea teammates. Not even your best friend, Guro Reiten — and keeping it from her was easily the worst part. You and Guro told each other everything… except this.

Especially not this.

The relationship you had with Frida was fragile but fierce, hidden in glances across crowded tunnels, quick brushes of fingers during national team call-ups, and secret late-night texts that could set your skin ablaze with just a few words.

And yet, on the pitch, you had to pretend you didn’t care. You had to push her, tackle her, chase her down like she was just another opponent.

Today was one of those days — Chelsea vs Arsenal. London Derby. Big stakes, bigger egos.

And Frida looked good — dangerous, focused, jaw set in determination. She caught your eye during warmups, just for a second, a ghost of a smirk playing on her lips. It was a look only you would catch, only you would understand.

You shoved the thought away.

Guro clapped you on the back as you lined up. “C’mon, YN," she grinned. "Let’s wipe the floor with them."

You smiled tightly. "Yeah. Let’s."

The game was brutal — fast-paced, aggressive. You found yourself clashing with Frida more than once, the tension between you two almost palpable. Every time your bodies collided, every time your arms brushed, it felt like a spark running through your veins.

You cursed under your breath after a particularly hard tackle she gave you. Frida winked at you as she helped you up.

"Focus, kjæreste," she whispered under her breath in Norwegian, so low no one else could hear. (trad: lover)

You nearly lost it.

That night, hours after the final whistle blew (a 2-2 draw, neither of you fully satisfied), you snuck out from the Chelsea hotel and found yourself at her door, hoodie pulled low over your head.

Frida opened it without a word, just grabbing you by the front of your hoodie and pulling you inside.

She kissed you like she’d been waiting all day — all week — and maybe she had.

"You’re trouble," you whispered against her lips, half-scolding, half-breathless.

"So are you," she murmured back, before kissing you again. Deeper. More desperate.

You tangled your fingers in her hair, letting yourself forget, just for a little while, that the world would see you two as enemies.

Because here, in her arms, you weren’t rivals. You were hers. And she was yours.

The Norway camp was supposed to be a safe zone.

Neutral ground.

You were supposed to be focused on training, tactics, the upcoming qualifiers — not sneaking glances across the locker room at Frida Maanum, who looked far too good in that damn Norway kit.

But hiding your relationship in club football was easier somehow — you only faced Frida a few times a year. Here, though? You trained together. Ate together. Lived together for two intense weeks.

It was torture.

You thought you were being subtle. Careful.

You thought wrong.

It happened after a training session.

The sun was setting low over the pitch, your muscles sore and heavy after a brutal session. Most of the team had already drifted toward the locker rooms, laughter and tired voices carrying on the breeze.

You and Frida lingered behind, the world shrinking to just the two of you.

She bumped your shoulder lightly with hers as you walked.

"You’re staring again," she teased under her breath.

You flushed, looking away quickly. "Am not," you mumbled.

"Are too," she said, grinning, her voice low and teasing.

Before you could say anything back, Frida caught your hand — quick, gentle — threading her fingers through yours for half a second before pulling away again.

It should’ve been nothing. A fleeting moment.

Except someone saw.

You heard the soft shuffle of boots behind you — turned — and locked eyes with Ingrid Engen, standing about ten feet away, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised so high it was almost in her hairline.

You froze.

Frida froze.

Ingrid said nothing for a moment, just staring at you two like she'd just caught children sneaking cookies from the kitchen.

"Seriously?" Ingrid finally said, voice dry. "You two?"

Frida opened her mouth — probably to deny, probably to joke — but Ingrid just laughed, short and knowing.

"Relax. I'm not gonna tell," she said, rolling her eyes. "But maybe don't make it so obvious next time, yeah?"

You felt your face burn hotter than the summer sun.

Frida, being the absolute menace she was, just smirked.

"Noted," she said casually, tossing a wink at Ingrid before tugging you toward the locker rooms like nothing had happened.

Later that night, curled up together in Frida’s hotel room — the door locked, the world shut out — you whispered, "Do you think she’ll really keep it a secret?"

Frida kissed your forehead softly.

"She will," she said. "And even if she doesn’t… I don’t care."

You lifted your head to look at her, heart thudding painfully.

"You don’t?"

Frida shook her head, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

"I’m tired of pretending you’re just another teammate," she whispered. "You’re not. You’re… mine."

Your throat closed up at the rawness of her voice.

You kissed her before you could cry.

The end of the Norway camp came too fast.

After two weeks of stolen moments — hidden touches, secret smiles when no one was looking (except Ingrid, who definitely knew) — it was time to return to real life. Back to your clubs. Back to rivalry. Back to pretending.

Almost.

Because the second the team bus dropped you in the center of Oslo, Frida caught your wrist, tugging you gently toward her.

"Come home with you?" she asked, her voice low.

You smiled without hesitation. "Of course."

Your apartment was barely big enough for one person, but with Frida inside — throwing her bag down, laughing when you stumbled over your own shoes trying to kiss her — it felt like it expanded, like it breathed around the two of you.

It wasn’t long before she had you pressed against the wall, her mouth finding yours in desperate, eager kisses.

"Missed you," she whispered against your skin.

"You literally saw me all day," you breathed out, laughing breathlessly.

"Still," she murmured, tilting your chin up for another deep, slow kiss.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom immediately. The couch. The hallway wall. Somewhere along the way, your clothes and dignity disappeared at the same time.

You collapsed into bed hours later, tangled up, her forehead resting against yours.

"Maybe I should just move in," she joked tiredly.

You smiled, half-asleep already. "Maybe you should."

You didn’t notice when she forgot her hoodie.

The next morning, Frida was up early — Arsenal training didn’t wait for lovesick Norwegians — and she kissed your forehead with a whispered "see you soon" before slipping out the door.

You stumbled around after she left, lazy and warm in the aftermath, completely missing the red hoodie draped over the back of a chair.

An hour later, the doorbell rang.

You opened it to find Guro standing there, arms crossed, grinning wide.

"Training, Y/N," she teased. "Don’t tell me you’re skipping on me."

You let her in as you frantically pulled on your boots.

It was fine. Everything was fine.

Until you heard her snort.

You turned around — and your heart sank.

Guro was standing by the chair. Staring at the very-obviously-not-Chelsea red hoodie. The Arsenal logo was right there, bold and unforgiving.

She raised an eyebrow, smirking.

"Well, well, well," she said, crossing her arms. "Someone’s got a secret."

You tried to play dumb. "It’s — it’s nothing."

"Right," she said, dragging out the word. "Because you definitely own Arsenal merch."

You flushed, scrambling for an excuse.

"It’s — it’s just — a friend’s," you mumbled lamely.

Guro’s grin widened dangerously.

"A friend, huh?"

You nodded quickly. Too quickly.

"Not even a teammate," Guro teased, stepping closer. "Interesting."

You cursed silently. You were terrible at lying. Guro didn’t know who it was. But she knew someone had stayed over. And judging by her delighted, evil smile — she wasn’t letting it go.

"Come on," she said, grabbing your arm. "Tell me who."

"Nope," you said firmly, grabbing your bag and pushing her toward the door.

"Rude!" she laughed, following you.

You tried to ignore how she kept looking at you like she knew all your secrets already.

Because if she ever found out it was Frida Maanum — Arsenal star, your biggest on-field rival — you were so dead.

You thought you were safe. You thought Guro would forget about the hoodie. You were wrong.

Because from the second you arrived at the Norway team hotel for the next set of training sessions of international break, Guro was on you like a bloodhound.

Teasing, nudging, winking — every opportunity, she took it.

"You sure you’re focused?" she’d whisper before drills. "Thinking about your friend?" she'd say after meetings.

You wanted to die every time.

Frida, for her part, was way too amused by all of this. Shooting you looks across the locker room. Bumping your shoulder a little harder during rondos. Brushing her hand against yours when no one was looking — or so you thought.

Ingrid noticed. Ingrid always noticed.

And now Guro was suspicious too.

You were doomed.

It all came crashing down during a team dinner.

You were sitting next to Guro, trying desperately to keep the conversation light, when you felt it — A shoe, sliding slowly against your ankle under the table.

You stiffened instantly.

Guro raised an eyebrow. "You good?"

You nodded too fast. "Yep! Yep. All good."

But the foot kept teasing up your calf, slow and maddening.

You risked a glance across the table — and nearly choked.

Frida was watching you innocently over her water glass, her eyes way too bright with mischief.

You sent her a desperate look: stop it.

She winked.

You felt your whole body flush.

And that’s when Guro’s eyes narrowed.

She looked between you — then at Frida — then back at you.

Something clicked. You could see it happen.

Her mouth fell open in pure betrayal.

"No way," she blurted out, too loud for the quiet room.

You jumped. Frida just smiled wider.

Everyone turned to look.

You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

Guro leaned in, whisper-shouting: "It's Frida?!"

You buried your face in your hands.

Frida just laughed, her smile all sunshine and no shame.

Ingrid muttered under her breath from down the table, "Finally."

Later that night, after the chaos (and a lot of teasing), you were finally back at your flat — with Frida sprawled on your couch, looking far too pleased with herself.

"You’re evil," you said, flopping down next to her.

"Maybe," she said sweetly, sliding her hand into yours. "But at least now we don't have to hide."

You sighed, leaning your head against her shoulder.

"I liked it better when Guro didn’t know," you grumbled.

Frida laughed quietly, kissing the top of your head.

"She’s just jealous," she teased. "She wishes she had a girlfriend as perfect as me."

You snorted. "You're insufferable."

"And you love me," she murmured, turning your face toward her.

The kiss she pressed to your lips was slow, deep, and left no doubt.

Yeah. You really, really did.

The second Chelsea vs Arsenal derby was a battlefield.

You were already tense lacing up your boots, but Guro — your best mate — didn’t make it any easier. She sat beside you, smug, practically vibrating with amusement.

"You ready for your little secret lover to knock you over today?" she teased, loud enough for only you to hear.

You shot her a glare. "Focus on your match, Guro."

She grinned, wicked. "Sure. If you can keep your eyes off Frida."

You ignored her. Barely.

But your stomach twisted all the same — because she wasn’t wrong.

The game was brutal. Neither team giving an inch. Hard tackles. Quick counters. Aggression everywhere.

You caught Frida’s eyes once across the pitch — and it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

She looked at you the way she always did — like you were hers.

And you had to shove it down, focus, breathe.

This was war.

Midway through the second half, it happened.

You tried to shield the ball near the halfway line — a split-second too slow.

And Katie McCabe came crashing into you.

Hard.

The tackle sent you flying — crashing into the ground with a harsh grunt, pain bursting through your ribs and hip.

The whistle blew immediately, but you barely registered it — everything felt blurred, wrong, dizzy.

A small scuffle started as your Chelsea teammates rushed toward Katie, shouting.

But then — Frida. Breaking through the chaos, running straight to you.

You tried to sit up, winced, and Frida dropped to her knees beside you without hesitation.

"Let me through!" she barked when a Chelsea player tried to stop her.

Confusion sparked everywhere — Arsenal kit, Chelsea kit, players and coaches shouting.

It was Guro — bless her — who rolled her eyes and said loudly:

"Chill out, she’s her girlfriend, idiots."

The second those words left her mouth — your teammates froze.

And Frida was instantly at your side, hands on your face, checking you over like you were made of glass.

"You okay?" she whispered fiercely, brushing sweaty strands of hair from your forehead. "Tell me where it hurts."

You blinked up at her, your ribs burning, but your heart — your heart ached for a whole other reason.

"I'm fine," you rasped. "It’s… it’s just bruised."

She shook her head, tears shining in her fierce eyes. "You scared the hell out of me."

You let your forehead fall against her chest for just a second — feeling her pounding heart, her trembling hands — before your teammates awkwardly began backing away.

The secret was out now.

Later, after the match ended — and you were stretched out on the physio table in the dressing room, sulking — your phone buzzed.

A text from Guro.

Guro: Tell your little Arsenal lover she almost started World War III lol Guro: PS: you two are disgustingly cute. I’m gonna vomit.

You groaned into your hands.

And you couldn't even deny it — because when you looked up, you caught a glimpse of Frida outside the dressing rooms, pacing anxiously, waiting for you.

Waiting like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Frida was waiting outside the dressing room like a lost puppy.

Pacing. Checking her phone every two seconds. Chewing her lip like she might combust if she didn’t see you soon.

You caught her eyes the second you hobbled out — ribs aching, wrapped under your jersey now — and she was on you.

Arms wrapping carefully but firmly around your shoulders, pulling you against her chest.

"Stupid, reckless, brilliant girl," she muttered into your hair, voice cracking slightly.

You laughed weakly. "It’s just bruises. I’ve had worse."

Frida leaned back, frowning at you like she didn’t quite believe you, hands hovering like she didn’t trust herself not to crush you.

"Come home with me," she said. No hesitation.

"Frida—"

"Not negotiable."

You blinked up at her — seeing it. All of it. The love, the panic, the aching need to take care of you.

You melted completely.

"…Okay."

Her flat was warm, cozy, safe — smelling faintly of her perfume and fresh laundry.

You barely made it past the living room before she was fussing over you again — dropping a blanket around your shoulders, handing you a bottle of water, kissing your forehead so softly you barely felt it.

"You’re not allowed to move," she said sternly, pushing you gently onto the couch.

You raised an eyebrow, amused. "You’re very bossy, you know that?"

Frida knelt in front of you, hands running gently over your knees, your hips, your ribs — checking again for any signs of swelling or worse.

"I get bossy," she murmured, voice dropping lower, "when I almost lose the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You swallowed thickly. Heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Frida looked up at you — wide, soft blue eyes glowing in the lamplight.

Then — slowly — she leaned up and kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, or desperate. It was slow, deliberate — a kiss that said I’m yours. I’m staying.

You let out a shaky breath against her lips, fists clutching at her hoodie.

(Which, for the record, she had absolutely "forgotten" at your flat on purpose.)

When she pulled back, your faces stayed close — breath mixing, hearts pounding together.

"You’re terrible at keeping secrets," you whispered.

Frida smiled. "Good thing I don't want to anymore."

You laughed, aching, in love, stupidly, wildly in love.

She kissed you again — more urgent this time — before pulling away just far enough to whisper against your mouth:

"Stay with me tonight. Please."

You nodded without thinking, already lost.

Already hers.

The launch started with a photo.

Not a grand, public declaration. Not a huge spectacle. Just… a simple, unassuming picture Frida posted late that night.

You and her, wrapped up in each other. Her Arsenal hoodie swallowing you whole, your legs tangled beneath the blanket on the couch, her hand resting low on your thigh.

The caption? Just a heart emoji. Simple. Sweet. The world didn’t need to know every detail — but it was still enough.

The reactions were immediate.

In the Chelsea group chat: "FINALLY." In the Arsenal group chat: "Should've seen this coming." In the Norway group chat: "Took them long enough."

But you didn’t care. Not anymore. Not with the way Frida was looking at you.

You turned to her, your fingers lightly brushing over her hand resting on your thigh, glancing up. "You sure about this?" you asked, your voice teasing but full of warmth.

Frida looked down at you, eyes soft but intense, before she leaned in and kissed you — a promise, a claim, everything she'd been holding back for so long.

"I'm sure," she whispered, her lips brushing against your ear. "I’m not afraid anymore."

Later that night, as you and Frida were lying tangled in each other’s arms, a sudden knock echoed through the flat.

You groaned, your voice muffled into Frida's chest. "If that's Guro… I'm hiding under the blankets."

But of course, Guro wouldn’t let you get away with it that easily.

The door swung open, and there stood your best friend — smug and far too confident for someone who had been waiting for this moment for so long.

"You two are disgustingly cute," Guro teased, clearly delighted by the chaos she’d just walked into. "So, what's it like to finally admit it to the world? Or do you just enjoy torturing me with your secrecy?"

You rolled your eyes but smiled, crossing your arms. "Guro, everyone knows. Chelsea, Arsenal, Norway… because of you…"

Frida, from behind you, wrapped her arms around your waist and kissed your neck. "It's official now," she said softly, a little teasingly. "Are you happy, Guro?"

Guro grinned, throwing herself onto the couch beside you two, and pretending to gag. "Honestly, I’ve known for months. But seeing it for myself? Still gross."

You flipped her off with one hand, still grinning, and leaned back into Frida’s embrace. It was comforting. Familiar. Like it had always been meant to be this way.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Only You

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,7k of words!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

You’ve always felt a little strange around Steph. She was always so… touchy. Too comfortable with you. Always hanging around, always a little too close. When she’d give you advice, it felt personal, like she cared just a bit more than a teammate should. She’d make comments about how you “looked good today” or how your pass was “perfect,” but you just chalked it up to the fact that she was Steph Catley — friendly, flirty, everyone’s favorite teammate. You assumed it was just how she was. After all, she wasn’t shy with anyone.

At first, you thought it was nothing, that it was just her friendly nature, that you were overthinking it. And yet, every time she smiled at you, or when her fingers grazed your arm just a second too long, your heart would skip. But still, you kept telling yourself it was nothing. Steph was just that way with everyone. Right?

It wasn’t until a late-night training session after an intense game that it finally clicked. You’d been exhausted, trying to work out the tension in your muscles after running all over the pitch. The locker room was quieter than usual. Most of the team had already gone back to their rooms, but you and Steph stayed behind. You were sitting on the bench, towel around your neck, rubbing your temples when you heard her footsteps approach. She was the last person you expected to still be here.

She leaned against the locker next to you, just a little too close. “You did great today,” she said, her voice lower than usual. You shrugged, still not looking at her, brushing off her praise. “It wasn’t that great,” you muttered, half-joking, half-exhausted.

But she didn’t seem to buy it. There was something different in the air tonight — a tension, a shift. You felt it but couldn’t place it.

“Don’t downplay it,” she said softly, her hand brushing against your arm, sending a jolt through you. “You’ve got talent, more than you realize.”

You chuckled, trying to brush it off, but the proximity between you two was undeniable now. The way she spoke was different, more intimate. You glanced up at her, just as she leaned closer, so close you could feel her breath against your ear. Your heartbeat quickened, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say.

Her eyes were focused on yours, intense, and her lips parted slightly. Your stomach fluttered. It was now, you thought, so obvious. She’d been doing this for months — getting close, teasing, making you feel like there was something more — and you’d been completely oblivious.

Suddenly, she moved even closer, not waiting for a response. Her fingers lightly cupped your cheek, guiding your gaze to hers, and then… she kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed, nor was it sloppy. It was soft, gentle, and surprisingly confident. A slow press of her lips against yours, leaving you speechless, completely caught off guard. Your mind raced, trying to process what was happening, but all you could do was close your eyes, feeling her warmth, the way her lips moved against yours in that sweet, unexpected kiss.

When she finally pulled away, you were frozen, unable to speak. Steph was still so close, her forehead gently resting against yours, her breath matching yours in a rhythmic pulse.

“Well,” she said, smiling softly, “took you long enough to notice.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you couldn’t help but laugh nervously, still trying to catch your breath. “I… I didn’t… I mean, I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, I figured that out,” she interrupted, her grin widening. “I was trying to make it obvious. Guess I had to just show you.”

You blinked a few times, trying to wrap your mind around what had just happened. Steph Catley — your teammate, your captain, the girl you’d been getting all those vibes from for months — had just kissed you.

“Sorry,” she said teasingly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “wasn’t trying to confuse you… but seriously, you’re adorable when you’re oblivious.”

You laughed again, a little breathless, trying to keep the emotions in check. Your mind was still reeling, but there was no denying the warmth in your chest now. It wasn’t just the kiss, but the feeling that maybe — just maybe — you had been wrong all this time.

“I guess I’m not as quick on the uptake as I thought,” you said, still a little dazed.

Steph smiled, her hand gently resting on your shoulder. “I’ve got plenty of time to help you catch up.”

The air between you and Steph felt heavier now, filled with the weight of what just happened. You had no idea what to say. The kiss still lingered on your lips, leaving a sweet warmth that you couldn’t shake. Your heart raced, your mind still struggling to comprehend the sudden shift in your relationship.

Steph, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. She was leaning back against the locker, casually crossing her arms, but there was a softness in her eyes, a tenderness that made your stomach flip. She was waiting for you to say something — anything. But all you could do was stare at her, still processing what had just happened.

“Steph… I—” You started, your voice catching in your throat, but you didn’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone that you had been blind to their feelings for so long?

She took a small step closer, her presence calming but still full of that undeniable energy. “You don’t need to say anything,” she said, her voice low and comforting. “I just needed you to know. I was getting frustrated watching you act like you didn’t feel the same way. You’ve been so… oblivious,” she added with a teasing smile.

“I wasn’t oblivious,” you replied, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “I just thought— I mean, I never thought you would be… interested in me like that. You’ve always been so friendly with everyone, and… and I don’t know, I didn’t think you’d feel that way about me.”

Steph’s expression softened. She took another step forward, now only a breath away. “I’ve always been interested in you, more than I probably should be,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I think I knew it from the moment we met. But I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, didn’t want to push you away.”

You met her gaze, searching for any hint of doubt in her eyes, but there was none. She was sure, and for the first time, you realized how long she’d been waiting for you to catch on.

“You’ve been patient,” you said, voice still shaking with uncertainty. “I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner. I’ve just… I’ve never been good at reading signs, especially when it comes to things like this.”

Steph smiled, her thumb gently brushing your cheek, making your breath catch in your throat. “You don’t need to apologize. I should’ve been more straightforward. But I wanted to make sure you were ready for it, that you weren’t feeling pressured.”

“I don’t feel pressured,” you murmured, still trying to find the right words. “I feel… confused. But not in a bad way. I just didn’t expect this. I’ve always admired you, Steph. But I never thought…” You trailed off, unsure of how to articulate everything you were feeling in that moment.

Steph chuckled softly, a genuine warmth in her smile. “It’s okay to be confused. It’s a lot to process, especially after everything. But if you feel even a little bit the same, then I think we owe it to ourselves to explore this. I don’t want to hold back anymore.”

You stood there, just staring at her, your heart thumping wildly in your chest. The realization hit you like a wave. You had feelings for her too. Deep down, you knew that. You had felt it every time she smiled at you, every time she was there, always a little too close. But now, with the truth out in the open, it all made sense.

Without thinking, you closed the space between you, your hand reaching up to gently cup her face. Her breath hitched slightly, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into your touch, her eyes closing briefly. You hesitated for only a second, before you kissed her — this time, with no hesitation, no confusion. You kissed her like you meant it, pouring everything you had into that simple act.

The kiss deepened, her hands resting lightly on your waist, pulling you closer. The way she held you felt right, like this was where you were always meant to be. It was slow at first, as if you were both savoring the moment, but it quickly escalated into something more urgent, the heat between you growing.

When you finally pulled away, both of you breathless, Steph rested her forehead against yours. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” she confessed, her voice husky with emotion.

“Me too,” you admitted, your hands still gently holding her. You could feel your pulse racing in your veins, but this time, it wasn’t from uncertainty. It was from something more real, more solid.

“Then let’s make this happen,” she said softly, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I don’t want to waste any more time pretending I’m not completely into you.”

You grinned, your heart swelling in your chest. “Okay, but… we should probably take it slow, right?”

Steph nodded, her smile turning a little more mischievous. “Of course. But I’ll be patient this time.”

You leaned in for another kiss, slower this time, savoring the moment. The world outside the locker room could wait. There was nothing but the two of you in that space — the uncertainty from before was gone, replaced by something far more meaningful. And you knew, without a doubt, that this was just the beginning.

It had been a few weeks since you and Steph had become official, and yet, things still felt so new. You were navigating the shift in your dynamic, from teammates to something more. But you hadn’t stopped being you — the flirty, sometimes oblivious, smile-at-everyone-you-meet kind of person. And, well, Steph knew that. She was used to the playful, flirty side of you, but tonight, something about the atmosphere had a different energy.

It was a team night out at a club, everyone letting loose after a long week of training. The music was loud, the lights flashing in a myriad of colors. Laughter and chatter filled the air as teammates from Arsenal and some of their friends took over the dance floor, while others gathered at the bar to unwind.

You were at the bar, chatting with a couple of teammates, when you felt someone sidle up beside you. A girl, with dark hair and an easy smile, leaned in slightly too close, making you raise an eyebrow but offering her a friendly smile in return.

“Hey,” she said, her voice smooth and confident. “You’re YN YLN, right? You’re incredible on the pitch.”

You blushed slightly, always flattered by compliments, but shrugged it off with your typical modesty. “Thanks. You’re too kind.”

But she wasn’t done there. She leaned in a little more, brushing her arm against yours in a way that felt… purposeful. “I’ve seen you play before. You're not just talented, you're stunning too,” she added, her eyes never leaving yours.

You laughed nervously, unsure of how to handle the situation, but you didn’t think much of it. Flirting was nothing new. You had a friendly smile, you were approachable, and sometimes people made it a little more obvious. But you weren’t doing anything wrong. You were just being yourself.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Steph was watching from across the room. Her eyes had narrowed when she saw the girl inch closer to you, her hands resting against the bar as she took in every word exchanged between the two of you. Steph had been more than patient with you — way more than she’d probably let on. But tonight, seeing someone flirt with you so openly, that protective instinct flared up.

She moved quickly across the room, her eyes still fixed on the girl as she approached you. When Steph reached the bar, she slid right in between you and the girl, her hand finding the small of your back in a possessive gesture that caught you by surprise. Without saying a word to the girl, Steph turned to you, her lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was far more intense than anything you’d experienced before.

It was a kiss full of fire, of raw emotion, of ownership in the best way possible. She kissed you with an urgency that left you breathless, pulling you closer, her hands cupping your face as if she couldn’t get enough of you. The world around you seemed to fade away. The flashing lights, the music, the voices — everything disappeared except for Steph and that kiss.

When she finally pulled away, you were still dazed, your head spinning from the intensity. Your lips tingled, and you blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog. You hadn’t realized just how much you needed that kiss until it happened. You looked up at Steph, your breath coming out in short gasps.

“Steph… what—what was that?” you asked, a little shaken.

Steph’s expression softened, though her lips were curled into a small, teasing smile. She raised an eyebrow, glancing over at the girl who had flirted with you, now retreating, her face contorted in frustration. “That,” Steph said, her voice low, “was me showing you exactly who you belong to.”

You blinked, still processing, and Steph let out a small laugh, brushing her fingers through your hair. “She was flirting with you, YN. You didn’t even notice it, did you?”

You shook your head, your gaze still caught on the girl who was now walking away. “I mean, I guess? But I didn’t think it was that serious. I’m not doing anything wrong…”

Steph’s eyes softened as she looked back at you, though there was still a playful hint in her gaze. “You weren’t doing anything wrong,” she agreed. “But that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stand around and let some girl try to steal you away.”

A smile tugged at your lips as you processed her words. “Steph… you really think someone could steal me from you?”

Steph chuckled softly, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around your waist, pulling you in for a gentle hug. “No,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “I know no one can steal you from me. But I’m still gonna make sure they know exactly who you belong to.”

You felt a warmth spread through your chest at her words. She wasn’t jealous in a bad way, not trying to control you. It wasn’t about insecurity; it was about wanting to protect something that was hers now, and you felt it deep in your bones. That was love — the kind that didn’t hesitate, that didn’t play games, that just was.

“I guess I’m lucky, then,” you said, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, your fingers tracing along her jaw. “You make it pretty obvious.”

Steph smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead before pulling away just enough to look you in the eye. “I’m not worried, YN,” she said, her voice filled with affection. “I know you love me. But I’ll still remind you every chance I get.”

You laughed, your heart swelling at the ease and warmth between you. “Okay, okay, I get it,” you teased. “You’re mine.”

Steph winked. “Damn right I am.”

And as you both stood there, your arms wrapped around each other, you felt something settle inside you. This — this was real. No more pretending, no more confusion. You and Steph were a team, not just on the field, but in life. And nothing, not even a flirty girl at a bar, was going to change that.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Despite the Storm

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,8k of words!!!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

It was never supposed to end the way it did.

Back when you were just two girls with nothing but a ball at your feet and a thousand dreams in your chest, everything felt simple. Easy.

You signed your first pro contract in 2017, leaving everything you knew behind to chase your dreams in Italy with Juventus. Kyra stayed in Australia, starting her own journey with Melbourne Victory.

"It’s just distance," she said, laughing into her phone speaker, her voice brighter than the sunrises you missed watching together. "We’re stronger than that."

And for a while, you believed her.

Mornings were for your texts — sleepy and rushed before training sessions. Nights were for her calls — her soft voice crackling through the line, filling the lonely corners of your cold apartment.

"One day," Kyra whispered once, half-asleep, "we’ll wake up in the same city. Same bed. Same everything."

You clung to those promises like lifelines. You built a future around them.

Every offseason, you found each other. Two weeks stolen from the world — airports, long hugs, hurried kisses — breathing each other in before time tore you apart again.

When Kyra moved to Western Sydney Wanderers in 2019, you celebrated her milestone from across oceans, sending her a clumsy video of you popping a bottle of prosecco alone in your tiny Turin kitchen.

"I’m so proud of you, baby," you had grinned into the camera, cheeks flushed, heart bursting.

You kept telling yourself it was temporary. That soon she’d come to Europe, that soon you’d stop counting the hours, the missed moments.

But soon started stretching further and further away.

You moved to Arsenal in 2020. A dream fulfilled. A loneliness sharpened.

Kyra, instead, went back to Melbourne Victory. Home. Safety. Familiarity.

You told yourself it was okay. That maybe she needed more time. That loving her meant being patient.

But deep down, you felt the first splinter.

The late replies. The canceled calls. The birthdays spent apart, your phone cold and silent in your hand at midnight.

Love, no matter how deep, started to feel like water slipping through your fingers.

When Kyra finally signed for Hammarby in 2022, a tiny ember of hope lit inside you. Finally Europe. Finally closer. Finally maybe… fixing what had cracked.

But it wasn't the same anymore.

She was trying to survive a new country, a new league, a new weight on her shoulders. You were fighting for trophies, games, your place at Arsenal.

The distance wasn't oceans now. It was the space between two hearts who didn't beat in the same rhythm anymore.

The last conversation was quiet. So much quieter than you deserved.

"Maybe we’re not enough anymore," Kyra said, her voice trembling through the line. You wanted to scream. You wanted to fight.

But how do you fight for someone who’s already half out the door?

"I’ll always love you," she whispered. "That’s what makes this hurt so damn much."

And just like that — the future you built together shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.

Weeks. Months.

You buried yourself in football. In new friendships. You stopped checking her socials. You stopped letting yourself wonder what if.

You tried so hard to forget.

Until tonight.

You were curled up in your apartment, the London rain tapping against the windows, scrolling absently through your phone when a notification lit up your screen.

Caitlin had texted.

"Look who’s joining us. 😳👀" Followed by a screenshot of Arsenal’s latest post:

"Welcome to Arsenal, Kyra Cooney-Cross!" Her smile, all sunshine and wild dreams, staring back at you.

For a long moment, you just stared. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

You didn’t even realize your fingers were trembling until you almost dropped your phone.

Kyra. Here. At Arsenal. At your Arsenal.

No warning. No heads-up. Just a name and a jersey and a club post that ripped open a wound you thought had long scarred over.

You sank back into the couch, the world tilting slightly. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry, laugh, or throw your phone across the room.

All you knew was this:

You weren’t ready. Not for her smile. Not for the memories. Not for the storm she still carried inside you.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow you’d have to see her in person.

Face to face. Heart to heart. Past to present.

And you had no idea if you were strong enough to survive it.

You should’ve known.

You should’ve stayed home a little longer. Pretended you were sick. Anything to avoid this moment.

But you didn’t.

And now here you are, standing on the side of Arsenal’s training pitch, boots scuffing the grass, arms folded tightly across your chest, heart hammering in your ears — watching her.

Kyra Cooney-Cross.

Wearing Arsenal red. Smiling. Laughing with Leah and Lotte like she’s belonged here all along.

And god, she looks good. Stronger. Fiercer. Her hair tied up messily like always, a stubborn curl falling across her forehead, cheeks flushed from the drills.

You hate how your chest tightens at the sight of her. You hate how the air around you crackles — thick and heavy, like a storm’s about to break.

You don’t even realize you’re staring until Caitlin nudges you with her elbow, a knowing look flashing across her face.

"You okay?" she murmurs low enough that no one else hears.

You nod too quickly. "Fine."

Liar.

Training winds down, and you grab your water bottle, pretending to be busy — tying and retying your laces, adjusting your shin guards, anything to avoid the inevitable.

But then you hear her.

"Hey, Y/N."

Soft. Tentative. A voice you haven't heard in months. Not really. Not since that night everything ended.

You look up. And she’s standing there.

Close enough to touch. Close enough that you can see the freckles dusting her nose, the scar just under her jaw from a game you watched on TV but didn’t text her about after.

Time freezes between you.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything.

It’s all there in her eyes — the apologies, the regrets, the what-ifs. It’s mirrored right back in yours.

"Hi," you finally breathe out.

It’s stupid how shaky it sounds.

Kyra shifts awkwardly, kicking at a clump of grass with the toe of her boot.

"I didn’t know if you’d wanna… talk. Or… anything."

You swallow hard.

There’s so much you want to say. So much you’re afraid to say.

"You didn’t tell me you were coming," you say instead, and it comes out sharper than you mean.

Kyra flinches. Just slightly. But you catch it.

"It happened fast," she says, voice small. "I didn’t know how to… if I should…" She trails off, helpless.

You nod stiffly. You don't trust yourself to speak.

Not when part of you wants to yell. Not when part of you wants to pull her into your arms and pretend the last year never happened.

The silence between you stretches, taut and aching.

Around you, teammates laugh and joke, oblivious to the wreckage unfolding between two broken hearts.

"I missed you," Kyra blurts suddenly.

Your throat tightens.

Because that's the thing about storms — even after they're over, the damage lingers.

You want to tell her you missed her too. You want to ask her why it wasn’t enough before. You want to scream and cry and kiss her stupid mouth all at once.

But you just say:

"Welcome to Arsenal, Kyra."

And you walk away before she can see the tears burning at the back of your eyes.

You should’ve known Kyra wouldn’t let it end like that.

The knock at your door comes barely an hour after training. Sharp. Relentless.

You debate pretending you’re not home. But part of you knows — she won’t leave. Not this time.

With a heavy breath, you yank the door open.

And there she is. Still in her training hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes wild.

"Can we talk?" she says, voice already cracking.

You don’t answer. You just step aside, wordlessly letting her in.

The second the door clicks shut behind her, the air shifts — thick with all the things you never said.

Kyra stands in the middle of your living room like she doesn’t know where to start.

Good. Because you sure as hell don’t either.

"You can’t just show up here, Kyra," you snap, harsher than you mean — but god, it’s easier to be angry than shattered.

"I didn’t know how else to—"

"You don't get to do this," you cut in, heart pounding so loud you can barely think. "You don’t get to leave. You don’t get to break my fucking heart and then walk back into my life like nothing happened."

Kyra flinches, her eyes wide and glassy.

"I didn’t want to break anything," she whispers. "I just… I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle it back then."

"You didn’t even try," you hiss, voice thick. "You promised we were bigger than the distance. That we were stronger than this. But the second it got hard, you bailed."

Her hands are shaking now.

"I hated myself for it," she chokes out. "You think I didn’t want to fight for you? I did. Every fucking day. But I was drowning, Y/N. New country. New pressures. I didn’t know how to ask you to wait for someone who was falling apart."

The words hit you square in the chest.

Because you recognize it — the panic. The fear. You lived it too.

"You didn’t even give me the chance to stay," you say, softer now, voice breaking.

Kyra’s lip trembles.

"I know."

The silence is a living, breathing thing between you — so full of grief it hurts to stand in it.

Tears spill over before you can stop them. Hot. Angry. Helpless.

Kyra steps forward, desperate. "Please… don’t cry. I can't—"

"What do you want from me, Kyra?" you snap through your tears. "You want me to pretend it didn’t hurt? You want me to pretend I didn’t spend nights wishing you’d pick up the damn phone? That I didn’t check flights to Sweden a hundred times and delete them every time because you didn’t ask me to come?"

Kyra breaks then. Fully.

Tears streaking her flushed cheeks, her whole body shaking.

"I just want you," she says, wrecked. "I want to fix this. I want to try again."

You shake your head.

"It’s not that simple."

Because you’re scared too now. Scared of letting her in again. Scared of loving her just to lose her all over.

"I know I don't deserve another chance," Kyra whispers, stepping closer, "but I'd spend every damn day proving you still have my heart if you let me."

You squeeze your eyes shut. You feel her hand hovering — not touching — waiting for permission.

"I never stopped loving you," she says, voice broken.

You open your eyes. Meet hers. And god, the love is still there. Shining. Shattered. Real.

You should say no. You should protect yourself.

Instead, you whisper:

"Then show me."

Kyra lets out a breath like she’s been drowning for years. And finally — finally — she closes the space between you.

She pulls you into her arms so tightly it steals the air from your lungs.

And this time, you let yourself fall.

Not into the pain. Not into the past.

But into the tiny, fragile hope that maybe — just maybe — love could survive the storm after all.

Healing isn’t some dramatic, cinematic thing.

It’s slower. Quieter. Messier.

It looks like you and Kyra sitting on your couch later that night, a cautious distance apart, talking about everything you never dared say when it still mattered most.

It sounds like broken confessions whispered into the spaces between you. Small apologies. Bigger ones.

It feels like Kyra reaching out — hesitating — before barely brushing her fingers against yours on the cushion between you, like she’s terrified you’ll pull away.

You don't.

You turn your hand over instead, lacing your pinky with hers. Not fully holding her yet. But letting her know:

I’m still here. I’m scared too. But I’m willing to try.

The next few days are cautious and strange.

At training, you avoid each other’s eyes more than you should. But there's a difference now.

When you pass her in the hallways, her fingers graze yours — a whisper of a touch no one else sees.

When you catch her eye during drills, she gives you a tiny, crooked smile — and it twists something deep inside your chest, something painfully hopeful.

On a Wednesday night, after a long, rainy practice, Kyra shows up at your flat again.

No excuses. No warning.

She’s dripping wet and shivering, standing awkwardly at your door.

"I didn’t bring an umbrella," she says, sheepish.

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms in that way it only ever has for her.

You pull her inside without a word. Hand her a towel. Throw one of your old sweatshirts at her — the one she used to steal when she stayed over, back before everything fell apart.

She hesitates, fingers tightening around the fabric.

"You sure?" she asks, voice small.

"It’s yours," you say simply.

The way her face crumples at that — like it’s the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for her — almost breaks you.

Later, you're curled up on the couch together, knees brushing, a movie playing low in the background — not that either of you is watching.

Kyra’s head slowly drops to your shoulder. You stiffen for half a second — and then relax.

Her hand finds yours again, easier this time. Your fingers intertwine naturally, like they were always meant to.

You turn your face slightly, breathing her in — the smell of rain and your sweatshirt and something that's just Kyra.

She looks up at you then. So close you can count her eyelashes.

"I missed this," she whispers. "I missed you."

"I missed you too," you whisper back, voice cracking.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then — so softly you barely realize it’s happening — Kyra leans in.

And finally — finally — your lips meet.

It's not a desperate kiss. It's not the kiss of people who forgot what they meant to each other.

It’s slow. Careful. Reverent.

A promise, not a plea.

When you break apart, you stay close, foreheads touching.

You don't say anything. You don't have to.

Because sometimes rebuilding isn't loud. Sometimes it’s quiet nights, borrowed sweatshirts, forehead kisses, and holding each other like you’re both a little fragile — but trying anyway.

It’s different now.

Not perfect — you’re both still learning how to carry the past without letting it crush you — but it’s better.

You see it in the way Kyra waits for you after training, leaning casually against the locker room door, arms crossed, trying (and failing) not to look like she was counting down the seconds.

You see it in the way your hand finds hers as you walk through the training center parking lot, no longer hiding.

You see it when Caitlin notices, quirks a brow, and says with a smirk, "Finally."

No one’s surprised. Not really.

Everyone around you seems to breathe a little easier, like the universe is finally slotting something back into place.

A few weeks later, it's a quiet Sunday morning.

Sunlight spills through your apartment windows. The sheets are tangled around your legs. Kyra's head rests on your chest, her fingers lazily tracing shapes over your skin.

You’re scrolling half-distractedly through your phone when you feel Kyra shift.

You glance down.

She’s staring at you with that look — the one that used to undo you completely, back when everything was raw and unsure.

It still undoes you now, but differently. Softer. Deeper.

"You’re really staying this time, huh?" you tease, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead.

Kyra smiles — a little broken, a lot beautiful.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, voice steady.

And this time, you believe her.

Later that day, a soft little buzz from your phone catches your attention.

Instagram.

Kyra tagged you in a post.

Curious, you open it.

It’s a candid photo — you hadn’t even realized she took it — from the night she showed up soaking wet at your door.

You’re handing her the towel, your face a perfect mixture of exasperated affection. Kyra’s looking at you like you hung the stars.

The caption is simple:

"Home isn't a place. It's you. 🖤"

You feel your heart stutter in your chest.

Because for all the years, the heartbreak, the distance, the almosts and the could-have-beens —

You finally found your way back to each other.

Not despite the storm. But because you survived it.

Together.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Hiya!! Can you write for dvd, maybe about the semi final and that she in the match she was in a bit of discomfort because of her ankle, and reader notice immediately?

Injury Time

YN YLN -> your name & your last name

2,4k of words!! Hope you will like it!!

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

The tension in the Groupama Stadium was electric. The semi-final of the UEFA Women's Champions League was in full swing, with Arsenal and Lyon battling it out for a spot in the final. It was the match everyone had been waiting for, a clash of two powerhouses, and the crowd was at the edge of their seats.

But there was one thing that caught your eye as soon as the game began.

Daphne van Domselaar.

You’d been on the sideline for the entire match, keeping an eye on your players, as any good physiotherapist would. You were there to ensure they were in peak condition, that their bodies were ready to go, and that no injuries would derail their dreams of Champions League glory.

But Daphne — your beautiful, strong, and usually unstoppable goalkeeper — was showing signs that something wasn’t quite right.

It wasn’t in the way she moved initially; it was more subtle than that. She was still putting on a solid performance, diving to make key saves and calling out instructions to her teammates. But there was something in the way her left foot planted on the ground that had you immediately on alert.

You were used to reading your players’ bodies, their movements. You knew Daphne too well. You saw the way she slightly favored her right side as she moved. A split second of hesitation after she landed from a save. The small, almost imperceptible limp when she jogged back into position.

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, watching her closely. Your instinct was to run out onto the field, to stop the game and check on her, but you knew the stakes of the game. It was the Champions League. They couldn’t afford to stop for a break now.

But you were worried. More worried than you should have been, especially with everything on the line.

It was halfway through the first half when you couldn’t take it anymore. The game was tense, with Lyon relentlessly attacking, but Daphne was holding her ground — at least, you hoped she was. Every time she landed awkwardly after a jump, your heart skipped a beat.

Your pulse quickened as you caught her wincing after one of her signature saves. She had landed heavily on her left ankle, and you could see it right away — the way she shifted her weight, trying to mask the discomfort.

You didn’t need a second more. You immediately called over to Renee Slagers, the head coach, who nodded his approval for you to go out onto the field. He’d noticed it too.

The whistle blew, and the game momentarily halted as you jogged across the pitch toward her.

Daphne caught your eye as you approached. Her face was flushed from the intensity of the match, but there was an almost imperceptible shift in her expression. Concern. Worry. Something she didn’t want to show anyone, but that you knew all too well.

You stopped a few feet away, just out of her line of sight of the referee, and crouched slightly to meet her eye. “Daphne,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, “how’s your ankle?”

She hesitated, a flash of annoyance crossing her features, but she quickly masked it. “It’s fine,” she replied, her voice carrying the confidence of a seasoned pro.

But you knew better. You’d seen her struggle with injuries before, and this wasn’t the usual kind of pain she’d brush off.

“No, it’s not,” you said softly but urgently. “You’re limping. And I can see the way you’re favoring it when you land.” You paused for a moment, stepping closer, lowering your voice. “If you need to come off, tell me now. You’re more important than any game.”

Daphne’s jaw clenched, and for a brief moment, you could see her wrestling with herself. The competitive fire in her burned so bright, it almost hurt to see. She wanted to keep going, to push through the pain.

But she didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes flickered to the goal, to the players waiting for the game to restart, and then back to you. You could tell she was weighing her options. She didn’t want to leave her teammates short, especially not in a game this important. But she trusted you.

“I’ll keep going,” she finally said, her voice low. “Just… keep an eye on it. I’ll be fine.”

You hesitated, biting your lip, but nodded. You had no choice. As much as you wanted to take her off the field and treat the injury immediately, you knew this was a decision only she could make.

“I’ll be right here,” you promised her. “But if it gets worse, don’t hesitate.”

You watched her for the rest of the half, heart in your throat with every dive she made. But as the final whistle blew and the teams jogged off for halftime, you were already on the field, making your way toward her.

Daphne was limping slightly now — more than before — but she was still trying to hide it, still trying to act as if everything was normal.

You met her just outside the tunnel leading to the locker rooms. Without a word, you reached for her ankle, your fingers gently tracing the side of it.

She winced, and you immediately saw the redness and swelling around her left foot. It wasn’t just a sprain anymore; it was something more serious.

"Daphne," you said gently, looking up at her, your fingers still pressing lightly against the injury. "We need to treat this. I can’t let you keep playing with this kind of pain."

She sighed, frustration lining her features. "I know you’re right, but—"

"You’re not risking this," you interrupted softly, your hands already wrapping her ankle in a compression bandage to prevent further injury.

Daphne stared at you for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. "Okay. But you better be there when we win," she said with a teasing smirk.

You chuckled softly, squeezing her shoulder. "You’ve got this. Just rest for now. We’ll get you back in top form after this."

As you helped her into the treatment room, you knew the battle wasn’t just about the game anymore. It was about getting her back to full health. Because you couldn’t afford to lose someone as incredible as Daphne. Not in a match this big.

And even if she was frustrated now, you knew she’d fight like hell to come back stronger.

You were in it together — all the way to the final whistle.

The treatment room was dimly lit, and the hustle and bustle of the match outside seemed distant as you guided Daphne van Domselaar inside. The adrenaline of the semi-final still buzzed in the air, but inside this quiet space, all that mattered was her well-being.

You closed the door softly behind you and motioned for her to sit on the bench. You noticed the way her movements were slower now, her face tinged with frustration. She was a fierce competitor, but the pain in her ankle was undeniable.

“Sit down. Let me take a look,” you said, keeping your voice calm and reassuring, the way you always did with her.

Daphne hesitated for a moment, still stubbornly trying to act like nothing was wrong. But when she finally eased onto the bench, she winced slightly as she shifted her weight off her injured foot.

You knelt down in front of her, taking her left ankle in your hands with the care you reserved only for the people who mattered most. “Let’s get this wrapped up properly,” you murmured.

Her eyes softened as she looked at you. For a moment, the competitive edge seemed to fade, and all that was left was vulnerability. She bit her lip, clearly frustrated at having to leave the game, but also grateful for the safety and comfort you provided.

“You’ve got a strong one, Daphne,” you teased softly, as you began gently examining her swollen ankle, your fingers tracing the tender spots where she’d taken a bad step.

“I know…” she sighed. “I just hate feeling like I let the team down.”

“You didn’t let anyone down,” you said firmly, your eyes locking with hers. “You’ve been amazing out there. No one can play through pain like you. But you don’t need to be a hero right now. You need to heal, so you can get back out there for the final.”

Her lips curved slightly, a soft smile playing on her face as she looked down at you. The warmth in her eyes melted some of the tension between you, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of you — the noise of the game outside, the high stakes of the tournament, all faded away.

As you wrapped her ankle with the compression bandage, you couldn’t help but let your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, the softness of her skin beneath your touch making your heart flutter.

Daphne’s breath caught when you finished, and she didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she let out a long, steady exhale. “You know, you’re really good at this,” she said, her voice quieter now, the playful teasing from earlier replaced with something more genuine.

You smiled at her. “It’s my job to take care of you, isn’t it?”

She leaned back against the bench, her eyes watching you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. “You’ve done more than just take care of me.”

There was something in her tone, something unspoken, but the connection was clear. You could feel it in the way she looked at you — like she wanted more, like she needed you close.

You slowly stood up and took a step back, giving her some space, but before you could say anything else, Daphne reached up and grabbed your wrist, pulling you back toward her.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you barely had time to react as she leaned up, her lips pressing against yours in a soft, unexpected kiss. It was tender at first, a simple connection, but it held so much meaning. It was an apology, a reassurance, a promise that everything would be okay.

For a moment, you forgot about the game. You forgot about the injured ankle, the players waiting outside, the clock ticking down to the final moments of the first leg of the semi-final. All that mattered was the way she kissed you, the way her hand gently cupped your cheek, the warmth of her touch as if she needed to hold on to you.

When the kiss ended, Daphne’s forehead rested against yours. Her breath was warm against your skin, and for a few seconds, neither of you moved. You could feel her heart beating just as fast as yours.

“Thanks,” she whispered, her voice low, almost vulnerable. “I needed that.”

You smiled softly, your thumb brushing across her cheek. “Anytime.”

Daphne pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her expression a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something that made your heart race. “I’ll be okay. You’ve got me through this. Just don’t leave me hanging when we win this, alright?”

You laughed quietly, a small, affectionate sound. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

But you both knew what was unspoken: the way the final whistle was approaching. The goal of the tournament was still within reach, but more than anything, you needed to make sure Daphne was healed and ready for what would come next.

As you finished adjusting the bandages on her ankle, you placed one last, gentle kiss to her temple. “Rest up. You’ve got the final to focus on. And I’ll be right here.”

She smiled at you, the spark of determination still shining in her eyes, even as she sat there, nursing an injury. “And I’ll be ready. For you. For the team. We’re going to win this.”

You nodded, knowing she meant it. You didn’t doubt it for a second. As much as you were there to take care of her physically, you both knew you were in this together — body, heart, and soul.

The evening after the semi-final, the adrenaline had finally started to wear off. Arsenal had edged out Lyon and the team was celebrating cautiously, knowing the final in Lisbon was just around the corner.

You were sitting beside Daphne in the team hotel, her foot propped up on a pillow, freshly iced and bandaged. She had been stubborn about staying with the team instead of going straight for additional medical checks — and you, naturally, had stayed by her side.

You were scrolling through your phone absentmindedly when you felt Daphne shift closer. You turned your head just in time to see her, her phone raised, her expression playful.

"Smile," she said quietly.

You blinked, and before you could even react, she snapped a photo: you looking up at her with a small, soft smile, your hands carefully tending to her ankle, a mix of care and affection written all over your face.

Daphne chuckled at your startled expression and immediately started typing on her phone.

You tilted your head suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

She grinned mischievously. “Just posting something. You’ll see.”

Moments later, your phone buzzed. You opened Instagram and there it was — a story from @daphnevdomselaar.

The picture she had taken of you, the lighting warm and cozy, showing you concentrated on her, bandaging her ankle with so much care it almost looked romantic. Over it, she had written in simple white text:

"My favorite healer 🫶🏻 Couldn't do this without you. #finalbound"

You felt your cheeks flush immediately.

Before you could even think of teasing her back, Daphne set her phone down and leaned into you, resting her head lightly against your shoulder.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“For what?” you asked softly, shifting to rest your cheek against the top of her head.

“For noticing. For taking care of me. For… always being here.” Her voice was muffled but full of quiet, earnest affection.

You smiled and reached down to intertwine your fingers with hers gently. "Always," you promised.

She squeezed your hand, a soft, slow squeeze that said more than words ever could.

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, the city lights of Lisbon in the distance already calling — but for now, it was just you and Daphne, safe, warm, and ready to take on the world together.

The final was waiting. And this time, it felt like you’d already won.

[ouiouibaguettt]

Across the Divide

YN YLN -> your name your last name

masterlist (1) - (2) - (3) - (4)

2,2k of words! Hope you like it!!

TW: some suggestive stuff

request from @liverpoolfan96:

a Chloe Kelly one maybe rivals to lovers or long distance relationship her girlfriend or wife plays for Lyon or Barcelona maybe Barcelona has both get to final

The final whistle of the semifinal hadn't even stopped echoing when Chloe Kelly’s phone buzzed.

Arsenal were going to the Champions League final.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Arsenal had fought through everything — injuries, critics, expectations — and made it. Chloe should have been flying high with her teammates, drunk on victory and adrenaline.

But her heart stuttered painfully when she saw the news.

Barcelona were in the final too.

Which meant her.

YN YLN. Her girlfriend. Her soulmate.

They had lived two years balancing on a knife’s edge — London to Barcelona, flights stolen between matches, blurry FaceTime calls at 2 a.m., whispered "I miss yous" across time zones. It had been hard. Brutal sometimes. But now?

Now they were about to face each other. As rivals. On the biggest stage of their lives.

And Chloe wasn’t sure if their love could survive what came next.

The week before the final was torture.

They barely spoke — tension crackling like static across every message.

Chloe: Don’t think I’ll go easy on you, princesa.

YN: Good. I wouldn’t respect you if you did.

It was supposed to be playful. It wasn’t.

The truth lay heavy between them — unspoken but understood: One of us will win. One of us will lose. And it might break us.

May 25th. Lisbon, Portugal. The Estádio da Luz glowed like a crown under the golden sunset.

Chloe stood in the tunnel, heart hammering. Her Arsenal kit clung to her skin, heavy with sweat already. She bounced on her toes, trying to focus — but her gaze kept slipping sideways.

And there she was.

YN. Barcelona’s number 11. The girl who had stolen her heart when Chloe hadn't even realized she was handing it over. Standing tall and proud in the deep blue and garnet jersey, hair tied back, jaw set with determination.

Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. No smile. No nod. Only fire.

Chloe turned away first, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment.

"I love you," she thought desperately. "But tonight, I have to beat you."

The match was a war.

Barcelona came out sharp, ruthless — their midfield slicing passes with surgical precision. Arsenal fought back with grit and hunger, pressing high, running themselves ragged across the pitch.

Chloe had never played harder in her life. Every sprint, every tackle, she gave everything — but no matter where she turned, she felt YN, quicksilver and lethal, ghosting past defenders like smoke.

At the 38th minute, they collided going for a fifty-fifty ball. Chloe crashed into YN, knocking both of them to the ground.

For a second, the world stopped.

YN’s hand brushed Chloe’s wrist — a touch so soft Chloe could barely feel it, but it burned through her skin anyway.

"You okay?" YN breathed, just loud enough for Chloe to hear.

Chloe nodded sharply, pushing herself up, shoving down the scream clawing at her throat. Not now. Not here.

Second half.

Barcelona struck first.

And of course — of course — it was YN.

A moment of magic. A cut inside, a wicked shot curling perfectly into the top corner.

Chloe stood frozen as the Barcelona fans erupted around her. YN sprinted toward her teammates, arms outstretched — and for a second, just a heartbeat, she looked over her shoulder at Chloe.

There was something in her eyes. A flicker of apology. Of love.

It almost broke Chloe in half.

But she didn't crumble. She fought.

Fought until Arsenal earned a penalty. Fought until Chloe herself stepped up, heart threatening to explode out of her chest, and buried the ball into the bottom corner.

She didn't celebrate. She just pointed once at the Arsenal crest over her heart — for her team, for herself — and jogged back to halfway with her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.

1-1. Full time.

Penalties.

Lisbon held its breath.

Chloe scored her shot cleanly, ignoring the sick feeling in her gut.

YN scored hers too — calm, clinical — like she wasn't breaking inside.

The shootout stretched on, knife-edge tight. Until — Arsenal missed. Barcelona didn’t.

And fate twisted its cruelest blade.

Because it was YN who had the final penalty. YN who could win it all.

Chloe closed her eyes, praying for a miracle. But when the whistle blew, she couldn't not watch.

YN stepped up. Struck clean and true. Goal.

Barcelona exploded into celebration.

Chloe dropped to her knees.

It felt like her whole world was slipping away, piece by piece.

But then —

Through the chaos, the fireworks, the roars — Chloe felt hands on her. Strong and trembling.

YN.

Not celebrating with her team. Not lifting the trophy yet. Just her, dropping to the ground beside Chloe, dragging her into a fierce, desperate embrace.

"I love you," YN whispered into her hair, over and over, voice thick with tears. "I love you. I love you."

Chloe clutched her tighter, letting the sobs tear out of her chest.

"I’m so proud of you," she gasped. "I’m so fucking proud."

Nothing else mattered. Not the loss. Not the distance. Not the world.

Only this. Only them.

The city of Lisbon burned bright that night — fireworks splintering the sky, fans roaring across every street and square.

But inside the small hotel room, tucked away in a forgotten alley near the Alfama district, the world was blissfully silent.

It was just them.

Chloe leaned against the door as YN kicked it shut behind them. Her hands trembled from exhaustion and adrenaline, the weight of the night pressing down on her. But when YN looked at her — really looked — Chloe forgot how to breathe.

"You’re staring," Chloe whispered, voice wrecked and raw.

"You’re beautiful," YN said simply, her Barcelona jersey still damp with champagne and sweat, her hair a mess from the celebrations she had barely participated in.

Chloe let out a shaky laugh, blinking away the burn in her eyes. "You're supposed to be out there holding the trophy, kissing the badge, dancing with your teammates."

"I'd rather be here," YN murmured, closing the space between them, fingers brushing the sides of Chloe’s neck. "With you."

Chloe’s heart stuttered. There had been so many nights when she'd wondered if they would make it. If love could survive flights and fights and finals.

But here she was. Here they were.

"Come here," Chloe whispered, tugging her closer by the hem of her shirt.

YN kissed her like she needed air. Desperate. Hungry. Honest.

Chloe whimpered against her mouth, fingers tangling in the fabric of YN’s kit, clinging like a woman lost at sea.

They stumbled backward toward the bed, half-laughing, half-crying, pulling at jerseys and shorts with frantic hands. Chloe peeled YN’s Barcelona shirt over her head, tossing it somewhere across the room, before dragging her mouth over the skin she'd missed for too many months — the familiar warmth of YN’s shoulders, the curve of her waist, the taste of her sighs.

"God, I've missed you," Chloe breathed against her collarbone.

YN's hands cradled Chloe’s face, thumbs brushing her flushed cheeks. "I’m not going anywhere," YN said, voice fierce and trembling all at once. "I promise."

Chloe’s eyes blurred with tears she couldn't quite stop.

They kissed again, slower this time — a map of every moment they had survived. Chloe pushed YN gently onto the bed, sliding over her, hands roaming reverently as if memorizing her all over again.

YN arched into her touch, whispering Chloe’s name like a prayer between gasps.

The clothes between them disappeared — clumsy, urgent — until skin met skin, and Chloe thought her heart might shatter from how much she loved her.

They moved together like the tide, like they had waited lifetimes for this — every kiss, every touch, a promise stitched into their bones.

When YN finally cried out Chloe’s name, her nails digging into Chloe’s back, Chloe pressed her forehead against hers, laughing breathlessly against her mouth.

"I love you," Chloe whispered again, over and over, between kisses, between promises.

"I love you more," YN whispered back, smiling through tears.

They stayed tangled up in each other long after, the windows open to the soft sounds of Lisbon below — laughter, music, the heartbeat of a city that somehow felt like it had stopped just for them.

Later, when the room was wrapped in soft darkness and the sheets clung to their cooling bodies, Chloe traced lazy patterns across YN’s bare shoulder.

"You meant it, didn’t you?" Chloe whispered. "About not doing long distance anymore?"

YN turned her head, blinking sleepily at her.

"I'll leave Barcelona," she said simply, like it was obvious. "I’ll come to London. Be with you."

"You’d give all that up?" Chloe asked, voice breaking.

YN leaned over and kissed her — slow, sure, forever in her touch.

"I'm not giving up anything," YN said. "I'm choosing you."

Chloe closed her eyes, a tear sliding down her temple into the pillow.

For the first time in what felt like forever, she wasn’t scared of tomorrow.

Because tomorrow — and every day after — would be theirs.

Together.

Always.

Three months later.

Their apartment wasn’t much — two bedrooms, tiny kitchen, walls so thin you could hear the neighbors arguing about whose turn it was to take the bins out.

But to Chloe, it was perfect.

Because it smelled like YN’s cologne on the jackets by the door. Because it sounded like YN’s laugh echoing down the hallway. Because it felt like home for the first time in forever.

Chloe padded barefoot into the kitchen one Saturday morning, her hair a wild mess, drowning in one of YN’s oversized shirts — Barça blue, worn soft from years of washes.

YN was already at the counter, cooking breakfast, her back turned, humming some terrible pop song under her breath.

Chloe grinned, tiptoeing up behind her and looping her arms around her waist.

"You know," Chloe murmured against her shoulder, "you’re not supposed to look this hot making scrambled eggs."

YN chuckled, setting the spatula down and turning to face her.

"And you’re not supposed to look this good stealing my shirts," YN said, tugging lightly at the hem. "Thought you liked being the star in London, not my little housewife."

Chloe’s cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin stubbornly. "You love it."

"I do," YN said lowly, eyes darkening as they dragged down Chloe’s body.

Before Chloe could retort, YN was crowding her against the counter, hands bracketing her hips, mouth brushing dangerously close to her ear.

"Did you even put anything on under this?" YN rasped.

Chloe bit her lip, a teasing spark lighting in her belly. "Maybe," she whispered. "Maybe not."

YN growled under her breath — and then her hands were lifting Chloe effortlessly onto the counter, settling between her legs, claiming her mouth in a kiss that made Chloe moan helplessly into her.

It was always like this now — YN taking control with that quiet, overwhelming intensity. Chloe melting under her hands, under her mouth, under the way she said "mine" like a prayer against her skin.

"Breakfast's gonna burn," Chloe gasped as YN’s mouth traced hot kisses along her neck.

"Don’t care," YN muttered, sliding her hands under the shirt, fingers skimming dangerously high along Chloe’s thighs.

Chloe arched into her, nails raking lightly down YN’s back.

"I hate you," Chloe whispered breathlessly — the oldest lie between them.

YN just smiled against her skin. "No, you don’t."

And then Chloe wasn’t thinking about breakfast anymore. Only about the way YN loved her — fierce, hungry, patient — like Chloe was something holy.

Later, when they finally stumbled back into bed, Chloe curled up on YN’s chest, tracing the outline of her tattoo lazily with her fingertip.

"You’re happy, aren’t you?" Chloe asked quietly, needing to hear it.

YN tilted her head down, catching her gaze.

"I’m more than happy," YN said. "I’m yours."

And then — like she couldn’t help herself — YN reached over to the bedside table, fumbling for something.

Chloe blinked in surprise as YN held out a tiny, velvet box.

"Maybe," YN said, voice thick and shaking just a little for the first time that day, "we should make that permanent."

Chloe’s breath caught. Tears sprang to her eyes instantly.

She opened the box with trembling fingers — inside was a simple, stunning silver ring, engraved with a tiny Lisbon skyline inside the band.

Their city. Their story. Their beginning.

"Marry me, Chlo," YN whispered, voice breaking.

Chloe didn’t even hesitate.

"Yes," she breathed, throwing herself into YN’s arms, laughing and crying all at once. "God, yes."

YN kissed her hard, flipping them over effortlessly, pinning Chloe beneath her with a wicked, tender smile.

"Good," YN murmured against her mouth. "Because I’m never letting you go."

And Chloe — laughing, breathless, so in love it physically hurt — realized she didn’t want to be anywhere else for the rest of her life.

[ouiouibaguettt]

WOSO masterlist pt4

You can ask a request for those player or the player who are on the three other part of the masterlist

masterlist part 1 - masterlist part 2 - masterlist part 3

chloe kelly (arsenal - england)

Across the Divide (one shot)

daphne van domselaar (arsenal - netherlands)

Injury Time (one-shot)

ellie roebuck (fc barcelona - england)

selma paralluelo (fc barcelona - spain)

giulia gwinn (bayern - germany)

lea schüller (bayern - germany)

aggie beever-jones (chelsea - england)

Tackling the Hearts - one shot

Off the Pitch - one shot

sara däbritz (lyon - germany)

[ouiouibaguettt]

Arsenal here I am.

Honestly that was a very great game from them!

I, @ouiouibaguettt

I am committed to writing a fic on the girls of the team of either OL or Arsenal according to the winning team.

If OL wins I make a fic on all the Lyon players in my Masterlist. (And since I have only 2 players from OL I will do 2 fic for each)

If Arsenal wins I make a fic on all the Arsenal players in my masterlist. (I have 6 players now but some players are missing so I will add them later)

There, it’s said.

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Masterlist 3

[ouiouibaguettt]

I, @ouiouibaguettt

I am committed to writing a fic on the girls of the team of either OL or Arsenal according to the winning team.

If OL wins I make a fic on all the Lyon players in my Masterlist. (And since I have only 2 players from OL I will do 2 fic for each)

If Arsenal wins I make a fic on all the Arsenal players in my masterlist. (I have 6 players now but some players are missing so I will add them later)

There, it’s said.

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Masterlist 3

Masterlist 4

[ouiouibaguettt]

Can I request a fluff Alexia fic??🥺🥺

Between Rivals and Roses

YN -> your name. YLN -> your last name.

hope that u will like it

2,1k of words! I do take request guys!!!

masterlist woso1 woso2 woso3

You never meant to like her.

In fact, you were supposed to dislike her.

Alexia Putellas—Spain’s golden girl, the beating heart of FC Barcelona, and the bane of your existence every time El Clásico rolled around. And you? The French firecracker in Real Madrid’s midfield, signed with pride and pressure on your shoulders.

You met her on the pitch first. Cold stares, sharp tackles, a smirk she wore like war paint.

“Careful, francesa,” she murmured during your first ever Clásico, brushing your shoulder with hers. “You might melt under the pressure.”

You narrowed your eyes, heart racing. “Not likely, reina. Worry about yourself.”

It was the start of something strange.

Because every match after that, she sought you out. A glance. A brush of hands when passing by. Words exchanged under the roar of the crowd—sometimes biting, sometimes teasing.

But off the pitch… that’s where things blurred.

You saw her at an awards gala in Madrid, dressed in red and gold like sin itself. She spotted you across the room, lifted her glass with that signature smirk, and you felt your heart hiccup.

The first real conversation happened after an international friendly. Spain vs France. The game had ended in a draw, tension thick but smiles exchanged as the teams shook hands.

“You were brilliant,” she said, stopping you in the tunnel. “You always are.”

You blinked. “Is that a compliment from Alexia Putellas?”

She shrugged, eyes twinkling. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to distract you before the next Clásico.”

You laughed. Mistake.

Because after that, she messaged you. Once. Then again. Then it became a habit.

Training selfies. Voice notes of her teasing your accent. You sending her croissant emojis after she lost a match. Her sending you a Barcelona jersey with your name ironed on the back as a joke (you wore it once—alone—in your apartment, just to see).

The press would lose their minds if they knew.

The team would raise eyebrows.

But when she met you in a quiet café in Madrid on your day off, hood pulled low, and reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, you didn’t stop her.

"You’re still annoying,” you whispered, sipping your coffee.

"And you're still dramatic,” she smiled, lacing your fingers together anyway. “But I like you like that.”

There were still fierce matches, still red cards and screaming fans. She’d shove you on the pitch, and wink when the ref wasn’t looking. You’d tackle her hard and mouth Oops with the most sarcastic smile possible.

But later, in hotel rooms after national call-ups, or during secret weekends in little Spanish towns where no one cared about rivalries, she'd kiss you like you were hers. Soft and sweet and nothing like the war you waged on the field.

“Someday,” she whispered against your skin once, breath warm and slow, “I’ll play beside you. Club, country, doesn’t matter. Just… not against you.”

You smiled into her hair, heart full.

“Until then,” you murmured, “we’ll just have to keep pretending we hate each other.”

Alexia chuckled. “We’re so good at pretending.”

But neither of you let go.

You swore you were being careful.

No Instagram likes. No lingering glances when the cameras were around. No replies to her stories, even when she posted a stupid selfie with her dog and you nearly melted on your hotel bed.

You were careful.

Until you weren’t.

It started with Olga.

You were coming back from international duty—France had played Spain, again. A brutal match. You and Alexia had “accidentally” collided three times, and at one point, you’d whispered, “Hit me any harder and I’ll take it personally.”

To which she smirked and replied, “Don’t tempt me, mi amor.”

Which you definitely did not think about on the flight back.

But Olga must’ve noticed something. Because when you came into training the next day, all smiles and a bit too floaty for someone who’d spent 90 minutes getting elbowed by her "rival," she gave you that look.

“Why are you smiling like that?” she asked, squinting at you across the locker room.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Like you kissed someone. Or stole Barça’s playbook.”

You choked on your water bottle. “I did not kiss anyone.”

Technically true. Not during the match. Not in the stadium.

Olga narrowed her eyes. “Hmm.”

She didn’t bring it up again. Not directly.

But during a post-match interview a few weeks later—after a tense draw between Real and Barça—Alexia had done it again. She’d caught your eye from across the field, mouthed “Nice try”, and winked.

You glared at her (playfully), then immediately had to look away to hide your smile.

The next day, while reviewing match footage, Olga leaned over your shoulder.

“Funny,” she murmured, pausing the video. “This moment here—when Alexia looks at you like you're the last pain au chocolat on Earth. Very sportsmanlike, huh?”

You turned slowly. “You’re imagining things.”

“Oh, am I?”

You were doomed.

Later that evening, in the privacy of your apartment, your phone buzzed.

Alexia [19:32]: Olga knows??

You [19:33]: She suspects. She paused a wink. She’s basically Sherlock Holmes now.

Alexia [19:34]: Told you I wink too much 😭

You [19:34]: No. I told you that. Every time. And you still do it.

Alexia [19:35]: Can’t help it. You’re cute when you’re flustered.

You rolled onto your back and groaned into your pillow.

Later that week, a national break arrived. You had three free days. You told your teammates you were visiting your cousin in Zaragoza. Technically not a complete lie. You just… didn’t specify who you were staying with.

When you arrived at Alexia’s apartment, she opened the door in sweatpants and socks with little Spanish flags on them.

You pointed. “You are so on-brand, it’s ridiculous.”

She pulled you in by the collar. “And you’re late.”

You spent the night curled up on her couch, watching a movie with half-eaten popcorn between you. She kissed your temple during a quiet scene and you thought, Rivalries be damned.

But the next morning, as you scrolled through your phone, you stopped on Olga’s latest Instagram story.

It was a selfie. Her, with a very suspicious eyebrow raise. The caption?

“Hope your ‘cousin’ is nice. 😏”

You froze.

Alexia leaned over your shoulder and cackled. “Oh, she knows.”

You groaned, burying your face in her shoulder. “I’m never going to live this down.”

She kissed the top of your head. “Guess we’ll just have to score more goals and make her too busy to care.”

“…Or just tell her.”

“Or that.”

You sighed. “Maybe next week.”

Alexia smiled and handed you her mug. “Next week, then. For now, drink your coffee, ma belle rivale.”

You smiled into the rim. Maybe being bad at hiding wasn’t so bad after all.

Word spreads fast in football circles.

Faster, even, when it’s scandalous. When it’s unexpected. When it’s you and Alexia Putellas.

You don’t know how someone from Barça found out. Maybe it was a screenshot. A message left open. A little too much softness in her smile when she looked at you during warmups.

Either way, you felt it the moment you stepped onto the pitch for El Clásico.

Something was off.

The Barcelona girls weren’t just sharp—they were cold. You’d gotten used to the bite, sure, but this was personal. You caught Aitana staring at you like she knew everything. Like she was just waiting for you to slip.

And then it happened.

67th minute. The ball bounced loose at midfield. You sprinted. So did Alexia.

You didn’t see her until the last second—her body shifted, your foot came down, and suddenly she was on the ground, clutching her ankle.

“Shit—Alexia!” you dropped down beside her instantly, panic blooming in your chest.

But she looked up at you, pale and in pain, and whispered, “I know it wasn’t on purpose.”

Too late.

Because by then, they were there.

Mapi was the first. “Qué carajo estás haciendo?!” she snapped, grabbing your shoulder and yanking you back.

“Hey—HEY!” you shouted, hands up, trying to explain. “It was an accident!”

“You injured her!” Ona growled, stepping between you and Alexia.

“I didn’t mean to—”

That’s when it happened.

A fist. A blur. Pain blossomed across your cheek as Mapi punched you. Full force.

Everything went still.

You staggered back, clutching your face, eyes wide. The ref was screaming. Your teammates rushed over. Olga was already shoving between you and Mapi, yelling in Spanish, hands flying.

You didn’t even register the red card.

Didn’t care.

Because Alexia was still on the ground.

You broke free, ignoring the chaos, pushing past the ref to kneel beside her again.

“I swear I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, your voice breaking.

She reached up—barely—and touched your arm, eyes glassy. “I know. I know, mi amor.”

They took her off the pitch a few minutes later. You were sent off. Your coach looked like she wanted to strangle someone. Maybe you. Maybe Mapi. Maybe both.

The tunnel was dead silent.

Until footsteps echoed.

You looked up from the bench outside the medical room—and froze.

Mapi.

“Here to break my nose too?” you muttered bitterly, ice pack pressed against your cheek.

She crossed her arms, jaw clenched. “…She’s family to us.”

“I love her,” you snapped back, voice raw. “Don’t you get that? I would never hurt her.”

Mapi paused. Something in her expression shifted. “She defended you before they even finished checking her ankle. Said it wasn’t your fault. Said to tell you she was okay.”

You exhaled sharply. Relief hit you like a wave, and your shoulders dropped.

Mapi studied you for a long moment. “Just… don’t make her cry, francesa.”

Then she walked away.

Later that night, you were in your hotel room, half-asleep, when your phone buzzed.

Alexia [22:17]: I told them the truth. That it was an accident. Also, they’re banned from touching you ever again 😅 My ankle’s just bruised. I’m okay.

You stared at the message, tears burning the back of your throat.

Then another ping.

Alexia [22:18]: Come see me tomorrow?

You [22:18]: I’ll be there. With ice cream and a very bruised face.

Alexia [22:19]: Perfect. We’ll match.

You showed up at her door with a bruised cheek, two tubs of ice cream, and three kinds of guilt pressing on your chest.

Alexia opened the door in a hoodie three sizes too big, messy bun in full force, and a soft smile that made your knees weak.

“You look like you got hit by a truck,” she said gently, tilting her head.

You lifted the tub in your hand. “And you look like you need bubblegum ice cream and ten apologies.”

She stepped aside and let you in without another word.

You didn’t realize how tense you were until she curled into your side on the couch, her head resting against your shoulder like it always belonged there.

For a few minutes, you just sat there—eating in silence, your fingers brushing, the TV playing something neither of you were watching.

Then she looked up at you.

“You really scared me, you know,” she whispered. “Not because of the tackle. Because of your face when they came for you.”

You winced. “I couldn’t even explain. They were already ready to kill me.”

She reached up and ran her fingers carefully along the bruise on your cheek. “Mapi’s going to apologize. Eventually. I told her everything. That we’ve been… us.”

You turned your head toward her. “And what did she say?”

Alexia smiled faintly. “That you’d better be serious about me.”

You swallowed hard. “I am.”

Her expression softened like the evening light outside the window. “Good. Because I am too.”

She leaned up, kissed the edge of your jaw—lightly, careful of the bruise. You closed your eyes, letting yourself breathe for the first time since that tackle.

The next day, you returned to Real Madrid’s training ground.

And the second you stepped into the locker room, all eyes were on you.

Olga crossed her arms, eyebrow raised. “So…”

You blinked. “So… what?”

She smirked. “How’s your cousin?”

Groans filled the room, followed by laughter. Even Athenea threw a towel at you. “Seriously?! Alexia?!”

You sighed and slumped into the nearest bench. “Is everyone psychic here?”

“To be fair,” Misa said, “you’re not exactly subtle.”

“I tackled her,” you muttered.

Olga leaned closer. “Yeah. And then you looked like your soul left your body. It was weirdly romantic.”

You covered your face. “This is a nightmare.”

Olga nudged your shoulder. “Relax. We’re not mad. Just shocked.”

“She’s Alexia Putellas,” Athenea added. “And you’re you. Honestly? Kind of iconic.”

A long beat.

Then Olga grinned. “If you bring her to the next team dinner, I will make her wear a Real Madrid scarf.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You sighed but couldn’t help smiling. “You’re all the worst.”

Later that night, your phone buzzed.

Alexia [20:10]: I told Patri about us too. She just sighed and said “finally.” Apparently we were never subtle.

You [20:11]: I think our teams might ship us more than we do.

Alexia [20:12]: Is that even possible?

You [20:12]: Not when you look at me like that after every tackle 😏

Alexia [20:13]: You tackled me ONCE. Calm down.

You [20:13]: Okay but I cried after. That’s romance, Putellas.

Alexia [20:14]: Come over.

You [20:14]: Already on my way.