#vicky lopez

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

ellie 🥺

[pedripics]

😄😄

[pollitodesplumado]

Ayer decían que Vicky juega descaradamente, sim inhibición o complejos. Pero es que Vicky no solo juega asi, ella vive asi.

[theitaliansalad]

draw against Portugal and now we have to face beast-mode Alexia and her team of ungovernable, deranged demons:

[meazalykov]

nazareth 18

kika nazareth x f!influencer!reader

when your millions of followers discover who your longtime girlfriend is

a whirlwind of light, a beacon on tiktok with over ten million followers hanging onto your every post, you were known for being so bright.

your content with beauty tutorials, travel vlogs, and that genuine, humble charm has made you… somewhat known to most people.

your face, glowing under golden-hour light or bright in casual settings, is synonymous with aspiration. yet, despite the fame, you’ve kept a piece of yourself private, tucked away from the prying eyes of fans and algorithms. 

no one knows you’re in love. 

no one knows you’re in love with a woman. 

no one knows it’s kika nazareth, the portuguese stargirl at barcelona.

it started in barcelona, nearly two years ago. a mutual friend introduced you during a night out. kika, then ten months into being with the city’s club, was magnetic. the girl’s laugh is warm, her eyes bright with a quiet confidence, and her smile pulled you in. 

you were struck by her ease to say the least. it’s the way she carried herself like she belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

“you’re the girl from tiktok, right?” she teased the first time you’ve met, her accent curling softly around the words. 

you laughed, nodding, and said, “and you’re the footballer, right?” 

it was light, playful.

over time, that undeniable spark grew. texts turned into late-night calls and coffee meetups became weekend getaways. you’d fly into barcelona between brand deals, and kika would sneak away from bonding with the team to steal moments with you instead. 

when she tore her ankle ligaments, requiring surgery and months of recovery, you were there. you’d sit with her in her apartment, her leg propped up, and you’d talk about everything. for kika, the way the world felt too big and too small all at once, but you made it bearable. 

“i don’t know how i’d do this without you,” she’d whisper, her hand finding yours. 

you’d squeeze back, heart full, and say, “you don’t have to.”

now, almost a year into your relationship, you’re careful. your followers know you love barcelona since you’re always in the city somehow. you’ve posted about it enough, from selfies at the stadium to beachside vlogs.

still, they don’t know about kika. not yet at least. 

you and kika have talked about it, about how to share your love with a world that’s both adoring and invasive. 

“we’ll do it our way,” kika says one night, her head resting on your shoulder as you lie on her couch. 

“slowly and softly, i hope.” you nod, tracing circles on her palm. 

“wait– wouldn’t that be a soft launch?” you murmur, and she laughs kissing your cheek, “yes, exactly.”

the first hint to your fans comes by accident. 

it’s a champions league group stage match, barcelona versus ajax. you’re in the stands, cheering, your face painted with the club’s colors. you’re not hiding since you’ve always been a fan, but cameras catch you and social media does the rest. 

clips of you clapping, smiling, singing the anthem spread like wildfire. 

“y/n is at a barcelona game again,” one post reads, “she’s basically part of the team.” 

however, someone notices something. 

they notice the way you linger near the tunnel, the way you wave at someone on the pitch. speculation begins. 

“i know she is at the women's game but she seems very close with players on both the mens and womens team? is she dating someone?” a fan asks. 

“gotta be,” another replies, “she’s too invested.”

you lean into it, just a little. 

a few days later, you post an instagram picture. 

y/n.l/n

liked by kika.nazareth, ferrantorres, and 189,719 others

y/n.l/n gold

~click to view all 3,910 comments~

it’s you, standing on a barcelona street at golden hour wearing the black away kit. the breeze catches your hair, making it dance, and the kit’s sleek lines stand out against the soft light.

you’re turned slightly away from the camera, casual in blue levi’s, but the vibe is effortless, magnetic. 

the caption is simple with “gold” and within hours, the post has hundred thousand likes. from the mens team, ferran likes it. lamine likes it. pedri likes it. 

the comments explode.

“y/n and ferran??” 

“lamine’s got a crush, i’m calling it!”

“pedri would be cute for her tho!” 

you see the speculation during a tiktok livestream at home at nighttime once, your phone propped up as you do a quick q&a. a comment pops up: “are you dating pedri or ferran? spill the tea!” 

you laugh, shaking your head. 

“guys, no,” you say with your voice light but firm, “not them. not anyone on the men’s team. let’s chill with the rumors.” 

the chat goes wild, but you don’t elaborate. kika, watching from her apartment, texts you a heart-eyes emoji. 

kika: 

you’re cute when you’re dodging

y/n: 

just wait.

you and kika plan the next step carefully. the champions league group stage match against arsenal is the moment. at first, you were doubtful but kika assured you that she is okay with everything.

you’re in the stands again, this time wearing the home kit, the number 18 and “nazareth” emblazoned on the back. you’re not subtle, but you’re not overt either…you’re just you, cheering for your girlfriend. 

during the game, a fan snaps a photo of you talking to salma, who sits beside you since she is sidelined with an injury. you’re turned around from the fan’s camera, the “nazareth 18” clear as day. 

the image hits x and instagram like a tidal wave. 

“y/n’s wearing kika’s kit???” 

“wait, is she…?” 

the game ends with a 3-0 win, kika scoring a stunner in the second half. the crowd screamed, and you’re on your feet, screaming her name. after the whistle, kika jogs to the stands, her smile wide and unguarded. 

you lean over the railing, reaching down, and she stretches up to hug you. it’s quick but electric, her arms tight around you, your hands cupping her face for a split second. 

“you’re my hero,” you whisper, and she laughs, her eyes sparkling. 

“and you’re mine,” she whispers back. cameras catch it all, and the internet loses its mind.

by morning, your social media is a storm. 

“y/n and kika nazareth are dating???” a tiktok with a full discussion blows up. they’ve been stitching together clips of your interactions: kika liking your posts, you commenting heart emojis on her posts, a blurry photo of you two at a café last summer. 

“how did we miss this?” 

“they’ve been soft-launching for months, and we thought they were just friends.” 

“y/n as a wag is everything,” 

“and a woman’s wag? iconic.”

you and kika sit on her balcony that night. she’s in a hoodie, her hair loose, and you’re wrapped in a blanket, your phone buzzing endlessly. 

“not like i would’ve cared anyways, but they’re happy for us,” you say, scrolling through comments. 

“they’re freaking out, but they’re happy.” 

kika pulls you closer, her lips brushing your temple. 

“good,” she says softly, “because i’m happy. i want them to know how much i love you.” your heart skips, and you turn to kiss her, slow and sweet. 

“i love you too,” you murmur against her lips. 

“always.”

you hear footsteps come out towards the balcony, the light door opening as you look up to see vicky looking down at y’all, “get a room.”

“oh, i forgot you were here.” 

you joke, everyone laughing as vicky sits down beside on the bench. 

a week later, and people are not over it. tiktok edits of your hug after the arsenal match are everywhere, set to popular tracks with heart emojis flooding the comments. your followers, once clueless, now scour your old content for crumbs of your relationship, and they’re finding plenty.

there’s a fleeting glance in a vlog, kika’s laugh in the background of a story. you’re still the beauty and travel influencer they adore, but now you’re also a footballers girlfriend, and they’re obsessed with the shift.

you’re in your barcelona apartment, the one you’ve been staying in more often since kika’s recovery. it’s a cozy space, with sun streaming through the windows, casting warm patches on the hardwood floor. 

you’ve set up your phone on a tripod in the living room for a casual tiktok livestream. you’re in a loose sweater, hair tucked behind your ears, chatting with your followers about your latest skincare routine as per usual. 

the vibe is relaxed, your voice soft and easy as you read comments. 

“yes, i’m still using that olehenriksen serum,” you say, laughing at a fan’s question. 

“i'm not even sponsored but it is so good, i highly recommend.” the live has been going for about twenty minutes, with almost 29,000 people tuned in, their comments scrolling fast.

you’re mid-sentence, answering a question about your favorite travel destination, when kika’s voice floats in from the kitchen. 

“babe, come try this!” she calls, her accent warm and lilting. 

you glance toward the sound, a smile tugging at your lips. 

she’s been in there for the past hour, clattering pots and humming to herself, determined to perfect a recipe her mom sent her…a portuguese caldo verde, she said, though she’s been tweaking it with her own spin. 

you hold up a finger to the camera. 

“one sec, guys, kika’s cooking something,” you say, your tone bright. the chat explodes with heart eyes and “kika!!!” comments.

kika appears in the doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand, her dark hair pulled into a messy bun. she’s in a barcelona hoodie, sleeves pushed up, and there’s a smudge of flour on her cheek that makes her look impossibly endearing. 

“come on, it’s almost ready,” she says, beckoning you with a grin. she steps into the frame, unaware of the thousands watching, and holds out the spoon, a small pool of steaming broth glistening on it. 

“taste,” she urges, blowing gently on the spoon to cool it down. her eyes are bright, focused on you.

you lean forward, letting her guide the spoon to your lips. the broth is warm, savory, with a hint of something smoky and rich. your eyes widen, and your jaw drops as the flavor hits you. 

“wait, hold on!! that’s so delicious,” you say, your voice rising with genuine surprise. you grab her wrist, keeping the spoon close as you take another tiny sip. 

“hold on, what is this?” you’re already standing, following her toward the kitchen like a kid chasing a treat. 

kika laughs, glancing back at you with a playful roll of her eyes.

you’ve completely forgotten about the livestream. your phone, still propped up, captures the empty couch for a moment before the comments start bursting through.

“did she just leave???” 

“kika’s cooking for her omg” 

“this is so cute i’m dying.” 

the kitchen is just out of frame, but your voices carry through the phone as you talk. 

“okay, so what’s in this?” you ask, leaning against the counter. you can’t see kika’s face from the phone’s angle, but her voice is animated. 

“potatoes, kale, some chorizo for the kick to it,” she says, “and i added a little smoked paprika because, you know, i’m extra.” 

you laugh, the sound bright and unguarded. 

“i feel like you’re always extra, sweetheart,” you say, the name slipping out naturally.

kika’s laugh is softer, closer, like she’s stepped toward you. 

“shut up!! you love it,” she teases, and you can hear the smile in her voice. 

“i do,” you admit, your tone so fond it’s almost tangible. there’s a clink of a pot lid, then kika’s voice again.

“okay, try this one now…it’s got more garlic.” you make a dramatic “ooh” sound, and she giggles. 

“don’t mock me, this is serious business,” she says, but she’s laughing too. the livestream audience is eating it up, the chat a blur of “SWEETHEART???” and “they’re so in love” come in rapidly.

you’re in the kitchen for a good five minutes, tasting, joking, bantering. kika tells you about the time her brother tried to make the same soup and ended up with something “like dishwater,” and you’re wheezing, clutching her arm as you laugh. 

you don’t realize how much time has passed until you glance at the clock and gasp. 

“oh no, my phone!” you say, suddenly remembering. 

kika raises an eyebrow. 

“what, you’re still live?” she asks, and you nod, already jogging back to the living room.

you grab the phone, and your eyes widen at the screen since 17,000 people are still watching, the chat moving so fast it’s a blur. 

“oh my god, guys, i forgot i was live,” you say, laughing as you sit back on the couch. your cheeks are flushed, partly from the kitchen warmth, partly from the realization that your entire love-soaked exchange was broadcasted. 

kika follows, leaning over the back of the couch, her chin resting on her folded arms. 

she’s still holding the spoon, and she waves it at the camera with a grin. 

“hola!!!” she says, her voice playful.

you turn to kika, mock-exasperated. 

“i left you guys for, like, ten minutes, and you’re still here?” you say to the camera, but your smile betrays you. kika laughs, reaching over to ruffle your hair. 

“they’re a bunch of barca fans who are here for me, obviously,” she teases, and you swat her hand away, giggling. 

“rude,” you say, but you’re leaning into her touch, your shoulder brushing hers. 

you glance at the chat, catching a comment, the sweetheart moment was everything.

you groan, covering your face with your hands, “oh noooo you guys heard that?” you ask, peeking through your fingers. 

kika just laughs again, loud and unselfconscious, and wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“guys please clip that, so she can’t deny the simp allegations,” she says, her voice warm against your ear. 

you groan again, but you’re smiling, your head resting against her. 

“whateverrr,” you say, softer now, and the chat fills with hearts. 

the livestream ends a few minutes later, but not before kika makes a few jokes and reminds your chat to watch the next upcoming women’s clasico on friday. 

you laugh, happy that your life has brought you to this point.

[imverits]

[yamumsyadadd]

when the bird sings

reader has selective mutism. Some talks of death, blood, nothing too graphic. Wrote it in a few hours and now I’m off to sleep.

Everyone had their little quirks, things that made them different from everyone else. There were the obvious ones, different finger prints, a unique DNA sequence. But then there are the less obvious, their childhood, their culture, their routines and personalities. Yours was different to anyone you knew. 

Selective mutism. 

It started after your mum died. A lot of things did. You weren’t always mute. When you first moved to Lyon, after two years at PSG, you became mute again. It was something you tried really hard to get out of, but when you were anxious or overwhelmed, it just happened. 

The older players at PSG took care of you. Irene and her partner Lucinda, Christiane and Luana. When it was announced you’d be leaving for the cross country rivals Lyon. They made sure to talk to Wendie and Ada. Christiane, who was also joining Lyon, promised Luana and Irene that she’d take care of you. 

For the first few weeks, you didn’t say a word to anyone on the field or during whiteboard sessions. Everything was new and scary but overtime you settled in. Ada was always there, holding your hand when you were getting overwhelmed. Wendie made sure to report back to the PSG girls. 

You were only 16, so incredibly young compared to the rest of the team and sometimes they forgot about how young you really were. They were reminded during the celebrations of the Champions League in 2021, while they were all getting drunk and dancing, you were sat quietly in your cubby watching along. 

Truthfully you were glad that you couldn’t go out. It was an exhausting game, somehow you’d managed to get the ball off the Alexia Putellas and score the opening goal. That was a memory you’d have in your mind forever. 

For the next two years you were comfortable. The mutism only really occurred on the anniversary of your mums death or during big games or when you were having a hard time. 

A few weeks before the champions league final against Barcelona in Bilbao, you were told that Lyon weren’t going to offer you a new contract. It was a hard pill to swallow. Immediately your agent reached out to other teams, Barcelona, Chelsea, Bayern and even a few teams in north and South America. It was a lot to think about and because of that, you went mute. 

The game itself wasn’t that different to other times. It could’ve been a repeat of the 22 season but it wasn’t. The first half was pretty equal but then Aitana Bonmati opened the scoring for Barcelona in the 63’ minute. From the on it felt like a never ending battle. 

When Alexia Putellas came on the field in the final few minutes, the entire stadium went crazy. It was then that you realised the game was over. As soon as she was on the field, everything changed and less than 90 seconds later she scored. Nailing the final nail in the coffin. 

Barcelona has just bet Lyon for the first time. 

It was well after the game that Ada pulled you into her side. She had just been talking to Alexia and her family, alexia had mentioned you and Ada had offered to introduce the two of you. But before she had the chance, she had to give her a quick warning. 

“Y/n, is a bit different. She’s got selective mutism so she probably won’t talk. She is a big fan though! Huge! You’re definitely her favourite player.” Alexia laughed and Ada went off to find you. 

If you weren’t mute before Ada presented you like an award, you would’ve been after. 

“Hola y/n. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” All you could do was nod your head and smile. Slowly she introduced you to her family and her girlfriend. When Irene and Lucinda came over you visible relaxed. Happily listening to everyone chat about trivial things. 

You were about to say something, finally feeling comfortable enough to talk, And then you heard it. Something you’d been hearing all your life, Alexia’s little sister making a comment that to her wouldn’t mean much, but to you it would send you spiralling. 

“She’s weird no? Doesn’t talk just stands there hitting her leg. Her mami didn’t teach her manners.” The tapping ceased immediately. You probably weren’t supposed to understand her but with your Spanish lessons ramping up thanks to the soon to be announced move to Barcelona, you understood. 

All it took was one look from Irene and you felt your eyes start to fill up. 

“Y/n…” you shook her hand off your arm. 

“No no. Do you- do you think I like being this way?” Your voice was shaky, worse than normal thanks to the tears, “this isn’t fun for me. I don’t want to be weird, I don’t want to be this way but I am. I may be weird, but you, you’re a horrible person and I think that’s worse.” You were fully crying now. Alexia and her mum were confused, they hadn’t heard what Alba had said. 

Ada grabbed your hands, unclenching the fists you had made before you could realise. “No don’t touch-touch me. Leave me.” 

Both Irene and Lucinda turned to Alba, both taking in turns to yell at her. Ada ran after you and followed you to a random supply closet. You hated that you were this way. No one usually said anything to your face, sure there were whispers from other teams or fans but your teammates were always there to put their foot down. 

Everything became too much. Breathing, blinking, crying. Your usual post game exhaustion had been multiplied. 

After that game, something changed inside of you. Over the summer you moved from France to Spain. Distancing yourself from your now ex-teammates. Thankfully, a lot of them were in the Olympics or on holidays in various countries so you didn’t have to reply much. 

All summer your brain was in an anxiety faze. You knew you had Irene on the team to help you, but that was it. Irene was older, a captain who had to go off and do extra duties. She wouldn’t be able to help at all times and that scared you. 

Albas words buzzed through your head, “she’s weird” expect it wasnt alba saying it, it was all your new teammates. The club had been given a full rundown of what had happened in the past, and the psychologist was a lovely woman. But it didn’t help much. 

You wanted to go home, to be with your mum but that wasn’t possible. So you carried on the way you knew how. Not talking, not making eye contact, being in a state of fight or flight. 

As the preseason continued on, the girls who competed in the Olympics slowly made their way back. Everyone took the time to introduce themselves but a few in particular stood out. 

After a weird landing, your ankle was a bit sore so you followed the directions Pere had given you and ended up in the medical room. Vicky and Cata were in there getting their preseason checks. 

You spoke quietly to the medical staff, explaining what happened and where it hurts. Thankfully it was nothing more than a sprain and all you had to do with ice it. 

“Hola! I’m Vicky.” She plopped herself down on the bed next to you, “alexia says you don’t talk much but that’s okay because I can talk enough for the both of us.” And boy did she talk. You liked listening to Vicky, her voice was soothing and she was funny. 

After a week, Vicky invited you to hang out with her and Jana. Jana was polite and very caring, she talked a lot too. Slowly but surely more people were invited to the hang outs and you became friends with them all. They all told you their secrets, probably because they knew you wouldn’t say anything since Irene was the only person you spoke to. 

When Christmas rolled around you were finally talking a bit. Not lots like you used to, especially not when you were in training or a big group, but when you were with Jana or Vicky, you talked more than they could imagine you would. 

Just like every new year that rolls around, so does the anniversary of your mums death. You don’t talk about it and no one asks. Irene was in PSG when it happened but she kept the details tight lipped. After all, it wasn’t her secret to tell. 

A pair of cleats to the ribs was enough to keep you out for a couple of weeks, making the time round the anniversary even worse. unfortunately for you, the progress you made had all but disappeared. To those around you it was worrying, but Irene assured them it would be okay in a few weeks, that this was what happened. 

What you didn’t account for was both Patri and Alexia to be injured at the same time. Meaning all three of you were in the gym doing rehab together. For the last seven or so months, you avoided Alexia. 

It wasn’t necessary her as a human that you were avoiding, more the feeling of the months following what her sister had said. Every time she tried to talk to you, you simply walked away. If it was about football you’d listen but anything else was a no go.

“I’m glad you have found yourself some friends on the team.” Patri was off doing her own thing, while you were stuck being Alexia’s partner. “We haven’t really had a chance to chat have we?” 

You stayed quiet, not because you didn’t have anything to say. The complete opposite. It wasn’t Alexia’s fault that her sister’s stupid comment struck a nerve or that you were injured, or for global warming but you just had the urge to scream at her. 

“Irene and Lucinda talk highly of you. Matteo too. They came over for dinner a few nights ago.” Silence. She raises an eyebrow at you but continues on, “when I was 19 my papi died. He was my best friend, biggest supporter. I miss him every day.” Not even that for a reaction out of you. 

Not that it would. You didn’t know your dad, too young to remember him when he left you and your mum. She was your best friend, your biggest supporter. 

Alexia continued to ramble on about her life, to be completely honest you weren’t really listening until she started talking about her sister. You could feel yourself getting frustrated, the memories from that day in the tunnel coming back. 

“She’s a primary school teacher. She’s-“

“Respectfully, I don’t give a fuck.” You walked off, leaving both Alexia and the Physio in shock. Neither had heard you talk much so hearing you swear was crazy. 

You knew that alexia would report back to Irene and you’d get an ear full but you didn’t care. You didn’t want to hear about how her sister was a primary school teacher, that she was patient and caring, because to you she wasn’t. A stupid comment from her sent you spiralling for months. 

Irene did in fact corner you later in the day, but she wasn’t alone. Alexia was stood in the corner like a shadow, with one look from Irene you knew you had to apologise. 

“Tell her.” You shook your head at her demand, feeling like a defiant child. “Tell her or I will.” 

“Irene it’s-“

“No. Enough is enough. Alexia, you didn’t do anything wrong. Alba did.” 

Now alexia was even more confused, “what did alba do?” 

“She said I was weird.” You mumbled out. It was like a lightbulb went off in Alexia’s head. 

That day in the tunnel, Irene and Lucinda pulled Alba away from the original group. No one would tell them what was said no matter how much Alexia pushed. With the Olympics and the new season she had completely forgotten. 

“That’s not all. She said her mum didn’t teach her manners.” Irene’s face softened slightly, knowing she was now needing to tread lightly. 

“She’s dead. My mum.” 

“I’m sorry..”

“Do you want me to keep going?” She knew this was hard for you, but also knew that Alexia needed more information so she could fix this. You nodded slightly, putting your hands over your ears to bring you some relief. Instead of doing it in front of you, Irene led Alexia out to the hallway. 

“Four years ago her mum was murdered in a robbery gone bad. Y/n came home and she was laying on the floor. She tried to stop the bleeding but she couldn’t do that and call for an ambulance. After that she became developed anxiety and the selective mutism. She’s got a few other quirks too.” 

“The hand tapping?” 

“Sometimes she’s convinced she can feel the blood on her hands so she taps to prove to herself that she doesn’t and sometimes it’s just a nervous tick.” 

“How does this relate back to alba?” 

“She said to Olga that y/n was weird and that she wasn’t taught manners. Maybe it was meant as a joke but to her, it derailed everything. She worked hard for years and she knows it’s weird. It struck an insecurity, and my guess is that it also embarrassed her because she looks up to you.” 

“I can fix this right? I can make Alba apologise and talk to her.” 

“I think from you, reassurance is enough. She thinks the girls think she’s weird too. Maybe avoid bringing Alba up.” 

Over the following weeks alexia’s determination never faulted. Everyday she would try and have a conversation with you, even if it was telling you about her dinner or that her girlfriend was home from Madrid. Slowly but surely you became more relaxed around her. 

Because you didn’t have your license, you were often passed around by your teammates. It was alexia’s turn to drive you home and you’d gotten used to her so you didn’t complain. 

It was only five minutes into your drive that you spoke to her, actually spoke to her. “How did your dad die?” She looked over at you, eyebrows furrowed. “Sorry you don’t have to answer that.” 

“Do you ever google your teammates?” 

“No that’s weird.” 

“He had a heart condition. He went into heart failure and ended up passing away from it.” You hummed. Not really sure what else to say. 

People carrying grief differently you realised. Alexia doesn’t talk about her dad much, and you don’t talk about your mum but Vicky does. She talks about her mum a lot, Irene talks about her brother. Sometimes people need to express their grief and sometimes people need to bury it. 

“I need to apologise to you.” To was your turn to look at her with your eyebrows furrowed, “my sister said something unkind to you and I didn’t do anything. If anyone, a teammate, someone from the other team, or even a fan, says something to you that is unkind or makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me. I know you have Irene and Lucinda, Ada and Wendie, but having one more person in your corner couldn’t hurt.” 

“Thanks.” You nodded your head, wiping your sweaty hands on your track pants. 

While you found yourself struggling with grief the following week, you were never alone with it. Mapi and Vicky could go head to head in a yapping competition, Irene and Marta continued to make sure you were fed and hydrated, and then there was Alexia. 

On the bad day, she sat on the floor in the locker room holding your hands, soothingly rubbing over them after she walked into your rubbing them raw. 

When Easter arrived, the entire team and their families gathered on the back fields for a lunch and Easter egg hunt. There were lots of laughs and while you had gone mute, everyone was incredibly patient and friendly. 

There was one person, or really group of people, you were actively trying to avoid. It worked until Lucinda dragged you over to Alexia’s family. The tension was rife, alba looked like she was going to burst and all it took was one look in her direction for her to. 

“I am so so sorry y/n. You were right, I was horrible. I am horrible. I didn’t mean what I said and I don’t think you’re weird at all. I think-“

“Thank you.” It was all you could muster up but everyone looked like they could finally relax. “I was wrong. You’re not horrible. You said something horrible but that doesn’t make you horrible.” Irene wrapped her arm around your shoulders, giving it a squeeze. 

There probably wouldn’t be a time that you could ever talk in front of the cameras, or do general media things. But with a little more time you were able to contribute during training. The days you didn’t speak left everyone feeling a little down, they missed the sounds of your laugh or your imitation of Marta with a fake high pitched voice. 

You never once felt weird, or as an outcast because the team simply wouldn’t let you. To them, you were family. And they were your entire world. 

[pitchsidestories]

How fast the night changes II Aitana Bonmatí x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1945

summary: Reader and Aitana dreamed of debuting together. Now, she watches from the sidelines—still part of the game, still part of her. requested

author's note: hey, we hope you enjoy this oneshot — as always, we really appreciate any feedback or thoughts you’d like to share with us. 💙❤️

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

Every pass floated smoothly across the wet grass. You didn’t even need to look, you always knew where Aitana was on the pitch at all times.

There was this quiet understanding between you, your playing styles matching puzzle pieces. When one had the ball, the other one simply knew where to go. You just worked, like clockwork.

You played the pass blindly, slipping it perfectly between two defenders. And as the stadium erupted, you knew without seeing it, that Aitana had received the ball like you knew she would.

Everything that happened next was second nature. Aitana would cut inside. She would send the ball into the box. You only had to make the run, and it would be an easy goal. You knew that.

But as you took the first strides, accelerating from a light jog to a full sprint, it happened. A sharp pain in your knee, as your studs caught in the grass. Your knee gave in with a loud pop.

Pain blurred together with the sudden realisation of what had just happened.

You found yourself on the grass, unable to move. Screaming, from pain and frustration, tears started to slip from the corners of your eyes.

The faces of your teammates appeared over you, worried and afraid. From their expressions you knew it.

It was over.

You didn’t want to see any of them, there was only one person you needed right now.

“Y/N!”

There she was. Aitana ran toward you, calling out your name.

You tried to reach for her, let her hold you and comfort you but the medics already lifted you on a stretcher. Your fingertips barely touched hers and then you were already carried off.

“Y/N?”

It was Aitana again, her voice soft this time.

You blinked. There was no football stadium and no stretcher. Just your bedroom.

Early morning light filtered into the room.

You blinked again, trying to find your way back into reality.

“Bon dia.”, Aitana smiled at you. Her hair was damp, her skin warm from the shower. She must have been awake for a while.

Once she recognised the disturbed look on your face, her eyebrows knotted together.

“Nightmare?”, she asked gently.

You nodded, sitting up slowly. Your voice cracked slightly: “I… yeah…”

It had been years since the injury, it shouldn’t haunt you anymore, but it did.

Aitana sat down on the empty side of the bed, reaching for your hand: “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No… it’s the same one I always have.”, you said, shaking your head. Back when the injury happened, and the doctors rather quickly confirmed it had ended your young career, the nightmares were even more frequent keeping you awake most nights.

So many questions kept circling in your head at the time, making your heart pound: Who were you, if not a professional athlete? What would your career path look like now?  

Then, as in the present, Aitana had always been there for you.

In this moment, the brunette gave you an empathetic smile: “Oh, amor. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”, you assured her.

Slowly, Aitana got up from the bed and declared: “Wait here. I’ll make us some coffee.”

Her spot was quickly taken over by your beloved black cat, who elegantly curled up in your lap. Despite their reputation, she always knew exactly when to come—and when you needed her quiet comfort.

It didn’t take your girlfriend long to return with two steaming cups of cappuccino, and you gratefully took one into your hands.

“Thanks, amor.”

“You’re welcome.”, Aitana replied with a smile, settling down opposite you.

“Appreciate it.”, you muttered.

Lightly, she teased: “Feeling better, coach?”

“Don’t, Tana.”, you grimaced.

The midfielder bit her lip, looking apologetic: “Too soon? Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you said warmly.

 Invitingly, you opened your arms, setting the cup down on the nightstand which had little space left, mostly taken over by books: “Come here for a bit.”

“Our cat seems to be enjoying it too.”, Aitana observed with a smirk as she gladly accepted your invitation, the three of you settling down together.

Mirroring her grin, you agreed: “She’s very cuddly today.”

“Yes, the little one can sense that you needed this after the bad dream.”, she hummed. For a moment, the brunette closed her eyes, savouring the peacefulness, until they flicked open again and landed on the clock.

Quietly, your girlfriend cursed: “Shit, we need to get ready!”

“You’re right.”, you chuckled, amused by how your usually composed partner was anything but, in this moment.

Mockingly, Aitana raised a finger: “You work or don’t work. Hey!”

“I always work.”, you replied, playfully tossing a pillow in her direction.

As a sign of peace, she offered: “We’ll be faster if we shower together.” Apparently, she’d already forgotten she’d had one just an hour ago.

“Oh, I’m sure this is purely about time management and saving water.”, you laughed, thoroughly amused.

Innocently, your girlfriend helped you out of bed, the two of you holding hands as you stepped into the bathroom: “Definitely. Come on.”

Unlike your younger, more anxious self, you had managed to find a job that kept you as close to the pitch as possible. You were just beginning your journey as a coach, learning under the guidance of the Barcelona B team manager.

Although the environment was familiar—after all, both you and Aitana had come through the ranks of La Masia coaching within the system posed an entirely new kind of challenge.

“Hi, y/n, I’ve got a suggestion for you.”, he greeted you.

Surprised, you looked at him: “You do?”

He nodded calmly: “I spoke to Pere. He offered to let you intern with him for a while.”

Your eyes widened.

“Oh, I’d love that.”, you stammered, overwhelmed with emotion and struggling to put it into words.

“I think it’ll help your development to see all teams here.”, he added.

“As you know, I want to learn everything. ”, you said, voice full of conviction.

He smiled briefly: “I know. That’s why I talked to Pere. You can start right now.”

Right now?

You blinked at him for a moment but had no time to process it. He gestured for you to follow him, and you did, walking together until you reached the training pitch.

Training was already in full swing. The players were busy with an intricate passing exercise when Pere strode over with a warm smile and his hand extended.

“Hi y/n.”

You shook his hand.

“Hi, Pere. Thank you for having me here.”

“Oh, no worries. Hansi and I were both very impressed by you. And I wanted to have you here first.”, he grinned.

You paused, unsure if you heard that right. The men’s teams coach?

“You what?”

“You heard me.”, he chuckled.

You sceptically raised an eyebrow: “You were fighting over me? After like one training session you watched together?”

“Well…”

You snorted: “So yes.”

“Yeah.”, he admitted with a wry grin.

The whole exchange made you laugh but the praise from two seasoned coaches made your chest swell with pride.

“Wow.”, you said simply.

“But that’s not important now.”, Pere said, leading you further onto the pitch.

You smiled up at him: “Right. Tell me all your secrets.”

He chuckled softly: “That’s your plan? You’re just collecting all our secrets and become the best coach of all time?”

“Exactly, that’s the long term plan.”, you laughed. You let your gaze drift across the field, stopping when you found what you were looking for.

“My girlfriend is one of the best players, so I got to catch up.”, you added, never taking your eyes off Aitana.

Pere followed your gaze.

“Your girlfriend had to work hard to find her own style on the pitch. And you will have to find yours off the pitch now.”

“I will.”, you said, serious now before switching into coach mode and seizing the break in the players training to greet them.

“Hi, girls.”, you called out with a wave.

Aitana’s face lit up the second she saw you: “Amor!”

 “No, amor, I’m working right now.”, you told her quickly, feeling your cheeks flush red.

She corrected herself swiftly, giggles from the Barcelona teammates audible in the background:” Sorry. Coach?”

“Yes. Stop laughing, children.”, you warned the younger players, biting back a grin yourself.

Having attended almost every match Aitana had played in, you knew the squad inside out from the youngest to the most senior. You’d even played in the youth ranks alongside some of them, like Ona.

“We’re not doing anything.”, Vicky replied innocently.

Smiling, Sydney added: “Yeah, we were just saying what a power couple you two are.”

“Power couple?”, Aitana repeated, frowning.

“It’s obvious. Coach and player.”, Salma shrugged.

“Well, we even played together once.”, you offered.

A fond smile tugged at Ona’s lips: “I remember that.”

“She says that like it takes away from the whole power couple thing.”, Salma sighed.

The defender shook her head:” No, it doesn’t. The two of them were unstoppable, always scoring.”

“I told you. Power couple.”, Vicky grinned, as though she’d just won a courtroom case.

You tried to steer the conversation back to more professional ground: “If you say so. What do you think of Pere as a coach?”

“He’s alright.”, Salma replied dutifully.

You looked at the footballer curiously: “And what would your ideal coach be like?”

“Amor, there’s no such thing as the ideal coach, and you know it. Stop chasing perfection.”, Aitana said softly.

You folded your arms across your chest: “You’re a perfectionist yourself.”

“I know, Aitana whispered proudly, “but you’re already so good.”

You ran a hand nervously through your hair, compliments always made you feel a little uncomfortable: “Oh, thanks, but I didn’t really do much today.”

“It’s because you keep flirting with your girlfriend. Let’s get back to work, girls.”, Pere called out, clapping his hands, clearly keen to resume the training session.

Amused, Alexia turned her head to glance back at your girlfriend: “Who knew Aitana could get distracted?”

“Ale!”, Aitana protested, snatching the ball from the captain’s hands to prove just how motivated she was.

Still smirking, Alexia reassured her: “No, I love it. But let’s focus now.”

At the gym, her teammates continued to tease her, especially as your girlfriend focused intently on her arm workout, she knew how much you loved her strong arms.

Later, back at home, the two of you relaxed on the balcony, enjoying the last rays of sunshine.

“It’s good to see you smiling again,” Aitana remarked softly. “I know it hasn’t been easy.”

Quietly, you admitted: “No… but it feels good to be back on the pitch. Even if it’s not as a player.”

She nodded happily: “Yes, and you’re still part of the game we both love.”

“Just in a different way now.” It had taken you a while to realise that different didn’t have to mean worse.

“Exactly.”

Aitana leaned in, pressing a heartfelt kiss to your lips as the sun gave way to the moon and stars.

A few weeks later, your girlfriend spoke about you in her speech as she added yet another award to her already impressive collection.

When the midfielder returned to her seat, you lightly tugged at the fabric of her elegant dress: “Tana, you don’t need to mention me every time.”

“I do,” Aitana countered, unwavering. “You’re such a big part of my life, these trophies are partly yours too.”

“We’ve been, and still are, a good team.”, you acknowledged with a gentle smile.

“On and off the pitch,” she added, her beautiful doe brown eyes shining.

And at long last, your nightmares had stopped too.

[katiemccabeswife]

Different?

Alexia Putellas x Reader (Platonic) || You're different from your teammates and different in a different way from your friends. You're different.

Oh.....hey 🙃 This year's been tough, I drifted from woso but I'm coming back and venting through a fic because how else does one get over anything!

TW: internalised homophobia? This is very much a personal experience, while yes, there are stereotypes, it is based on what I was surrounded by growing up/my mindset when i was younger x

You didn't know what was wrong with you. Everyone you knew, knew from a very early age, and for those around them, it was obvious. They wore boys’ clothes, played only with boys, and while they weren’t interested in boys the way most girls were, no one questioned it.

You were different. You’d always loved wearing skirts and dresses, gossiping with your girl friends about boys. You’d never looked at any of your friends as anything more than that. You’d never thought of any girl as anything other than a potential friend.

And you didn’t know when, or why, that started to change.

In training, the girls would talk openly about their girlfriends and wives, and no one would bat an eye, why would they? But back at uni, your so-called friends would wrinkle their noses at couples of the same gender and laugh at those who dressed androgynous or in the clothes of the opposite gender. You never joined in, but you never spoke up either. You're glad you've gone completely online for your lessons.

Still, the question sat heavy on your chest.

You knew you liked boys, seeing actors take off their shirts to reveal sweaty, tanned, washboard abs always made you blush in a way your friends could relate to, but nowadays you felt the same jolt when you saw a girl with big arms and an eyebrow piercing.

Out on the field, running drills with Alexia, the sun relentless above you, she caught the tight pinch in your brow. She thought you were probably just focused. Or maybe squinting against the light. She didn’t ask, you would come to her.

An hour or two later, you sat at your normal spot with the likes of Vicky, Jana, Salma and a few others. But, try as you might, everyone seemed to be chewing with their mouths open or talking with food in their mouths, or someone is laughing too hard at a joke that you missed because you can't stop thinking about—

"¿Estás bien?" A warm hand lay on your shoulder, and the room seemed to quieten down, though you soon realised your brain had been overcompensating the sounds. You'd like to think it was attempting to give you refuge from your intruding thoughts.

The soft eyes of Jana beamed at you from her spot, a glisme of worry deep in her gaze. "Estoy bien."

You forced a smile, hoping it reached your eyes. It must have been convincing enough, because Jana gave your shoulder a little squeeze before leaning back into the conversation. The noise of the table seemed to swell again, though this time you knew it wasn’t the room, it was you.

Your brain wouldn’t shut up.

Because you weren’t fine. You hadn’t been for weeks. Maybe longer. You were starting to realise it had always been there, somewhere quiet and half-formed, hiding under crushes on celebrity heartthrobs and late-night group chats dissecting which boys had the hair. You never gave it permission to grow roots. But now it was taking up space in your chest, in your head, pulling at you every time a girl smiled at you, or a stranger with a sharp jaw and tattooed arms passed by.

You stabbed at the limp lettuce in your bowl, not really hungry anymore.

“Hey.” This time it was Vicky, sliding into the seat beside you. “You sure you're good? You’ve been kinda… quiet. Even for you.”

You hated how good your friends were at this, at noticing. You hated it because you didn’t have a name for what you were feeling, and until you did, you didn’t want anyone poking around in it.

“I’m just tired,” you said, offering the easy lie, one they wouldn’t question.

Vicky didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

You dragged in a breath.

You didn’t know what was wrong with you.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to find out.

But then, Alexia’s voice cut through the noise as she approached the tabel and took a seat. Not sharp, not commanding, just steady, calm in a way that made you instinctively look up.

“Alright, enough,” she said, but she was smiling. “You lot are going to choke if you don’t stop talking with your mouths full.” She had noticed both interactions and unlike the younger girls, noticed your false smiles and knew you weren’t ‘fine’.

A chorus of groans and half-hearted protests followed, but the tension at the table eased. Jana leaned into Salma, Vicky threw a crumpled napkin at Alexia, and for a second, it felt like the world clicked back into its usual rhythm.

Alexia caught your gaze across the table and raised an eyebrow, a wordless check-in. You gave her a small nod, and this time, it wasn’t entirely a lie.

Because it was different with Alexia. She wasn’t like the others. She’d always been steady. The kind of person who remembered how you took your coffee before a morning match, who let you sit in silence after a bad game without asking what was wrong. She was a captain in every sense of the word, not just on the field, but in the quiet ways that mattered.

If you ever told anyone, it would probably be her.

Maybe.

The thought sat with you for a while, somewhere between comforting and terrifying.

Eventually, the team started clearing their plates, conversations breaking off into smaller groups. Vicky was already on her phone, trying to convince Salma to do some Tiktok dance with her. Jana gave your hand a quick squeeze before catching up to the girls to head back to the gym.

You lingered a little too long at the table, pretending to check your messages.

Alexia was the last to leave, brushing past you with a hand to your shoulder. “Walk with me?”

It wasn’t a question.

You fell into step beside her as she made for the side entrance, not the way to the gym, out toward the empty stretch of field where the bright Barcelona sun shone demandingly.

She didn’t say anything for a while, which you were grateful for. You could feel your pulse in your throat, the ache in your chest rising like it always did when you got too close to it, whatever it was.

After a few minutes, Alexia spoke. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on,” she said, eyes fixed on the horizon. “But you’re not alone. Whatever it is, okay? You’re not the first to carry something around like it’s yours to deal with alone.”

You swallowed. Hard.

“I don’t even know what it is,” you admitted, voice so small it barely made a sound.

Alexia gave a dry little laugh, shaking her head. “That’s usually how it starts.”

And somehow, those words, simple as they were, loosened something in you.

As you both kept walking, the sounds of the dining hall and the others faded behind you, until it was just your footsteps in the grass and the distant hum of traffic beyond the field. From across the pitch you saw Mapi place a chaste kiss on Ingrids cheek before taking her hand in her own.

And then, without meaning to, your chest tightened again. That awful pressure you’d been carrying for weeks, months, maybe years, pushed up against your ribs so hard it made your throat sting.

Alexia noticed. Of course she did.

She slowed her steps, turning to face you fully now, brow furrowed but not with impatience or pity. Just concern.

“Hey,” she said, quietly. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head before you even thought about it, your eyes already stinging, your voice caught somewhere between your heart and your mouth.

“I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you croaked, your voice cracking so sharply it hurt. You hadn’t meant to say it out loud. You weren’t ready. But the words were out now, and the air felt thinner for it.

Alexia didn’t interrupt.

“I thought I was… I thought I knew who I was,” you went on, the words tumbling out faster now, like a dam cracking. “I like boys, I always have. I’m not… I’m not like them, the girls who knew. I never looked at my friends like that. I liked dresses. I liked painting my nails. And now I-I can’t stop looking. At girls. At their arms. Their piercings. The way they laugh. The way they look at each other like they belong, like they’ve known forever. And I don’t know what it means. And I feel like-like I missed a memo or a deadline or something and now I’m broken.”

Your voice cracked on the last word. A hot, ugly sob tore up your throat before you could swallow it down, and you turned away, covering your face with both hands, embarrassed by the sound, by how raw it felt.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you whispered again, barely audible, spoken to the sky.

Alexia didn’t hesitate. She stepped in, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in so your forehead hit her collarbone. She didn’t shush you or tell you it was okay, she just held you, steady and warm, one hand bracing the back of your head.

And something about that made it worse.

Because no one had done that before. Not like this. Not when you needed it.

So you cried.

You cried in a way you hadn’t let yourself in years, with ugly, gasping sounds and shaking shoulders, and Alexia just held on, like she could anchor you to the earth if you started floating away.

When your sobs finally softened, when your chest ached from it in a different way, she spoke.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, voice steady in that way only she could manage. “Nothing. You hear me?”

You nodded against her shoulder, but it was a lie.

She sighed and gently peeled you back enough to look at you, her hand on either side of your face. “I don’t care if you can’t name it right now. I don’t care if you never want to put a label on it. You get to be confused. You get to feel whatever you feel. And anyone who makes you believe you have to have that figured out before you’re ready, pueden ir al infierno.”

A watery, broken laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself.

Alexia smiled, wiping a tear from your cheek with her thumb. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she repeated, softer now. “I promise.”

And for the first time in a while, your heart felt lighter, more whole. You could take your time, and Alexia would be there, and it would be okay.

[theesasssyunicorn]

[didalexiabreakupwitholgaisback]

vicky is not copying lamine. she's her own amazing person 😤

source: diario sport on instagram

because my favourite number is 9 and i couldn't have 9, so i took 19. it wasn't about lamine or anything. then they tell me i copied him. it's the 9 alone.

did he tell you or not?

yes yes he told me, but no, it's because my favoirite number is 9. when i can, i take 9.

it's because when i was in madrid there was a tournament they played, it was for women and men and you could see the people but i wasn't there. i don't know, some friends met with him, but he was young. they met with them, they got along well. i don't know why i also started to get on well, with shane too, dani ávila, i don't know. and then i arrived at la masia and he's at la masia too and i don't know, in the end i think we have more or less the same personality and we get along well.

[pedripics]

⚽️

[wileys-russo]

two very different kinds of birthday posts from the kids for capi 👑

[pollitodesplumado]

Que Vicky extrañe a sus guiris, sienta respeto por ellas, quiera robarles jugadoras y con ganas de meterles gol es todo lo que esta bien en este mundo. Alexia la a educado muy bien🥲

Al menos sabemos que Rosalia le quedan fantásticas las botas😉

[wosobronze]

can we get alexia annoying vicky more often plsssss🫠

[meazalykov]

first lady

barcelona femeni x uswnt!reader

summary: the girls give you a nickname for being the first american on the senior team

the day you arrive at barcelona feels like a dream. the journey from being just another girl playing in american youth leagues to standing in the famed blaugrana colors is something you never imagined happening. 

you walk into the training grounds two days after your signing was official, trying to keep your nerves in check. the weight of being the first american on barcelona femení’s senior team presses on your shoulders. 

keep in mind you’re the first american on the senior team.. there is an american at la masia, onyeka, who you’ve been in contact with– you hope to play with her someday. she has been telling you about the fun experience playing in barcelona. 

you’re humble but you can’t wait to see what onyeka is talking about. 

the first person you meet is alexia. she approaches you with a calm confidence, her presence demanding respect even though she doesn’t say much at first. 

“bienvenida,” she says simply, her smile small but warm. it’s clear she’s sizing you up, trying to see if you’re up to the challenge. there’s no coldness in her eyes though, just curiosity.

you return the smile, trying not to seem too overwhelmed. 

“gracias. it’s an honor to be here.”

“we’ll see how you do in training,” she says shortly after she gets to know you, teasing, but the underlying tone is serious. 

alexia is known for her dedication, and she’s testing you without even needing to. her acceptance means everything here.

from that moment, she takes you under her wing. she doesn’t hover or smother, but she’s there when you need her on and off of the pitch. during drills, she’s quick to offer tips, showing you the ropes of how barcelona plays—fluid, fast, and always a step ahead. 

it’s a steep learning curve, but you thrive on it. your dribbling skills, honed from years of street-style play and youth development back in the states, shine here in ways even you didn’t expect.

you notice the way some of your teammates watch you closely at first—wondering if you’ll live up to the hype. the media had already dubbed you the "american girl version of ronaldinho" for your flair and trickery with the ball, and it seems the team had caught wind of the nickname, too. 

slowly, as you start dancing past defenders in the league and champions league— leaving them in your wake.

the skepticism by the team fades, replaced by respect.

alexia seems particularly impressed by your ball control. during the first el clasico, after you nutmeg two defenders and finish with a perfect strike, she pulls you aside. 

“not bad,” she says, though her smirk tells you she’s genuinely impressed. 

“keep playing like that, and you’ll fit in here just fine.”

you start to settle in over the next few weeks. the locker room becomes a second home, the banter flowing easier as the language barrier fades.

 you’re still working on your spanish, but with every day, you pick up more phrases, understanding the jokes, and joining in on the conversations. 

the younger players, especially vicky, start warming up to you quickly. she loves your laid-back vibe, but also the intensity you bring on the field.

alexia, though, remains your closest connection. she never hesitates to correct you or push you harder in training. she also pulls you into the social side of the team. the late-night dinners, the coffee stops after practice, the little moments that build a bond off the pitch as much as on it.

two months in, you feel like you’ve found your place. the media continues to talk about your dribbling, and your presence as the first american on the team still makes headlines. 

the comparisons to ronaldinho haven’t stopped, though they’ve started to bother you less. you just want to be seen as you—not a copy of someone else, no matter how legendary.

it is after one particularly grueling training session that the idea of a new nickname starts floating around the locker room. 

you’re outside on the pitch with patri, perfecting your penalties while the rest of the team heads into the locker room. 

inside, vicky, ellie, and ewa sit around, chatting while everyone cools down.

“so, what do you think we should call her?” vicky asks, leaning back against her locker. 

“i mean, she’s amazing, but we can’t keep calling her ‘the american ronaldinho.’”

“yeah, she’s her own player,” ellie agrees. 

“we need something that fits her.”

ewa, sitting across from them, grins. 

“but it has to tie in with her being american, right? i mean, it’s a big deal. maybe not to her– but she’s the first american to play on the senior team for the women.”

ellie nods, deep in thought. 

“maybe something with ‘first’? i mean, she is the first…”

they go back and forth for a while, throwing out suggestions. nothing seems to stick, though, until ewa suddenly straightens up, her face lighting up like she’s cracked the code.

“wait, i’ve got it,” she says, snapping her fingers.

“how about ‘first lady’?”

the room goes quiet for a second as everyone processes it.

pina raises an eyebrow. 

“first lady? like... the president’s wife?”

ewa shrugs, still grinning. 

“yeah, but think about it. she’s the *first* american on the team. it’s perfect. and it’s an american term, so it’s fitting.

"plus, y/n got elegance on the ball." patri notes.

slowly, the others start to nod, the idea settling in. salma, sitting on the opposite side of the room, lets out a laugh. 

“that’s genius. she’s literally our ‘first lady.’”

before long, everyone’s onboard, laughing and testing out the nickname as they get ready to head out. 

the whole team seems to love it, and as they file out of the locker room, they’re excited to see how you’ll react.

meanwhile, you’re still out on the pitch, working through your penalties with patri. by the time you make your way back inside, you’re sweaty and tired, but satisfied with the extra work. as you step into the locker room, you immediately notice the way everyone is looking at you, a few smirking, some trying not to laugh.

salma is the first to break. 

“hey, ‘first lady,’ how’d the penalties go?”

you blink in confusion, pausing mid-step. 

“wait, what?”

salma grins wider, the rest of the team now barely holding back their laughter. 

“you know, ‘first lady,’ since you’re the first american here.”

it takes a second for it to click, but when it does, you burst out laughing, doubling over as you process the absurdity of it. 

“first lady? seriously?”

the whole room erupts into laughter with you, and suddenly, it feels right. the nickname sticks, and soon, it’s all anyone calls you. 

at first, it’s a playful joke, but after a few weeks, you realize it’s become your new identity within the team. 

even mapi starts using it, giving you a teasing smirk during passing drills.

“first lady, over here!” she calls during one session, and you can’t help but shake your head, grinning.

as the season rolls on, you know you’ll keep proving that you’re not just the first american here—you’re their first lady.

masterlist