Hannah pushed through the training ground doors, and the smell hit her first—damp synthetic grass, citrus disinfectant, the ghost of a hundred bodies that had already cycled through morning sessions. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that pale blue-white that made even rested faces look tired. She wasn't tired. She was buzzing, still carrying the warmth of Emily's sheets against her skin, the sound of her voice saying I like it playing on a loop.
The coffee stain on her sleeve was still visible. She'd forgotten to change. She'd forgotten a lot of things this morning, actually—her usual routine, the careful armor she wore into this building, the way she braced herself before facing the team. Today she'd just walked in, smiling, her phone warm in her pocket with Emily's number glowing at the top of her recent calls.
Aitana was already there.
Leaning against Hannah's locker with a towel slung over one shoulder, still in her training kit, hair damp at the temples like she'd been here for an hour already. Her grin was a weapon, sharp and knowing, and it only widened when she saw Hannah hesitate at the threshold.
"So," Aitana said, drawing the word out like she was tasting it. "You didn't come home."
Hannah's face went hot. She kept walking, aiming for her locker, hoping the motion would hide the flush spreading up her neck.
"I came home," she said. "Just. Late."
"You're wearing the same clothes."
Hannah glanced down at her training jacket, the coffee stain a dark bloom on the forearm. The same joggers. The same shirt beneath. She hadn't even thought about it. She'd left Emily's apartment in a daze, floating on a cloud of see you tonight and your jacket smells like me now, and the idea of going home to change had simply not occurred to her.
"I—"
Aitana tossed the towel at her. It hit Hannah in the chest, damp and smelling of fabric softener, and she caught it on reflex.
"Spill," Aitana said. "Before I tell Alexia you were smiling at your phone during warm-ups."
Hannah clutched the towel, her heart thudding. "You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would." Aitana crossed her arms, her grin softening just slightly around the edges. "Who is she?"
Hannah opened her mouth. Closed it. The locker room felt suddenly small, the fluorescent light too bright, the sound of water dripping somewhere too loud. She'd known this was coming. She'd walked in knowing Aitana would be here, knowing the questions would come, and she still hadn't prepared an answer.
"Her name is Emily," she said finally, her voice quieter than she'd intended.
Aitana's eyebrows shot up. "Emily. That's what you've been hiding?"
"I wasn't hiding—"
"You left the group chat on read for three hours. Three hours, Hannah. That's a national emergency."
Hannah laughed despite herself, a short breathy sound that escaped before she could catch it. "I was busy."
"Busy." Aitana's grin turned wolfish. "Busy doing what, exactly?"
The door at the far end of the locker room swung open, and Hannah felt a wave of relief so acute it almost buckled her knees—until she saw who it was. Mapi walked in, her hair still wet from the shower, a towel draped around her neck. Behind her, Patri followed, a coffee cup in one hand and a curious look already forming on her face.
"Hannah's got a girlfriend," Aitana announced, before Hannah could say a word.
Mapi stopped mid-step. "What?"
"I don't have a—"
"She spent the night at her apartment," Aitana continued, warming to the subject. "Came in wearing yesterday's clothes. Smiling at her phone like she just won the Ballon d'Or again."
Patri set down her coffee cup, her eyebrows knitting together. "You spent the night at a stranger's apartment?"
"She's not a stranger," Hannah said, and even she heard the defensive edge in her voice. "I met her yesterday. At a café."
"Yesterday," Mapi repeated. "You met her yesterday, and you already—" She stopped, something flickering across her face. Concern, maybe. Or curiosity. "Hannah."
"I know how it sounds." Hannah ran a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on the short undercut. "But it's different. She's different."
Aitana's grin had faded, replaced by something softer, more patient. "Different how?"
Hannah leaned against the lockers, the cool metal pressing into her back through her jacket. The coffee stain was a dark smudge at the edge of her vision, a reminder of how this had all started—a collision, a spilled drink, a woman who didn't know her name. She thought about Emily's laugh, low and surprised, the way her freckles caught the light when she tilted her head. The way she'd said I want to find out where this goes like it was the simplest thing in the world.
"She doesn't know who I am," Hannah said quietly.
Mapi blinked. "What?"
"She doesn't watch football. She didn't recognize me. When I told her I play for a local team, she just—nodded. Changed the subject." Hannah felt a smile tugging at her mouth. "She asked me about my tattoos. She wanted to know which one was my favorite."
Patri picked up her coffee cup again, wrapping both hands around it like she needed something to hold. "So she doesn't know you're—"
"No."
"She doesn't know you're the captain of FC Barcelona?" Mapi's voice had gone flat, disbelieving. "The woman on the Nike billboard? The one who scored the winning goal in the Champions League final?"
"I told her I'd tell her tonight." Hannah's throat tightened. "I called her. Before dinner yesterday. I told her there was something she should know."
"And?" Aitana prompted.
"And she laughed at me. Said I was an idiot. Said she didn't care."
The silence that followed was thick, charged. Mapi and Patri exchanged a look that Hannah couldn't quite read. Aitana was watching her with an expression she'd seen before—the one that meant she was being catalogued, filed, understood in a way she hadn't intended.
"You like her," Aitana said. It wasn't a question.
Hannah's hands were trembling slightly, and she pressed them flat against her thighs to still them. "I think I do."
"She makes you smile like that?" Aitana gestured vaguely at Hannah's face. "Like you forgot to be the famous one?"
Hannah's laugh came out cracked, raw. "She makes me forget I'm famous at all."
Mapi exhaled slowly, running a hand through her damp hair. "Hannah. You know this is going to be complicated, right?"
"I know."
"If the press finds out—"
"She said she was ready for that." Hannah heard her own voice, steady now, certain. "She asked me about it. This morning. She wanted to know if I was ready for the pressure, if I could handle people asking about us. She said she'd rather have the hard thing with me than the easy thing with someone else."
Patri's eyes widened. "She said that?"
"She did."
Another silence. This one felt different—lighter, almost, like something had shifted in the air between them. Aitana was smiling again, a real smile this time, small and warm at the edges.
"Bring her to dinner," Aitana said.
Hannah's heart stuttered. "What?"
"Tonight. After your date. Bring her to meet us." Aitana shrugged, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "If she's going to be around, we want to meet her. Properly."
"Aitana—"
"We're your family, Hannah." Mapi's voice was soft, but it carried. "You know this. If she matters to you, she matters to us. We want to see it."
Hannah's throat tightened. She blinked, hard, and looked down at the towel still clutched in her hands. The fabric was soft, worn, a faint scent of Aitana's laundry detergent clinging to it. She thought about Emily, about the way she'd laughed when Hannah had stumbled over her words, the way she'd traced the lines of the tree tattoo on Hannah's back without asking what it meant. The way she'd said I want to find out where this goes like she meant it.
"I'll ask her," Hannah said. "If she's okay with it."
"Good." Aitana pushed off from the locker, moving toward her own stall. "Now get changed. We've got a session in ten minutes, and you're going to need your head in the game if you're going to explain to Alexia why you're glowing like a Christmas tree."
Hannah laughed, the sound surprised out of her. "I'm not glowing."
"You're absolutely glowing." Patri was grinning now, her earlier concern smoothed into amusement. "It's honestly a little nauseating."
"I hate you all." Hannah pulled her training jacket over her head, the coffee stain barely visible in the locker room's harsh light. She was smiling, though. She could feel it on her face, stubborn and unshakeable.
Mapi tossed a clean shirt at her from across the aisle. "You love us. Now hurry up."
Hannah caught the shirt one-handed, a reflex honed by years of receiving passes on the pitch, and pulled it on. The fabric was cool against her skin, familiar, the club crest settling over her heart like a second pulse. She felt the weight of the day settling around her—training, questions, the promise of tonight, the unknown shape of whatever came after.
But beneath it, warm and steady, she carried the memory of Emily's voice saying I like it. Emily's mouth curving into a smile. Emily's hand pressed flat against her chest, right over the phoenix, like she was feeling Hannah's heartbeat through the ink.
She pocketed her phone, felt it pulse once—a notification, a message, maybe from Emily, maybe from the group chat she'd been ignoring—and walked toward the pitch, her teammates falling into step around her, a family she'd chosen and been chosen by.
The sun was climbing higher now, spilling through the high windows of the training ground, catching the dust motes floating in the air. Hannah squinted against it, and smiled, and let herself feel the shape of a day that was only just beginning.
Training was a blur of green and motion, the ball moving between feet like a living thing, the shouts of her teammates bouncing off the walls of the training complex. Hannah's body knew the rhythms—the sprint, the pivot, the pass released at exactly the right weight—but her mind kept drifting, kept circling back to Emily's apartment, the way the morning light had caught the freckles on Emily's shoulder, the sound of her voice still wrapped around the words I like it.
She missed a pass. A simple one, square across the edge of the box, the kind she could make in her sleep. The ball rolled past her foot and into the path of an oncoming defender, and she heard Alexia's whistle cut through the air like a blade.
"Voss."
Hannah stopped, her cleats digging into the turf. Alexia was standing at the edge of the drill, arms crossed, her face unreadable. The rest of the team had paused too, watching, a dozen curious gazes sliding between their captain and their captain's captain.
"My office. After session." Alexia's voice carried no judgment, but it carried no warmth either. Just fact. A marker on the day.
Hannah nodded, her throat dry, and turned back to the drill. Aitana caught her eye from across the pitch and raised an eyebrow— you okay? —and Hannah gave a small nod she wasn't sure she believed. The ball came back to her feet, and she focused, forced her mind into the present, into the grass and the sun and the shape of the game.
But the rest of the session passed in fragments. The sharp crack of a shot against the crossbar. The burn in her lungs during a sprint. The weight of her phone in her bag at the sideline, silent, waiting.
When the whistle finally blew, Hannah was already walking toward the tunnel before the echo had faded, stripping off her training vest as she went. The locker room was quiet when she reached it, the fluorescent lights still humming their pale blue-white song. She sat on the bench in front of her locker and pulled out her phone.
Three messages from the group chat—Aitana had sent a photo of Hannah's coffee-stained jacket with the caption evidence exhibit A —and one from Emily.
Hope training is going okay. I told my year-twos about the girl I met yesterday and they demanded to see a picture. I told them you're shy. They said that's okay, they're shy too. Just thought you should know you have a fan club of seven-year-olds rooting for you.
Hannah laughed out loud, the sound startling in the empty locker room. She typed back quickly, her thumbs moving before she'd fully thought through the words: Seven-year-old fan club. That's the best thing I've heard all day. Do they have any demands? Chants? A mascot?
The three dots appeared almost immediately, and Hannah felt her heart lift, a small bright thing in her chest. She was still smiling when Alexia's voice came from the doorway.
"You're smiling at your phone again."
Hannah looked up, her thumb pressing send before she could stop it. Alexia was leaning against the doorframe, her training jacket unzipped, her expression the same unreadable neutral she wore during press conferences and contract negotiations.
"I was just—"
"Come to my office." Alexia turned and walked away, not waiting to see if Hannah would follow.
Hannah pocketed her phone and stood, her legs heavy, her heart beating a little faster than it should have been. She followed Alexia down the corridor, past the physio room and the kit room, past the wall of framed jerseys from legends who had worn this badge before her. She knew every inch of this building, had walked these halls a thousand times, but today they felt different. Like she was seeing them through new eyes. Like she was about to be seen in a new way, too.
Alexia's office was small and tidy, a desk with a laptop, a chair on each side, a window overlooking the main pitch. The afternoon sun was pouring through it now, casting long shadows across the floor. Alexia sat down and gestured for Hannah to do the same.
"You were distracted today," Alexia said. Not an accusation. An observation.
Hannah sat, her hands resting on her thighs. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize. Just tell me what's going on."
Hannah took a breath. The words came easier than she'd expected. "I met someone. Yesterday. A woman. She's—she doesn't know who I am. She didn't recognize me. We spent the night together, and I'm seeing her again tonight, and I think—" She stopped, her voice catching. "I think I might be in trouble."
Alexia's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened. "The good kind of trouble?"
"The best kind." Hannah's voice came out raw, honest. "She makes me forget I'm famous. She makes me forget I'm supposed to be careful. She makes me want to just—be. With her."
Alexia leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the window, to the pitch where the groundskeepers were already starting their afternoon work. "You know what the press will do when they find out."
"I know."
"You know what the club will want. Statements. Protocols. Security reviews."
"I know."
"And you're still doing this."
Hannah met Alexia's eyes. "She asked me if I was ready for the hard thing. She said she'd rather have the hard thing with me than the easy thing with someone else."
Alexia was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, the corner of her mouth lifted. "She sounds like she has a good head on her shoulders."
"She's a teacher," Hannah said, and she heard the pride in her own voice, the warmth. "She teaches seven-year-olds. She has a monstera in her apartment and a broken buzzer her landlord won't fix and she asked me about my tattoos before she asked me my last name."
"You're glowing," Alexia said, and her voice was soft now, almost fond. "I've never seen you glow like this."
Hannah ducked her head, her cheeks heating. "Aitana said the same thing."
"Aitana's not wrong." Alexia reached across the desk and tapped the back of Hannah's hand, a brief, gentle contact. "Be careful with her, Hannah. But don't be afraid. The hard things are worth it when they're the right things."
Hannah looked up, her eyes stinging. "You think she's the right thing?"
"I think you wouldn't be glowing if she wasn't." Alexia smiled, a real smile, and for a moment she looked less like a captain and more like an older sister. "Now go. You've got a dinner to prepare for, and I've got a session to plan. But Hannah?"
Hannah paused at the door.
"Bring her to meet us. When you're ready. The team will want to see who made their captain forget how to pass."
Hannah laughed, the sound bright and startled. "I'll ask her."
"Good." Alexia turned back to her laptop, already typing. "Now get out of my office before I change my mind and make you run laps for that missed pass."
Hannah walked back down the corridor, her footsteps light on the tile, her phone warm in her pocket. She pulled it out as she reached the locker room and saw Emily's reply: They want to know if you can do a cartwheel. Apparently that's the qualification for being cool. I told them I'd ask.
Hannah typed back, still smiling: Tell them I can do a backflip on a football pitch. That's cooler than a cartwheel, right?
She packed her bag, the familiar weight of her kit settling against her shoulder, and walked out into the Barcelona afternoon. The sun was high and golden, the city humming around her, and she had four hours until she saw Emily again. Four hours to shower, to change, to figure out what she was going to say when she finally told Emily the truth about who she was.
But for now, she had a message from a woman who wanted to know if she could do a cartwheel, and a team that wanted to meet her, and a day that felt like it was only just beginning to unfold into something she couldn't have imagined.