Hold Me Close

oranjekamp

notes:

they are obviously speaking dutch at the national camp, but i wasn't going to translate the whole thing so it's written in english

The week before international break always has a certain anticipation simmering away, especially for those who don't live in the country. We usually get to go home, speak our language, eat our food. My Spanish is improving with the combination of basic lessons and full immersion, but being able to understand everything everyone is saying at all times is something I am looking forward to. I miss being perceived as clever. I literally did VWO, but that is meaningless here.

Nothing can curb the growing excitement within the Barcelona team. Not even Alexia can make my smile disappear, though I'm sure she tries her best.

We win our game 4-0 on the eleventh. Lucy and I don't start, but Jonatan subs me on near the end of the first half, claiming the pitch looks empty without me on it. Alexia listens to our conversation as much as she can, and I can see the flicker of relief in her eyes as Patri comes off and not her. Claudia switches to playing in the middle so I can be on the right, and suddenly Barcelona has the whole width of the pitch.

I wonder whether Andries Jonker, our national team manager, will keep me on the right side. We play in a different formation to Barcelona, but Andries is still relatively new and might want to experiment. He hasn't spoken to me except for the confirmation phone call that I will be attending this camp and am on the squad for the tournament we are playing.

My suitcase gives me the perfect excuse to take the lift to the ground floor instead of going down four flights of stairs. I press the button, reading through the messages on our national team group chat while I wait. The lift dings and the doors open. Without looking up, I wheel my suitcase inside. As I step in, I hit a body.

"Disculpe." I get no reply. "Sorry," I repeat, in case this person doesn't speak Spanish.

"Your accent is terrible." She sounds familiar, so I move my gaze up from my shoes to meet her face. Of course it's her. "Do you feel that you need to injure me to get your position back?" I stare at Alexia, jaw hanging wide open, before I catch my slip up and clamp it shut. She uses her shoulder to get me out of her way, pushing past me to get out. She takes the stairs.

My flight is the same as Keira and Lucy's, which makes sense. We get to London Gatwick at five in the evening, and I arrive at the hotel two hours later.

The media team is there to greet me, and Anouk, our social media manager, tells me the team is eating right now. The bellboy takes my bag to keep with the others', because the rooms haven't yet been assigned.

"She's still on Spanish time, everybody!" Jill announces as I walk in late. There's an empty seat saved for me next to her which I gladly sink into. "Hola, chica. I love the tan."

I laugh. This feels natural. I'm glad no one is being all solemn out of respect for Scarlett (or lack there of?). I can only imagine the atmosphere around the England team.

"So are you going to officially become a right-mid now?" Damaris asks me, faking a worried look. "Or is that just to keep you out of La Reina's way?" She's provoking me, and we all know it. Players talk; most of them know Alexia and I aren't the best of friends. The rumours will be kept within the leagues, so it doesn't bother me that much if people are talking.

"I hate her so much," I groan, too tired to hold back. "She is a nightmare, and I don't get how they all love her so much. You know, she was so offended at the prospect of me being as good as her that she told our manager he had to be joking!"

"Fleur, you're not the one with a Ballon d'Or," Lieke reminds me. She and Alexia were friendly, so it's not like the woman has a vendetta against Dutch people. "You've got to be a bit arrogant to be the best player in the world."