Never Leave Again

prologue

Sevilla, January 2023.

My mother's glee is contagious as she flies upwards from the seat I have forced her to sit down in. She rushes towards me, invading the distance I have put between us, words an incoherent stream of pride. She grabs my face, planting kisses on every inch of available skin. "Madrid and Barcelona?" she squeals in excitement, squeezing me tightly.

The manager at Sevilla says that I am the future of Spanish football. The club cannot give me the training and experience that the big two could, which is why he wants me to go out on loan. "Mira, transfer windows are big for twenty-year-old stars," he had stated matter-of-factly, clapping me on the back. I had been brought into his office on the basis that he had something important to discuss with me. Never having imagined I would be told to leave for my benefit, it had taken a few minutes for everything to sink in.

He had printed out the emails sent from both clubs. "You've just got to choose which one, and we'll sort the rest," he said, sliding the pieces of paper towards me. The crests seemed to lurch away from each other as the pages overlapped.

Real Madrid or Barcelona. It should be a no-brainer.

"Your dream has come true," Mamá says as she draws in a deep breath - an effort to compose herself. I nudge her backwards gently, and she drops onto the leather armchair in slight disbelief. "Ever since you were given that shirt, every other sentence of yours has been 'hala Madrid'."

I observe the cracks in the green leather instead of how she is dissecting the guilty expression on my face. The chair isn't mine; I share this house with three of my teammates. Looking at the rest of the room, I decide moving won't be too strenuous considering how much of this furniture isn't mine.

It is warm inside, but I am sweating because of her scrutiny. She notices the worried squint of my eyes as I consider how to explain. Mamá's happiness dulls. I am not wearing the face of somebody who has chosen the obvious option.

She is sceptical in her approach, licking her lips as if to soften the words she is thinking about saying. I can see her construct her sentence, expertly lacing her anger into it without having to lash out. "You haven't chosen Barcelona, have you?"

The city is barely pronounced - more implied in the sentence as a fill-in-the-blank. "Mami," I start, though I am not sure what will come after it. Fidgeting under her unimpressed gaze, I scratch at the back of my neck, not caring if my skin reddens as though it is sunburnt. I resist the urge to pace.

My mother shakes her head. It is a simple movement, but it is clear. "Natita." I gulp. Focus on the rug. "Madrid is your dream."

I click my tongue; a nervous habit. "It's to improve my game. Barcelona's team has better players."

"Madrid is your dream." She presses her lips together in a harsh, soul-shattering frown.

"I will play for them. I am going to play for them." There is no doubt in my mind about it. "Barcelona has better funding and facilities, and I could play with Alexia Putellas. I think they've just signed Fleur de Voss too." Mamá's eyes widen for a moment but I would have missed it if I had not been examining her reaction with such care. Maybe she keeps up with football more than I thought. Maybe she knows how dangerous having Fleur de Voss and Alexia Putellas on one team is. Or it is something else. "Nothing comes into effect until April, so you'll have plenty of time to convince me not to go."

Efficient and resourceful, I watch as she decides not to waste time. "You are not allowed to go," she states as though she is who gets to choose. Demeanour changed, pride forgotten, her face darkens like a blue sky that has come across a storm cloud. My mother is a haunted woman, I have come to realise as I grow older. She sees her ghosts at times I do not expect. Like now. "I forbid it."

"I am an adult," I retort.

"I am your mother." She grips the arm of the chair with a force that I can only assume is being redirected from the slap itching at her palms. Why the mention of that city sparks the same anger every time I bring it up is not going to remain a mystery any longer, because I have also based my decision on self-discovery.

"You hate Barcelona so much, Mamá, and I would like to know why," I explain, voice meek: a five-year-old in a woman's body. "It is not fair to keep it from me. We are supposed to tell each other everything. We are two people in a world of billions, and you're keeping an important part of you - us - from me."

It has only ever been her and me. We stick together. She even moved to a small town just outside of Sevilla when I signed my contract with the club, prepared to cook for me four nights a week and wash my clothes when I needed it. I drop money off along with my dirty laundry. She is too tired to work any more years. She spent my entire childhood over-working.

"Barcelona is a bad place," she whispers, not managing to look me in the eye. Her palm on the chair flattens. "You're not going."

notes:

welcome to the third and final fic in my fav little universe!

here we get into talia's story, which i have been DYING to write about ever since i introduced her.

i am only posting the prologue for now while i get hmc on the go again, but rest assured, you will get to see updates for this too

just a little warning for this story before we get into it... some parts include themes such as sexual assault, rape, self-harm, and homophobia. it's part of her story, just like it is part of many of ours.

anyway, it's good to see you here. i'm excited and you should be too. (sophie knows how fucking excited i am and it's V E R Y)

thanks for reading!!