Hold Me Close

mount everest ain't got shit on me

I was eighteen-years-old when I won my first Champions League title.

Lyon was undoubtedly the ruler of Europe at the time, and I was being made into the player I am today, training with the best players around. They put me on in the second half of extra time. It is a lot of pressure to know that you are only playing because of your penalty kicks.

Ada missed hers, and the pressure doubled.

There was silence in the stadium as I placed the ball down on the spot, and the next thing I heard was an eruption of joy from my teammates behind me. Shouts of pride. The ball had hit the top corner – top bins, as the English call it – and the keeper never stood a chance.

It felt like I was on top of the world.

The next time the gold medal hung around my neck was the following year, close to three-hundred-and-sixty-five days older; wiser. This time, there was no shy smile or unsure place in the team. I knew I was leaving at the end of the season, I knew I was getting out of the hellhole Lyon had become for me.

I played three minutes, once again put on for my penalties. Ada refused to take one unless it was absolutely necessary, traumatised from the year before, and I clung onto the one thing people remembered had gone well for me.

When I placed the ball on the spot, a repeat of 2016, I was thinking about how terrible my birthday would be if I missed this. How the manager would destroy my career, how Chelsea would tell me that they had changed their mind.

All the times I had practised those kicks could have been for nothing.

But I scored. Of course I scored. I haven't missed a penalty in five years; they are ingrained into me, part of my being, so instinctual that taking them is like speaking a sentence in my native language.

Talia is in awe of my stories from Lyon. Her excitement to be on a plane to Eindhoven is too much, and so I attempt to calm her with the darker, more fable-like tales, but all she gives me in return is a 'that's so cool that you are here now'. "Now for mine!" Lucy shouts with a grin, leaning over Mariona to insert herself in our conversation from the other side of the plane.

I roll my eyes, glad to have taken the window seat, and rest my head against the wall of the aircraft, looking out the window as we grow closer and closer to our destination. I've never really been to Eindhoven before, but it is part of the homeland, which is better than Barcelona. Here, things are simpler. Far less sunny, sure, but at least there is no language barrier and they eat food at sensible times.

"You are going to translate for us, right?" Keira asks me as she stops by my row on the coach. There is an empty seat, but it seems as though she is hesitant to take it.

"Yeah, of course. Everyone will speak English, though, Kei, so don't worry. It's not like Spain – you can put Google Translate away."

It may have something to do with Alexia's insistence to speak in Spanish as much as possible, but I find myself understanding quite a bit, and speaking more than María had expected of me. I'm good at languages, but she was still surprised. As for the English girls... Well, Keira may need more than two Spanish lessons a week.

I am about to ask her why she isn't sitting down when I spot a familiar blonde head poke out from behind her, eyes trained on the empty space, hand tapping Keira's shoulder in a way that means 'move' as nicely as possible. Keira does, because it is her captain telling her to, and smiles at me before giving in to Lucy's begging to join her a few rows back.

Alexia sighs when I turn to look at the outside scenery from the window, plucking my Airpod from my ear. "¿Qué?" I grumble, not allowing her the satisfaction of me turning around.