Never Leave Again

the spark ignites

The streets of Barcelona on a Thursday are not the most crowded, but there are enough people out and about for it to not feel strange being solely in Clàudia's company. I trust her, even so. She's too small to be capable of any harm.

Her hand holds mine firmly, but with a genuine care to not crush my bones, and her explanation of the dynamics of the team is very useful when I pay attention to it. It's hard when her smile grows so wide as she talks about people she clearly loves, and I can't lie to myself and say that I haven't found her attractive when playing against her. Just in passing, though.

This is not 'in passing'.

I mean, I haven't even been to the training ground yet and I am already considering whether I can have anything past a friendship with my new teammate.

(She looks so pretty.)

I realise we have done one big loop when Clàudia shoots me a mischievous smile and tugs my hand past the bar. Marta's blonde hair is somewhat recognisable, and I think she is still talking to the bartender as we breeze into a quaint restaurant in an adjacent alley. The waiter at the front seems to know who the woman is beside me, because he is quick to take us to a table in the back that is so intimately snug that I have no choice but to sit beside Clàudia, cramped into the corner with a promise that the food here is wonderful.

Again, the Catalan above Spanish on the menu is confusing, and I am not really surprised when Clàudia orders for the both of us without even opening the leather-bound booklet set in front of her. The waiter almost looks sorry to have insulted her by giving the menu, but leaves me mine for a moment as I check the wine list.

"You don't want a glass of sparkling water?" Clàudia asks, her leg pushed up against mine under the table.

None of the wines take my fancy. "I do," I tell the waiter, who nods and heads towards the kitchen with our order. "You clearly come here often."

"Yeah," she agrees, huffing out a laugh as though she was trying to hide that fact. "My ex showed me this place, but it's just too good to avoid. Do you live near here?"

The walk was around ten minutes. "I, um, live in Alexia Putellas' building? Obviously, my apartment is not as nice as hers probably is, and I have a roommate and only one bathroom..." She is looking at me as though I have something on my face. "What?"

A blush tints her cheeks as her dimples appear with her sheepish smile. I like making her smile. "Nothing." And then, "you got put in that place? I heard that it was a war zone between Fleur and Alexia."

Conveniently, she had left this out of her earlier analysis. I think she commented more on how Patri loves cucumbers than the two biggest names in women's football playing for the same team. By the way she says their names together, and the seriousness of her tone, it seems as though they do not get along at all. Here I was thinking they had some major chemistry like they have on the pitch.

"A war zone?" I question, interest piqued.

"Well, yeah. They hate each other." Alexia is her role model, and Fleur is mine. It will be interesting to hear her side of the story. Maybe I can ask Fleur about it tomorrow if María wasn't joking about arranging for me to meet her. "When Fleur was still training, they used to have these private sessions with our manager to work on how we can best use both of their talents to our benefit. I was invited to one and I don't think I have ever experienced anything more tense. Ale sends Fleur these bullets, and Fleur kicks her balls that are too high not to head when they are going at, like, five-hundred kilometres per hour. And they never talk to each other if they can help it – except, once they did."