Hold Me Close

the pilgrimage to ibiza

My day consists mostly of sun-bathing by the pool in our villa, enduring teasing about the marks on my skin that my bikini reveals, and trying to both pace myself and drink the three bottles of prosecco our host left us in the fridge.

Alexia texts me to say that she has landed in the shit-storm of the Spanish pre-selection camp at midday. I happily let her rant about their terrible manager. She says that she hopes Talia has a successful time. It's about then when any remaining essence of my sober self departs from the conversation because Erin has found a bottle of vodka and Sam says we don't need to bother locating the shot glasses.

The sheen of sweat I have worked up from tanning the whole day is washed away as I get into the pool, joining Erin as she alternates between swimming to the side to change Sam's awful music and enjoying her classier vodka-soda. We tried to look for limes, but none of us thought to stock the fridge.

The drunkenness develops just as badly as my hickeys, which Sam dutifully points out, immediately shoving her camera towards my neck. The others on my thighs are a bit too personal for her to post it to her Close Friends story, though Kristie Mewis does get a slurred tour when she is FaceTimed by her girlfriend, but Sam does not hesitate one bit to update her own friends on when the last time I had sex was ("loooook what Toots has beeeeen up to in Barcelonaa").

Somewhere down the line, Erin remembers that she bought a bottle of Malibu in the airport's DutyFree.

It's fun to let loose like this, even if we are yet to take on the clubs.

Football is a taxing sport, and being a woman in a man's world means that I am constantly battling for things I shouldn't have to ask for. The season is draining in itself; it damages our bodies as much as it benefits them. Mentally, there is a lot of pressure. With the World Cup on the horizon, it is hard to not feel the millions of eyes glued to my back, ready to determine if I am really the next winner of the Ballon d'Or. My impact at Barcelona has shocked some, particularly those who scoffed at my market value, and has raised expectations to build a city of skyscrapers.

So, as I said before, it is nice to relax. Even if it is for the most fleeting of moments.

A mumbled "guys, I think I'm gonna be sick" ends my day.

━━━━━━━

I go for a run the next morning, still drunk if the slight acidic smell of my sweat is anything to go by. 

Erin and Sam have a tendency to sleep in, both of them loving to rot in bed for as long as it takes for them to muster the energy to drag themselves to the shower. I hate that I am this obnoxious when I am hungover, but I emptied out most of the alcohol (as well as my breakfast, lunch, and dinner) last night. Running will help me get rid of the last of it in my system. 

Though I do make one last dash to the toilet bowl, I find that I am the most recovered by ten o'clock. The other two are yet to emerge from their caves, and so I settle on the sun-lounger outside once more, this time with a t-shirt over the top of my bikini. 

My phone has been dead for most of the morning, but now, like me, it has been recharged. The usual notifications come flooding in as I nibble on a packet of Lays I bought on the plane yesterday – it is the only edible thing in the villa.

A few more notifications ping my phone. 

Unfortunately for me, Sam's Instagram story is incredibly... embarrassing. What I assume was supposed to be posted on Close Friends was not. I can't fault Sam for it, because I don't remember any of last night past texting Alexia. That might have been in the afternoon. I think I was in the pool at one point. My bikini smelt of chlorine when I picked it up off my bedroom floor this morning.