Never Leave Again

the final call

The airport is not empty at all, but Alexia insists on getting me a pass through security so I manage to do alright for time. She also calls the hotel Arsenal has put me up in until I sort out where I am going to live (Laia's, probably). My new babysitter won't be arriving until the twenty-ninth, though, so the DoubleTree in Borehamwood it is.

The terminal pulses with activity as people hustle to their gates. I have about thirty minutes, and an important call to make.

I see a sign for an outdoor smoking area, which will be a lot more private than the middle of the seating area I am currently in. From experience, most people just want to enjoy their cigarette. It's not like I am famous and they will recognise me.

It is not as cold as England will be, but the nighttime chill of Madrid shocks me slightly. I will permanently be buried under layers in London, I decide easily, fishing out my sweatshirt from where I have stashed it in my rucksack along with the few things I actually own. My other clothes are in my suitcase – which was never unpacked from the World Cup. Mamá is going to post what I have left at home if I need it. In general, I quite like living the nomadic lifestyle. It was fun sharing an apartment with Marta, at the very least.

Each sound of the dialling tone squeezes my ribs. A chain wraps around my neck as I remind myself of my reasons again.

"Hey, Clau."

She grumbles and bedsheets rustle. "Talia, I was having a nap," she murmurs. "It was supposed to be a siesta, but clearly I needed more sleep than I thought." She shuffles a bit more and then suddenly seems to wake up. "Hello! I haven't spoken to you recently. I've missed my girlfriend."

A mix of guilt and longing floods my chest as I hear her drowsy voice, her sleepiness making this whole thing worse. "Sorry to wake you, babe," I say, my words laced with a hint of remorse. "I know how much you love to sleep. I just needed to talk."

I take a deep breath, the imaginary chain around my neck tightening. I wonder if the smokers out here know what is going on. Part of me hopes none of them speak Spanish. "Clau, there's something important I need to tell you. It's about my career, and it's a bit complicated."

I can almost feel the tension building in the silence that follows.

Then, "what's going on, Talia?" Her voice shifts, concern seeping into her tone. The rustling of bedsheets ceases, replaced by an attentive stillness.

"I was sexually assaulted by one of the physiotherapists at the World Cup. He, um, kissed me, and he tried... Well, he tried to play it off as him having feelings for me – not mutual feelings – but it was obvious what it was." The words stumble out of my mouth quietly, each syllable laboured and like a laceration on my tongue. Her reaction is not audible. "It's a big thing for anyone, but, you know, what with what happened to my mother, it's kind of killing me? I feel like I am being punished for existing, which is, now that I'm thinking about it, low-key fucking me up. It was hard enough sleeping, reliving a trauma that wasn't mine, and now it is just as if it has been doubled up. As if someone went 'let's give it to you first-hand'."

There is a loaded pause; a moment of stunned silence that hangs in the air like a suspended question mark. When she finally speaks, she does so in disbelief. "Wait, what? Slow down. Are you saying that you were... assaulted?" Her words are measured. "Shit. I'm so sorry. I'm – fuck, have you told anyone else? Have you kept it to yourself all this time? Did it happen more than once?"

"No." To everything. "Alexia saw and she stopped it. We told Vilda, and he did not give a fuck. I told the RFEF but that did not go well, and I don't think FIFA actually got my email because they never replied."