Never Leave Again

epilogue

Ballon d'Or Féminin Ceremony, 2033.

I am sparkling. This has to be the best thing I have ever worn by far, and it is making me shine under the lights of the red carpet. The grip on my waist tightens as we make our way from the flashing lights of the cameras and into the entrance, where most people are mingling and greeting each other.

"Teammates?" she questions, lips pressed to my ear in what I have come to learn is Arabella's subtle display of possession. As if the rock on her finger is not enough.

"I think Fleur and Alexia are here somewhere," I decline, knowing she does not mind where we go. She hangs onto me as I weave through my team, most of them wolf-whistling at us (again). I spot the familiar blonde head of Fleur near a group of Barça players, and call out her name.

She turns, surprising me with the sight of the toddler sitting on her hip, his face buried into her neck. I knew my cousin had talked about bringing him, but I did not think she would.

Speaking of, Alexia is nowhere to be seen.

"Hiya," Fleur greets with a wide grin. Her lips part as Bella gives her a wave, showing off the ring. "That is massive."

They have all been supportive of the engagement since we privately announced it last week. Tonight is the official confirmation.

I met Bella five years ago in New York, while I played for Gotham. She is an English model, but it was fashion week there. She does make me happy, and she moved with me to Madrid so it must be love.

A kiss is pressed to my cheek as Bella murmurs something about the bathroom.

"Talia, what the fuck?" Fleur now says in a hushed voice, moving closer. "How much did that cost?"

"Where is Alexia?" I brush off, finding Fleur's frugalness foreign but understanding the different salaries we have experienced. Her highest is equal to what Gotham paid me to sign for them. Objectively, it was a lot, but after the figure Madrid threw at me, it simply shows how far women's football has come.

I motion to the child and Fleur is eager to hand him off to me. "How come Jordi is here?" He nestles into me, quite comfortable with the hustle and bustle of the event.

"Only Ale is presenting," she explains, "so she's backstage."

"She left you to babysit?" Fleur frowns – it might not be babysitting if he is her child, but still. "I don't get how you put up with her. I'd rather play for Barcelona again."

"Jordi has been... watching you play, recently. You're making your cousin furious, capitana." The title immediately makes my heart swell with pride. It was bestowed upon me in my second season, and I have led my team to many victories since then.

It has been ten years since I was banned from playing in Spain.

I spent the first two in England, playing one season on-loan to Manchester United and the second up front for Arsenal, who regretted letting me go to their rivals the year before. After a successful season, I turned down the option to extend my contract in favour of playing in Wolfsburg green, excited by the recommendation of many of Fleur's friends. Feeling nomadic there, however, I got myself loaned out to Roma for a season – I was chasing the sun with that one.

In my last season with Wolfsburg, just after we won the Champions League, I received a call from – in all honesty – my mortal enemies. They begged me to come back to Spanish football. They lifted the ban after five long years.

To spite them, that is when I reached out to Gotham. It was only for a year, and mostly to prove a point, but we won the Championship. By then, I had established myself as an impactful player who could easily transform a team in one season.

The lack of commitment to clubs, however, also transpired into my personal life, with a series of racy articles about me sleeping around beginning to circulate. My budding relationship with a model I had recently encountered was heavily encouraged by my publicist (who left Alexia for me, which I gloat about often), even if it had grown organically.

In the end, when Real Madrid came calling, it was an instant move. I had dragged out the ban long enough.

I started my fifth season with them this September.

"Jordi is the only other member of the family who sees the light then," I joke, ruffling his hair. "Who do you think is going to win this year? Any inside scoop?"

Since both of their retirements, Fleur and Alexia have indulged in every type of involvement possible. Alexia, as relayed by our family, even enjoys coaching Sabadell's youngest team on Sundays when she can.

"I have a feeling that this will be your fourth." She speaks as though she knows, and so I take her word for it. We did win the treble last season, narrowly beating Barcelona in the league.

Last year, it went to one of the really young German players, which rudely interrupted my streak. "It's a shame it won't be four in a row."

"Do you remember when Messi would win every year? That is how bored everyone has become of you, Talia."

I roll my eyes. "Jordi and I are going to find some interesting company," I sneer humorously. She is content to let me kidnap him and seek out my teammates. I think she is talking to Esmee.

"Capi!"

I turn to find the voice, head spinning slightly (maybe the shots we did affected me more than I thought, maybe I am getting old). Jordi groans at the movement, and I get distracted.

I walk straight into someone.

"Sorry."

"You sound so English." I look up, wondering why the toddler in my arms is beginning to squirm as if he'd rather be with this other person. "Hola," says Clàudia.

"Hola," I reply. She reaches out, and I force myself not to recoil from her hand as she caresses Jordi's fluffy hair in greeting to him.

I ended things out of immaturity and fear, however I do not regret it. It caused a lot of pain, but I am a firm believer in things happening for a reason. If I had not broken up with her, who is to say that my career would be as successful as it has been? Anyway, a part of me will always love her.

"It's nice to see you. It's been a long time since we spoke outside of El Clásico."

A third person joins our conversation, with perfectly styled brunette hair and a suit that drapes over her dainty collarbones in a way that makes it hard to resist undressing her. I gulp at the situation. "This is Arabella."

"–Bella."

"Bella is my, um, fiancée."

notes:

AND WE'RE DONE!

if ur wondering, talia does win the ballon d'or that year too

anyway, thank you so much for reading this fic. it's been the one I've had to really think about and has had me twisted and frustrated more times than I'd like to admit. but honestly, I'm not super sad about the end, more so excited about resuming hold me close

I don't know when the next chapter of that will be out, but I'll get to writing it straight away (update — TODAY)

a final thank you for reading and that's 2 out of the 3 in this series finished !!!!!