Hold Me Close

she's intimidated, right?

I question how many times Alexia Putellas has felt intimidated in her life. Perhaps she was when she rejoined Barcelona from Levante as a teenager, or upon meeting those who rule her profession and having to converse as though she isn't just as much a fan as she is a player. The conclusion I come to is not a number, but rather the realisation that I have followed her career closely, even if we have been at odds for the better part of a decade.

However, it is clear as day that, right now, as she shifts uncomfortably in a seat that was not expecting to be occupied, she is less than confident. It's strange to see.

"So what exactly does your captaincy at Barcelona entail? Fleur has refused one multiple times, and I'm beginning to think it's not my daughter, but rather the details of the job." Papa's eyes are narrowed sceptically, but he is subtly impressed with Alexia's ability to nod along to such harsh, difficult English. It's a little condescending of him – to feel justified to test her – but I let it slide, wanting to see where this goes before I intervene.

"It is a lot of responsibility," Alexia begins. We have ended up here because, after drying off in the bathroom, she insisted she meet my father before her friends ordered their food. With there being so many of them, she claimed that it would take twenty minutes for everyone to decide what they wanted to eat. "Leadership, kindness, and, of course, the strategic... mind?" I nod. "I play for Barcelona since so long, so it is not a chore."

Papa flicks his gaze over to me. "So captain of the Netherlands is a chore, Flootz?" I laugh at his joke. "She has been offered the role thrice." Alexia doesn't know this, mainly because it is not something I broadcast. "Every time, she has turned it down. Sherida Spitse is going to die with the armband on her bicep because someone is afraid of stepping up."

I roll my eyes. "Have you seen what is happening with Spain? Alexia is leading them through a legal nightmare, and is being torn apart for it, Papa. That is not something I want."

"They asked you to be the captain?" Alexia's tone is measured, but she seems hurt that I have not told her. Or, maybe, that I declined. The question goes unanswered, saved for another time. "And I, I have help. Irene Paredes helps me. We lead together."

"She is a very commanding woman," Papa comments drily, as though he is not yet convinced about Alexia. I am worried that she is only this nervous because he's my father, which isn't an insane thing to think but one that both flatters me and unsettles me. "How do you balance success with responsibility? There is a point where you must put yourself in front of the team, no?"

At least he's asking her questions that she knows the answers to. Maybe Papa was a journalist at one point.

The tension bubbles along with us until the twenty minutes are up and Alexia is beckoned back to her own table, trying her best not to sprint back to her comfort zone for my sake. And to save face, I presume. Being quizzed relentlessly in her third language after playing a match yesterday and being busy today is probably not the most pleasant of things.

"I like her," Papa concedes to my surprise, but only after we have left the restaurant (Alexia engaged in sobremesa, obviously). "She was nervous, but she is very determined. Football-minded, too." I was unsure whether Alexia's disgust at putting herself before the team would be positive or negative, but Papa tells me he approved of it. "Maybe not as clever as you."

"She's a footballer," I remind him. "Most of us weren't forced into–"

He interrupts me with a fond chuckle. "Flootz, do not pretend you are ungrateful. Are you two together, or do you have unrequited feelings for her?" He must have caught me staring. "Weren't you enemies?"