Hold Me Close

we hate this place

With the team now refusing to take any other answers, Alexia tells them that we are together. I swear I see a few wads of cash exchanged but I ignore it, preoccupied with the coming weeks.

My mother is visiting next week and she has high expectations. Fucking Owen is coming with her, and they're wanting tickets to El Clásico from my allocated friends-and-family pack. Mum says one of the stadium higher-ups has offered her a box, seeing as that was where she won her Olympic gold, but maybe I should take it as a compliment that she wants to declare her relation to me, seeing as that hasn't always been the clearest of things since she left.

This is supposed to be the next hurdle in my relationship; supposed to prepare poor Alexia for the inevitably shit time I will have in December now that the details of Scarlett's memorial have been finalised and made known to the wider world. I got a message from her mother asking me to speak or, I don't know, read a poem, but I haven't decided whether I'm going yet.

(Lie. I will, but I'm not sure how public I will make it.)

Mum coming to Barcelona is supposed to be what Alexia is stressed about.

But it isn't.

Her knee is.

Alexia injured her ACL before the Euros in 2022. She partially tore it, tearing her dreams of winning the tournament at the same time, and then to make things worse, it was found that bits of her meniscus had joined the leaving party.

Only one minor surgery was needed, which set her recovery time back a month, meaning she'd play again in early February. They'd told her January would be luck, and she was half-resigned to her fate. Until I lost the Ballon d'Or and all of a sudden.

I'd been teasing Barça before that, stuck between leaving the place I had made into a home to seek something a bit more fulfilling and not. Though there are only two transfer windows, there are twelve months in the year to be buttering up my agent.

Barcelona had an enticing offer and were willing to throw money at the record fee until it snapped in half, Wolfsburg was convenient with the amount of Dutch players and the fact I can speak German. I'm sure Lyon had asked and been rejected (I'm still hurt), and Manchester City had been close to asking but aware they'd never win while I was at Chelsea.

I'd had a very good tournament, despite our early exit, and I was being talked about. Lots.

Alexia, who'd had a year of the same fame I was reaching, was being discussed less. Especially after my contract was drawn up and Emma Hayes had been persuaded to let me go.

She struggled to admit this to me, but Alexia accelerated her recovery so that she could be back before I got here. Though Jona had confidence in my ability to play on the right, Alexia was certain I'd outshine her ('the crippled version' as she put it) and take up her spot on an already competitive squad. No one magically bounces back from an ACL injury. She'd be bettered by someone or other, she knew that, but she'd have torn her ACL again before that person was me.

(Proper rivals. I was so reasonable for hating her.)

Although I have definitely surpassed her in skill, flair, and general brilliance, I am far from flattered by the information she dumps on me on the way to the hospital.

Because what a fucking idiot. Arrogant, cocky, self-centred... I could go on.

I do go on, giving her an earful as I drive us in time for her scan. I think, though she'd be loath to agree, it's a good thing I'm talking, because otherwise the car would be filled with the jittering nervousness clouding her mind.