Hold Me Close

epilogue

Barcelona, 2035.

The crowd roars now, forgoing any sense of harmony. The absence of a melody is strange here but no one notices. It feels like a moment of silence – except it's not silent. Perhaps it is just a moment of grief.

Wiping the sweat from my brow, I glance at the bench of jittering substitutes, eager to get this last minute over with so that we can bask in our glory when the time comes to lift the trophy. I can tell Real Madrid hasn't scored enough goals to overtake us in the league table, although everyone has been relishing the competition this year. Five teams have been vying to win the league but, with a hat trick from Vicky (back from England last August), our goal difference will ensure our silverware.

It will be the first of the season and our players are almost beside themselves. Their faces are much younger than mine now but they serve as glimpses into my own past: once upon a time, there was a girl with a hunger to win and the pelvic floor strength to do it.

From Lyon to London to Barcelona.

One year, I left. One year, all my reasons to come back were shoved in my face and bundled onto flights to Amsterdam. Tempting me back with a diamond ring and a reluctant admission of my own glory – my own victories – with my own team, I was signed again for the club that I'm half-certain my children support.

And there they are, just behind the bench.

Emelia has forgotten about her aversion to being held and is in Alexia's arms, putting up a good fight against her mother's loud cheers and shining eyes. She looks like me – is what people have said, while they ruffle her hair and coax a football towards her feet with the hope that she will kick it (she won't); blonde hair, a smile that could make Alexia Putellas do anything asked of her. She has Jaimie's eyes, though. Inherited somewhere.

Her eyes see right through me. When she was a baby, when she was crying all night, I'd tell her it would be fine and she would see past the lie, see the tiredness I reflected back. Or now, when she is grinning to encourage me to push through the last sixty seconds of my career.

Or later, when she'll hug me, cupping my head like she has learnt from Alexia, kissing my cheek and babbling in careful Dutch about pride and emotions she hasn't really grasped but knows she feels.

Beside them, eyes wide and engaged as ever, is Jordi. Our son. The one Alexia made me carry as payment for never having a major injury during my career – the one I gave birth to without an epidural and was only nine weeks old when I got my first minutes on a pitch again. Of course, he's far from the scrunched-up newborn he once was, with hazel eyes that remind the Putellas sisters of their beloved father and a laugh so cheeky that I always have to watch my back. Bigger arms and no ear-defenders now, Jordi jumps up and down to the beat of the crowd. It feels like a heartbeat. Our heartbeat.

I take a deep breath, blinking the tears from my eyes and shaking away the flood of change that will soon break the dam.

A pass sails over from the middle channel of play and we charge forwards. My heart is a drum that keeps my legs in time, and I sprint to collect the ball, taking only a light touch before jabbing it through the line of defenders with the knowledge that someone in red and blue will get on the end of it.

There's a call of my name from inside the box, a request to keep pressing our bodies inside the white lines because there isn't a clear, easy shot and this keeper looks damn near overwhelmed by the resounding noise of the crowd. I look up briefly, acting on instinct as the ball falls to my feet again. And there's a familiar head in a far better position.

Three things then happen in quick succession: I pass the ball; it's kicked into the goal; the final whistle blows.

Well, I guess, it's four things.