Chapter 3

July 21st (Sunday)

Aurora

The scent of fresh paint and new wood was the first thing that hit me—a sterile, yet hopeful smell that only an empty apartment could offer. My own voice echoed slightly as I set the final cardboard box down, the sound swallowed immediately by the high ceilings and the relative quiet of Barcelona.

“Well, Luna,” I murmured, wiping a smudge of dust from my cheek. “Welcome home, I guess.”

My Australian Shepherd, usually a whirlwind of exuberant energy, was currently a cautious creature, her tail low as she sniffed the perimeter of the living area. Even for a dog, the shift was immense. We had moved from a cozy, well-loved apartment in Manchester to this sleek, modern space in a foreign city. Everything was new for her too, and seeing her hesitation made the unfamiliar surroundings feel even more daunting.

“It’s okay, bella,” I knelt down and offered her a comforting scratch behind the ears. She leaned into my touch, her big, worried eyes blinking up at me. “New place, new smells. We’ll make it ours.”

The apartment was nice, all whitewashed walls and large windows that overlooked a bustling street, a stark contrast to the quiet lanes I was used to. It was a temporary solace, a basecamp for the massive, terrifying change I was embracing: playing for FC Barcelona Feminí.

I walked over to the window, gazing at the city lights beginning to flicker on. Tomorrow. Tomorrow was the first training session. My heart hammered a nervous, staccato rhythm against my ribs. I had left everything—my team, my friends, my life, my comfort—for this chance. The responsibility felt like a physical weight settling on my shoulders.

I still couldn’t believe I was actually here. I was Aurora de Luca, a name that felt important now, but which only a pair of years ago was just the girl who loved football. Now, I was a player for Barça, a club whose history and influence were intimidating.

The language barrier was its own source of anxiety. My Italian was fluent, obviously, and my English was reliable enough for most conversations. But Spanish? That was another story. I knew the basic phrases, the polite greetings, and I could probably order a coffee without causing an international incident. But holding a tactical conversation, understanding a rapid-fire locker room joke, or even just making a new friend felt impossible.

I should have studied more on the plane, I thought, a wave of familiar self-reproach washing over me. I sighed, running a hand through my hair.

I turned back to the room, where Luna had finally found a comfortable rug and was curled up, though her ears were still twitching, listening to the new world outside. She was my constant, my quiet link to the life I’d left behind.

The training schedule was taped to an empty section of the wall—bright and official, a stark reminder of what lay ahead. I read the time again, a knot tightening in my stomach. The first impression was everything. I had to be strong, confident, and professional.

As the evening wore on, I unpacked only the essentials: my phone, my toothbrush, and my cleats. I didn’t want to settle in too much yet. Not until I knew I belonged. The quiet hum of the city outside eventually lulled me into a state of tired calm. I lay on the mattress I’d dragged onto the floor, pulling a thin blanket over me, Luna a warm, reassuring presence nestled at my feet.

Tomorrow is the day, I thought, closing my eyes. Same ocean, different shore. And I had to learn how to swim.

Alexia

The familiar low thump-thump of the football against the wall of the indoor facility was the only sound I cared about right now. Everything else—the incessant buzzing of my phone, the pressure from the press, the polite inquiries about my injury—they all faded away when I had the ball at my feet.

It was late. Past the time everyone else had left the Ciutat Esportiva, but the silence was exactly what I needed. The light seemed harsher, almost clinical, bouncing off the polished floor, illuminating the sweat beading on my forehead. I worked through my drills, focusing on speed and accuracy. Faster, cleaner, harder.

The discipline was a shield, protecting me from the internal chaos I refused to acknowledge. Tomorrow, the routine would be disrupted. A new player was arriving.

Aurora de Luca.

I kicked the ball sharply against a target cone, the force of the impact resonating up my leg. I already knew the scouting reports. Italian international, technically gifted, great vision. The kind of player the coaches were excited about, the kind of player the club hoped would integrate seamlessly into the Barça machinery.

I had no enthusiasm for it. None.

It wasn’t personal, not yet. It was just the idea of it. New blood always brought a tremor of instability. New players had to be taught the system, the unspoken rules, the level of intensity that was simply expected. They came in bright-eyed and eager, full of promises and expectations. But the pressure here was unique, a crushing weight woven into the fabric of the crest. Most crumbled.

I retrieved the ball and dribbled back, my focus absolute. This was my team. I had spent years shaping the culture, setting the standard, enduring the hell of a major injury only to fight my way back to the top. I didn’t need fresh enthusiasm; I needed relentless, unwavering commitment.

My phone, lying forgotten on the bench, buzzed again. Probably a text from my agent or a well-meaning teammate checking in. I ignored it. I didn’t want company, and I certainly didn’t want a conversation.

A low, unpleasant growl surfaced in my chest—the kind of bad mood I always tried to suppress. It felt unwarranted. Why should a new signing bother me so much?

Because she’ll be another variable, a small, cynical voice whispered in my mind. Another person I have to carry, another person who might fail to live up to the standard.

I stopped the ball dead with the sole of my boot, looking down at the worn leather. I was trying to be fair. I was trying to be the captain everyone expected—welcoming, supportive, a true professional.

But deep down, there was a bitter taste in my mouth. I didn’t have the energy for introductions, for polite smiles, or for the necessary patience required to bring someone new up to speed. After all the sacrifices, all the endless hours of rehabilitation, I just wanted to focus on the game. My game.

I took a deep, shaky breath, letting it out slowly. “It doesn’t matter,” I muttered in Catalan, adjusting the strap on my knee brace. “She’ll be professional, and so will I.”
I shot the ball across the width of the floor one last time, a powerful, accurate pass into the empty net. It landed with a satisfying thwack.

Tomorrow would come, and I would be there. I would be Alexia Putellas, captain and leader. But tonight, in the quiet solitude of the training facility, I allowed myself to feel the resentment. I had no patience left to give.