Chapter 4

July 22nd (Monday)

Aurora

The sun hadn’t even fully cleared the horizon when I found myself sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, staring at the steering wheel until the leather pattern blurred before my eyes. My stomach felt like it was filled with cold stones. I had checked my gear bag four times. Cleats? Yes. Shin guards? Yes. The small, laminated Spanish-Italian dictionary Elena had tucked into my suitcase? Yes.

“You’re okay,” I whispered to the empty car. “It’s just grass. It’s just a ball.”

But it wasn’t. It was the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper. It was the weight of a crest that demanded excellence, and I was just a girl from Florenz who still felt like she was playing pretend.

When I walked through the doors of the facility, the air-conditioning hit my skin, chilling the nervous sweat on my neck. I followed the signs toward the Femení wing, my footsteps echoing too loudly in the pristine hallways. Every trophy case I passed felt like a reminder of everything I hadn’t won yet.

I found the locker room door. It was heavy, wood-paneled, and intimidating. I took a breath, held it until my lungs ached, and pushed it open.

The room was already humming. The scent of tiger balm, expensive perfume, and laundry detergent swirled together. I stood in the doorway for a second too long, my hands gripping the straps of my backpack. Several players were already there, laughing and shouting to each other in rapid-fire Spanish that sounded like a blur of vowels.

“¡Ostras! You must be the new one.”

A girl with a bright, mischievous grin hopped down from a bench. She had a lively energy that felt like a physical breeze. This was Claudia Pina. I recognized her from the scout videos—she was clinical on the pitch, but here, she looked like the life of the party.

“I… yes. Aurora,” I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. I felt the heat creeping up my neck. “Ciao. I mean… Hola.”

“Hola, Aurora! Don’t look like you’re walking to the guillotine,” Claudia laughed, stepping forward and giving my arm a friendly squeeze. “I’m Pina. This is your spot, right here.”

She led me to locker number 24. It was tucked between hers and a locker that remained closed and silent, belonging to Mapi León.

“Gracias,” I murmured, carefully placing my bag down. I felt like every movement I made was being watched, though most of the girls were just busy with their own pre-training rituals.

“You can speak Spanish?” Pina asked, tilting her head.

“Small,” I admitted, holding my thumb and index finger an inch apart. “Poco.”

“No pasa nada,” she waved a hand dismissively. “Football is the same everywhere. If you get confused, just follow me. I run a lot, so you’ll get a good workout just chasing my shadow.”

A few other players offered nods or quick “Bienvenida” greetings as they passed. I tried to smile back, but my face felt stiff. I felt like an island in the middle of a very loud, very confident ocean. I reached into my bag and touched a small, frayed polaroid of Luna and Lessi that I kept in the side pocket. It was my anchor.

I began to change, moving as quickly and quietly as possible, trying to disappear into the background. I kept my head down, focusing on the intricate task of tying my laces. I could hear the veterans talking in the corner—their voices carried a different weight, a relaxed authority that I couldn’t imagine ever possessing.

I was terrified of making a mistake. Not just a mistake on the pitch, but a mistake here. What if I sat in the wrong place? What if I didn’t understand an instruction and looked like an amateur?

“Ready?” Pina asked, popping a piece of gum into her mouth and standing up.

I nodded, standing up and adjusting my training top. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird.

“Hey,” Pina said, her voice softening slightly as she noticed my white knuckles. “You’re a Barça player now, Aurora. You’re here because you’re good. Remember that when we step outside.”

I swallowed hard and followed her toward the tunnel. The grass was waiting, and beyond that, the rest of the team. I didn’t know where I fit yet, but as the bright Spanish sun hit my face at the end of the tunnel, I knew there was no turning back.

Alexia

The humidity was already clawing at my lungs, but I welcomed the burn. I was already through my third set of shuttle sprints by the time the rest of the squad began to trickle onto the pitch. My knee felt stable—strong, even—but the phantom ache of the injury lived in my head, a constant reminder that I had to work twice as hard as anyone else just to stay level.

I saw them coming through the tunnel. Pina was leading the way, playing the welcoming committee as usual. Beside her was the Italian girl, De Luca.

She looked like a deer caught in high beams. Head down, shoulders tight, walking as if the grass might break under her feet. A flash of irritation sparked in my chest. This was Barcelona. We had just won everything, and the expectations for the new season were suffocating. We didn’t need “shy.” We needed monsters.

“Groups of four! One-touch passing, maximum intensity!” I shouted, my voice cutting through the morning air like a blade. I didn’t wait for the coaches; the rhythm of this team was my responsibility.

I stepped into a square with Pina, Patri, and De Luca.

“Let’s go,” I snapped, firing the first ball at De Luca’s feet. It wasn’t a friendly pass. It was a test—a hard, zipping ball that carried a bit too much heat for a warm-up.

She controlled it well enough, her touch instinctively cushioned, and flicked it back to Pina. But she didn’t look up. She didn’t demand the next one.

“Faster, Aurora!” I barked. “This isn’t a stroll on the beach. Into the path, not behind!”

The next time the ball came to me, I hammered it back to her, purposely slightly off-target to see how she’d adjust. She had to lung, her cleats skidding in the turf, but she kept it in play. When she looked up, our eyes met for a fraction of a second.

I expected her to look away, but she didn’t—not immediately. There was a flicker there. A spark of dark, Italian fire behind the shyness. Her jaw was set so tight I could see the muscles pulsing. She was furious, even if she was too intimidated to scream.

Good, I thought bitterly. Be angry. It’s better than being scared.

“Again!” I yelled. “Your positioning is lazy! If you’re tired already, go back to the locker room!”

Pina caught my eye, her expression shifting from her usual grin to a worried frown. She shook her head subtly, a silent plea for me to dial it back. She’s new, Alexia. Give her a minute, her eyes seemed to say.

I ignored her. I didn’t have minutes to give.

Ten minutes into the drill, De Luca made her first real mistake—a pass that went two inches wide of Pina’s reach. It was a minor error, the kind everyone makes in July.

I stopped the ball dead under my boot. The silence that followed was heavy.

“Is that how they pass in Manchester?” I asked, my voice dangerously quiet. “Because here, that ball is a counter-attack for the opponent. That ball loses us Champions League trophies.”

Aurora stood frozen. Her face was flushed, a deep red that wasn’t just from the heat. I could see her hands trembling, but her eyes… they were narrowing. That Mediterranean temperament was bubbling just under the surface, a silent storm of “vaffanculo” that she was fighting to keep behind her teeth.

“I… I will fix it,” she muttered, her voice low and strained.

“Don’t tell me you’ll fix it. Do it,” I snapped, turning my back on her to restart the drill.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pina throw her hands up in frustration, looking at me with genuine disbelief. I didn’t care. If De Luca couldn’t handle a bit of pressure from her own captain, she’d never survive a Clásico at a sold-out Camp Nou.

I wasn’t here to be her friend. I was here to make sure she didn’t break the machine I had spent my life building.  Even if I had to break her spirit first to see what was underneath.