Chapter 8

Alexia

The drive home was a blur of streetlights and shifting shadows. I kept my foot heavy on the accelerator, trying to outrun the sudden, suffocating restlessness in my chest. My hands were locked at ten and two on the steering wheel, my knuckles white under the glow of the dashboard.

Ora.

The name slipped through my mind like a ghost, and I physically recoiled, a shiver of irritation running down my spine. I had actually said it. I had used the nickname that Pina and the others used, effectively dismantling the wall of professional distance I had spent a week meticulously building.

“What are you doing, Alexia?” I muttered, my voice sounding harsh in the quiet cabin of the car.

I tried to rationalize it. I told myself the visit was purely clinical. Lyon’s midfield was a machine, and De Luca was the only component in our lineup I couldn’t predict. I needed to see her in her own environment to gauge her mental state. I needed to ensure she wouldn’t crumble under the weight of the Champions League winners. I could have sent a PDF, or called a tactical meeting at the facility, but I had chosen to drive to her door.

And then, there was the look on her face.

I could still see it when I closed my eyes-the way her shy, guarded expression had melted into something sharp and daring. The way her dark eyes had sparked with a challenge when she realized I wasn’t going to retreat. She looked… vibrant. Not like the terrified girl in the locker room, but like a woman who knew exactly how much power she held.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ale.”

A sudden wave of goosebumps broke across my skin, and I tightened my grip on the wheel to steady my hands. It wasn’t just the name. Half of Barcelona called me “Ale.” My family used it, my oldest friends used it, Mapi used it as a weapon to tease me. It was common. It was familiar.

But when she said it, it sounded different. It didn’t sound like a term of endearment or a casual shorthand. It sounded like a claim. Like she had reached through the “Queen” and the “Ballon d’Or winner” and found the person underneath, pulling me down to her level. It was an equalizer.

I didn’t like it. I didn’t like her.

I pulled into my driveway, the engine ticking as I sat in the darkness of the garage. I told myself she was a nuisance. She was stubborn, she was dangerously comfortable with being cheeky, and she was a distraction I didn’t have the bandwidth for. I had gone there to exert control, to show her the hierarchy, and instead, I had left her apartment feeling like I was the one who had been studied.

I walked into my home, the pristine silence of the hallway feeling colder than usual. Nala (my dog) was by my mom and so nobody was home. No lingering scent of lavender candles. Just the echo of my own footsteps on the marble.

I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, my mind drifting back to the way she’d snatched the pen from my hand. She was the first person in a long time who didn’t look at me with either awe or expectation. She looked at me like I was just a woman. Just a teammate.

“She’s a variable,” I whispered, setting the glass down with a firm clack. “And variables lead to mistakes.”

I went to bed, but sleep was a distant country. Every time I drifted off, I saw that flash of Italian fire in her eyes and heard my name-not the title the world gave me, but the name she had stolen.

Tomorrow was Lyon. Tomorrow, the lights would be on at the Estadi Johan Cruyff. I would be the captain, she would be the rookie, and I would make sure the walls were back up. I had to. Because if she could make me feel that unsettled in a quiet apartment, I didn’t want to know what she could do in the middle of a game.

Same Night – 1:45 AM (Alexia)

I should have been asleep three hours ago. Recovery is built on sleep. My physiotherapist would have a heart attack if he saw my heart rate right now-not because of exertion, but because of the blue light of my phone screen glowing in the dark of my bedroom.

I told myself I was just checking the news. Then I told myself I was checking the team’s mentions. But my thumb had a mind of its own.

Search: Aurora de Luca.

I clicked the profile. It was exactly like her-quiet, understated, but strangely captivating. There weren’t many photos of her playing; it was mostly life. Bits of Florenz. A very blurry photo of a younger, laughing Aurora and a little girl at the beach. And, of course, the dog.

I scrolled down until I hit a post from a few weeks ago, just before she left Manchester.

liked by @elena_northshore, @ellatoone, @cristianagirelli, @giulianilaura1 and 1,196 others

@auroradeluca Soon: Barcelona ✈️🇪🇸

comments:

@elena_northshore “Orgogliosa di te. Il mondo non è pronto! 🌍✨️”
(Proud of you. The world isn’t ready)

@utd_fan_forever “Still can’t believe you’re leaving us. Go show them what you’re made of, Aurora! Once a Red, always a Red 🔴🥺

@ellatoone “Still don’t think you’ll find a better coffee than in Manchester, but I guess the sun is alright….🙄. Miss you already! Go smash it! ♥️♥️”

@football_scout_intl “Biggest transfer of the summer for Feminí. Barcelona just got even scarier. 🇮🇹⚽️🔥”

@blaugrana_vibes “The midfield isn’t ready for the De Luca magic! Welcome to the best club in the world. 🔵🔴🙌”

@cristianagirelli “Porta la nostra classe in Spanga, Aurora. Fagil vedere come giochiamo in Italia! Orgogliosa di te, spacca tutto! 🇮🇹✨️💙
(Take our class to Spain, Aurora! Show them how we play in Italy! Proud of you, rock it all.)

@giulianilaura1 In bocca al lupo, piccola!Brilla anche a Barcellona. ✨️💙
(Good luck, little one! Shine bright in Barcelona too)

@soccer_gal_99 “AURORA IN BARCELONA! It’s finally happening! 😍✨️”

The image held my gaze, pulling at something I hadn’t yet named.

I remembered what she said earlier: “I’m a De Luca. We don’t fail when the lights are on.”

I looked at her follower count. It was growing. People were already excited about the “Italian Prodigy” coming to Catalunya. They saw the talent. They saw the face. But they didn’t see the girl who sat on the edge of the world with only a dog for company, wondering if she was good enough to swim in deeper waters.

I felt a sudden, sharp urge to “like” the photo, my thumb hovering over the heart icon.

I pulled back just in time, my breath hitching. Absolutely not. If I liked a photo from three weeks ago at two in the morning, I might as well hand her my captain’s armband and a map to my house.

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the nightstand, rolling over to face the window. The moonlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, cage-like shadows across my bed.

She wasn’t just a variable. She was a person. A person who missed the sea and probably felt just as isolated in this city as I did behind my wall of trophies.

“Go to sleep, Alexia,” I hissed into the pillow.

But as I finally drifted off, the image of her sitting by the ocean stayed with me. I realized then that I didn’t just want her to be “Barça level” tomorrow. I wanted to see if she could turn that quiet stillness into the storm she had promised. Maybe there was a part of me that actually liked having someone around who wasn’t afraid to push back.

But of course, that is something I would never, ever admit to her or anyone else (not even myself).