Chapter 10

Aurora

The locker room behind me was a riot of noise. Music was blasting—some reggaeton track that Pina had put on—and the sound of popping Cava corks and laughter echoed off the tiles. We had beaten Lyon. I had survived my debut. My legs were shaking from exhaustion, and my heart was still racing, but I needed a moment of silence.

I slipped away from the chaos, finding refuge in a small equipment storage room at the end of the hall. It smelled of rubber mats and pressurized footballs, dimly lit and wonderfully quiet. I sat on a stack of folded training bibs and pulled out my phone.

I checked the world clock. It was roughly 9:30 PM in Barcelona. In Hawaii, it was 9:30 AM. Perfect.

I hit the FaceTime icon. Elena picked up on the second ring. She was sitting on her porch on the North Shore, the morning sun casting a golden glow over her face. She looked vibrant, her hair still damp from an early surf session.

“Aurora! Ce l’hai fatta!” (You did it!) Elena beamed, her voice a warm tide of home.

“Sì, abbiamo vinto 1-0. Sono distrutta, Elena,” (Yes, we won 1-0. I’m destroyed, Elena), I exhaled, leaning my head back against a rack of hurdles. “Ma è stato incredibile. La maglia, i tifosi… non ho mai provato nulla di simile.” (But it was incredible. The jersey, the fans… I’ve never felt anything like it.)

“Ti ho vista in streaming,” (I saw you on the stream) Elena said, her pragmatic eyes softening with pride. “Quell’assist… un colpo di genio. E quella bionda che ha segnato?” (That assist… a stroke of genius. And that blonde who scored?)

I let out a tired laugh. “Quella è Alexia. È il capitano. È… complicata. Mi mette una pressione pazzesca, ma credo che oggi l’abbia finalmente convinta.” (That’s Alexia. She’s the captain. She’s… complicated. She puts crazy pressure on me, but I think I finally convinced her today.)

Suddenly, a small, blonde head popped into the frame. Lessi, holding a half-eaten piece of papaya, climbed onto Elena’s lap.

“Zia Aurora!” (Auntie Aurora!) Lessi chirped, her eyes wide with excitement.

“Ciao, piccola mia!” (Hello, my little one!) I smiled, feeling a lump form in my throat. I missed them so much it physically hurt. “Prossima volta segno un gol per te, promesso.” (Next time I’ll score a goal for you, I promise.)

“Promesso!” (Promise!) Lessi repeated, before jumping off the chair to go find her own football in the yard.

Elena’s expression turned serious again. “Aurora, ascoltami. Goditi questo momento. So che sei timida e che Barcellona ti sembra enorme, ma appartieni a quel campo. Non lasciare che quel capitano ti intimidisca.” (Aurora, listen to me. Enjoy this moment. I know you’re shy and Barcelona feels huge, but you belong on that pitch. Don’t let that captain intimidate you.)

“Non lo farà più,” (She won’t anymore) I said, thinking of the way I’d talked back to Alexia in my apartment. “Ho imparato a risponderle.” (I’ve learned how to talk back to her.)

The door to the storage room creaked open. I jumped, nearly dropping my phone. A sliver of light from the hallway spilled in, and there stood Alexia. She was still in her kit, a towel draped around her neck. She stopped when she saw me tucked between the medicine balls.

“Elena, devo andare. Ti chiamo domani. Ti voglio bene,” (Elena, I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you) I whispered quickly.

“Anche noi. In bocca al lupo, sorellina,” (We love you too. Good luck, little sister) Elena said before the screen went black.

I stood up, clutching my phone. Alexia didn’t move. She looked at me, then at the darkened screen of my phone.

“Talking to the fans already?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, lacking the bite it usually carried.

“My sister,” I corrected, stepping out of the shadows. “And my niece. They were watching from Hawaii.”

Alexia leaned against the doorframe. The post-match adrenaline was fading, leaving her looking tired but human. “Hawaii. That’s a long way from Florenz. And a long way from here.”

“The ocean is the same,” I said, repeating the mantra that kept me grounded.

Alexia watched me for a moment. She looked like she wanted to say something—maybe about the pass, maybe about the way I’d stood my ground—but the “Queen” wasn’t quite ready to be that vulnerable yet.

“Pina is looking for you,” she finally said. “She’s convinced you need to go out and celebrate. Don’t stay in the dark too long, Ora. It doesn’t suit you.”

She turned and walked away before I could respond, her silhouette disappearing into the light of the hallway. I stood there for a second, the sound of my sister’s Italian still ringing in one ear and Alexia’s rare softness in the other.

I wasn’t just a visitor anymore. I was a Barça player. And for the first time, this shore didn’t feel so different after all.

Alexia

(a few minutes earlier)

The locker room was a chaotic blur of champagne-soaked jerseys and deafening music. Pina was standing on a bench, leading a chorus of fans’ chants, and Mapi was busy documenting the mess on her phone. Usually, I was the anchor in these moments, the one who soaked in the victory with a quiet, satisfied pride.

But today, my eyes kept scanning the room, landing on every face except the one I was looking for.

Where was she?

She had been there for the final whistle. I had felt her presence right behind me as we applauded the fans—the small, Italian shadow that had finally stopped shrinking and started growing. Her performance had been more than just “good.” It had been the kind of debut that shifted the gravity of a team.

“Looking for someone, Capitana?” Mapi appeared at my side, her eyes gleaming with that insufferable knowing look.

“Just checking the squad,” I lied, my voice stiff. “We have a recovery session tomorrow. I don’t want anyone disappearing before the debrief.”

“Right. Because you’re so worried about the ‘debrief’ right now,” Mapi smirked, leaning in. “She went down the hall. Looked like she needed some air. Or maybe just a break from you barking at her for ninety minutes.”

I ignored the jab and slipped out of the side door. The hallway was a stark contrast to the locker room—cool, quiet, and smelling of floor wax. I walked slowly, my studs clicking rhythmically. I told myself I was just being a diligent captain. I told myself I needed to officially acknowledge her contribution to the goal.

I reached the end of the corridor and saw the door to the equipment room slightly ajar. I stopped when I heard the low, melodic murmur of a language that wasn’t Spanish or Catalan.

Italian.

I stood in the shadows of the doorway, watching her. She was tucked between the medicine balls and training hurdles, looking small and exhausted, her phone held up in front of her. The glow of the screen illuminated her face—the sharp line of her jaw and the softness in her eyes that I only ever saw when she was looking at her dog.

“Prossima volta segno un gol per te, promesso.”

I didn’t need a translator to understand the tone. It was pure, unshielded love. I watched her for a long beat, seeing the “De Luca fire” extinguished and replaced by a vulnerable, homesick girl who was thousands of miles away from her heart.

A strange, tight sensation constricted my chest. It wasn’t the adrenaline of the game. It was a realization. I had been treating her like a soldier, a cog in my machine, forgetting that she had uprooted her entire life to come to a city where the only person who had been “kind” to her were Pina, Mapi and a few others. And I had been the one making her life a living hell.

I felt like an intruder. I should have turned around, but my feet moved before I could stop them. I pushed the door open just a crack more, the light from the hall cutting through her sanctuary.

She jumped, her eyes wide and startled. She looked like I’d caught her committing a crime.

She finished her call quickly—“Ti voglio bene”—and stood up, her defensive mask sliding back into place almost instantly. It stung, seeing her go from that warm, laughing woman on the screen back to the guarded girl who didn’t trust me.

“Talking to the fans already?” I asked. My voice sounded wrong—too quiet, too heavy.

When she told me it was her sister and niece in Hawaii, I felt that pang of guilt again. Hawaii. Florenz. Manchester. Barcelona. She was chasing dreams across oceans while I was busy complaining that her hips weren’t open enough during a transition drill.

“Don’t stay in the dark too long, Ora,” I said, the nickname feeling more natural on my tongue this time. “It doesn’t suit you.”

As I walked away, I didn’t head back to the party. I walked toward the tunnel, looking out at the empty, darkened pitch of the Estadi Johan Cruyff. I had spent so long protecting the “standard” of this club that I had forgotten that a team isn’t just made of trophies and tactics. It’s made of people.

I reached into my pocket and felt my phone. For a second, I thought about opening Instagram. I thought about that photo of her.

I didn’t like her—I still told myself that. But as I watched the sun hit the grass where she had made that incredible turn, I knew I couldn’t go back to the way things were. She had called me “Ale.” She had challenged the Queen. And God help me, I think I was starting to hope she would do it again.