Chapter 29

Aurora

The whistle didn’t just start a match; it sounded like a starting gun for a war I wasn’t prepared to fight. In the training sessions with Barcelona, I knew Alexia’s movements like my own pulse. I knew when she would feint left, when she would look for the diagonal ball, and exactly how she used her body to shield the ball.

But in the blue of Italy, with thirty thousand people screaming in Rome, that knowledge felt like a curse.

Every time I looked up, she was there. A red blur in my peripheral vision. She wasn’t playing like my Alexia. She was playing like the “Queen” the world feared—ruthless, efficient, and hauntingly silent.

Fifteen minutes in, the ball broke loose in the center circle. It was a 50/50 ball, the kind of scrap that usually determined who controlled the rhythm of the game. I lunged for it, my cleats digging into the turf, but a split second before I could make contact, a solid wall of red slammed into my shoulder.

I went down. Hard.

The air left my lungs in a ragged gasp as my hip hit the grass. I looked up, blinking back the sting of the impact, expecting—hoping—to see a hand reaching down to pull me up. A quiet apology. A wink.

Instead, Alexia was already moving away with the ball at her feet, her ponytail whipping behind her. She didn’t even look back.

“Get up, De Luca!” my captain, Linari, barked from behind me. “Don’t let her bully you!”

I scrambled to my feet, my heart pounding with a mixture of shock and a sudden, sharp spark of Italian temper. Fine, I thought, wiping the mud from my palms onto my shorts. You want  to be the Captain? You’ve got to be her.

Ten minutes later, I saw my opening. Alexia received a pass from Ona Batlle, her back to me. Usually, I’d wait for her to turn. Usually, I’d give her space out of respect.

Not today.

I closed the gap in three strides, my heart hammering. Just as she began her signature turn, I dropped my center of gravity and slid. It was a risky tackle—the kind that would have made our club coaches have a heart attack—but my timing was perfect. I hooked the ball away, my trailing leg catching her ankle just enough to send her stumbling.

The referee’s whistle shrilled. A foul.

I stood up immediately, standing over her. Alexia was on one knee, her chest heaving, a smear of dirt across her cheek. Her green eyes snapped up to mine, and for the first time since we entered the tunnel, the mask slipped. There was a flash of genuine surprise there, followed by something that looked dangerously like a challenge.

“Careful, Rookie,” she hissed, her voice low enough that only I could hear. “This isn’t a rondo.”

“I know exactly what this is, Capitana,” I shot back, my voice trembling with adrenaline.

I reached out—not to help her up, but to tap the ball back toward the spot of the foul, my movements sharp and defiant.

The stadium was a wall of noise, but in the center of that pitch, it felt like we were the only two people alive. It was the most intimate and agonizing thing I had ever experienced. We were speaking to each other through every tackle, every intercepted pass, every cold stare.

I love you, my heart said every time I tracked her run. I have to win, her eyes replied every time she shut me down.

By the time the halftime whistle blew, the score was 0-0, but I felt like I had played three matches. I walked toward the tunnel, my legs heavy, my mind a mess of blue and red.

I felt a presence beside me. I didn’t look, but I knew it was her. We were walking just inches apart, the cameras flashing as we disappeared into the dark of the tunnel.

“You’re playing well,” she murmured, her voice barely a ghost in the roar of the crowd. She didn’t look at me. She kept her eyes fixed forward, her face a mask of stone. “But you’re leaving the left channel open. If you do it again, I’m going to punish you.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. It wasn’t a romantic whisper. It was a threat. A professional, cold-blooded tactical observation.

“Try it, Ale,” I whispered back, my grip tightening on my jersey. “See what happens.”

She didn’t respond, but as we reached the locker room doors and went our separate ways, I saw the smallest, almost invisible twitch at the corner of her mouth.

The “Queen” was still there. But so was the woman who loved the fight.

Alexia

The second half was a blur of high-octane tactical warfare. The air in the Stadio Olimpico felt thinner, charged with the electricity of a 0-0 deadlock that neither of us was willing to accept.

I watched Aurora. I watched the way she adjusted her position after my “threat” in the tunnel. She didn’t just close the left channel; she turned it into a fortress. She was playing with a fire I hadn’t seen in Barcelona—a raw, Italian passion that made her look like a different person. She wasn’t the shy girl from my kitchen anymore. She was a general.

In the 68th minute, it happened.

I picked up the ball near the halfway line. I saw the opening—the one I’d told her about. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, drawn toward Aitana, and I struck. I drove forward, the grass slipping beneath my boots, and for a moment, it was just her and me.

She lunged. A desperate, sliding block.

I flicked the ball over her foot, my heart hammering. Our eyes met as I bypassed her—a split second of pure, agonizing connection. I saw the frustration in her gaze, and I felt a sharp pang of guilt that I immediately crushed. Not now.

I squared the ball to Salma, who buried it into the bottom corner.

1-0.

The Spanish bench erupted. My teammates piled onto me, screaming, celebrating the breakthrough. I let them. I wore the mask. I smiled and pumped my fist, but as I ran back to the center circle, my eyes instinctively sought out the blue jersey with the number 6.

Aurora was standing with her hands on her hips, her head bowed. She looked exhausted. Broken. And I was the one who had done it.

The rest of the match was a desperate grind. Italy threw everything at us. In the final minute of stoppage time, Aurora had the chance—a half-volley from the edge of the box. I threw my body in the way, the ball catching me square in the ribs, knocking the wind out of me.

The whistle blew.

Spain had won.

The immediate aftermath was a whirlwind of red jerseys jumping and cheering. But the moment the cameras started to drift, the “National” barriers began to crumble.

I saw it first: Pina. She didn’t care about the win for more than a minute. She marched straight over to Aurora, who was still staring at the grass. Pina didn’t say a word; she just grabbed her best friend and pulled her into a fierce, lingering hug.

Then came Mapi. Then Aitana, Ona, and Vicky.

One by one, the “Spanish” Barca players surrounded the lone “Italian” Barca player. It was a sea of red swallowing a speck of blue. They weren’t opponents anymore. They were the family from the apartment, the ones who knew the secret, the ones who had seen Lessi nutmeg their Captain.

I stood back for a moment, watching them. My heart felt like it was being squeezed.

I walked over slowly. The circle of players opened up for me. Aurora looked up, her blue eyes shimmering with unshed tears—half from the loss, half from the sheer emotional exhaustion of the last ninety minutes.

I didn’t care who was watching. I didn’t care about Montse Tomé or the photographers.

I stepped into her space and pulled her toward me. I tucked her head under my chin, my hand cupping the back of her neck. She collapsed against me, her hands gripping my red jersey so hard her knuckles were white.

“You were incredible,” I whispered into her hair, my voice thick. “I’ve never been more proud of you.”

“You’re a nightmare to play against, Putellas,” she choked out, a small, watery laugh escaping her.

“I know,” I murmured, tightening my grip. “But the war is over. Let’s go home.”

Around us, the Barça girls were chatting, Mapi already making some joke about the goal, completely ignoring the fact that they were supposed to be rivals. In that moment, the Stadio Olimpico didn’t belong to Spain or Italy.

It belonged to us.