Chapter 36

Aurora

And then the morning came.

By six o’clock, the soft, golden light of a Barcelona dawn was stretching across my living room, but the peaceful bubble we had built during the night was already beginning to warp under the weight of the coming day.

Alexia was still asleep beside me, one of her heavy arms draped protectively over my waist, her breathing slow and deep. Looking at her like this—devoid of the armor, the captain’s armband, and the pressure of a million expectations—made my heart ache with a fierce, protective instinct.

Yesterday, I had been watching her world shatter. Today, something else was taking over.

Carefully, so I wouldn’t wake her, I slid out from under her arm and grabbed my phone. The notifications were still a relentless, scrolling wall of noise, but I ignored the social media tags and went straight to my call logs.

I didn’t want Alexia to fight this battle for me. She had spent the last ten years standing in front of microphones defending everyone else. If I was going to be the woman who stood beside her—not in her shadow, but next to her—I needed to prove, mostly to myself, that my career wasn’t a glass house she had to constantly reinforce. I had to fix it myself.

I walked out onto my small balcony, shivering slightly in the crisp morning air, and dialed my agent.

He answered on the second ring, his voice entirely too awake, entirely too clinical. “Aurora. Finally. I’ve been trying to reach you for—”

“Marco,” I cut him off, my voice dropping into a flat, unyielding tone that felt surprisingly steady. “The Arsenal graphic. Why is it on Instagram?”

A brief pause on the other end. “It’s a tactical leverage play, Aurora. By letting London leak an ’emergency inquiry’, we shift the narrative. It forces Barcelona to protect you, and it shows the media that you aren’t an easy target.”

“You did it without asking me,” I said, my grip tightening on the balcony railing. “You made it look like I’m running away. Like I can’t handle the pressure of playing for this club. Like I’m ready to abandon my team because of a headline.”

“It’s just business, Ora—”

“It’s my life, Marco,” I snapped, the anger finally boiling over, sharp and precise. “And it’s my club. I am not a pawn for you to move around a board to pressure Laporta. I love Barcelona. I am staying in Barcelona. I want you to call Arsenal back right now and tell them the answer is a definitive, absolute no.”

“Aurora, think about the corporate clauses—”

“Call them back,” I repeated, each word heavy with finality. “And if you ever use my name to orchestrate a media stunt behind my back again, I will find a new agent before the transfer window even opens. Am I making myself clear?”

Silence stretched over the line for three long seconds before Marco let out a defeated sigh. “Perfect party line, De Luca. I’ll pull the plug on London.”

I hung up without saying goodbye, a massive wave of adrenaline rushing through my veins. My hands were shaking, but for the first time in twenty-four hours, it wasn’t out of fear. It was out of power.

Turning around, I saw Alexia standing by the glass door. She was wearing one of my old training shirts, her hair slightly messy, watching me with a look of quiet awe.

“How much of that did you hear?” I asked, stepping back inside.

“Enough to know I don’t ever want to be on your bad side on the pitch,” she murmured, a slow, incredibly proud smile spreading across her face. She walked over, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and pulling me against her chest. “You handled him alone.”

“I had to,” I whispered, burying my face in her neck. “Because Laporta is going to drag me into his office the second we step into the facility, and I am not going to let him think you are speaking for me. I am going to look the President in the eye and tell him myself: I am staying here.”

Alexia held me tighter, her cheek resting against the top of my head.

Alexia

Ora and I arrived at the Ciutat Esportiva. The morning air was thick, heavy with the kind of tension that usually precedes a Champions League final. But today, the opponent wasn’t another club. It was the whisper network.

As soon as we walked through the heavy glass doors of the facility, Pere Romeu was already waiting at the end of the corridor. He didn’t look angry, just deeply tired. He gave me a brief, meaningful look before his eyes shifted to Ora.

“Aurora,” Jonatan said, his voice flat but not unkind. “The office upstairs. Laporta and the sports director are waiting. Just you.”

I felt my jaw clench instantly. I took a half-step forward, the captain’s reflex firing off inside my brain like a wire. I need to go with her. I need to shield her. But before I could open my mouth, Aurora gently caught my wrist. Her grip was steady, a silent reminder of the promise she had made on her balcony a few hours ago. She looked up at Pere, nodded once, and then looked at me.

“I’ve got this, Ale,” she whispered, her eyes burning with that newfound, fierce independence. “Go to the locker room. I’ll meet you on the pitch.”

I watched her walk toward the elevator, her shoulders squared, her chin held high. She looked confident, like a woman ready to claim her own territory.

But as the elevator doors slid shut, the adrenaline drained out of me, leaving behind a hollow, frantic restlessness. I needed to move. I needed to talk. And more than anything, I needed to get out of my own head before I drove myself insane.

I pushed open the heavy door to the locker room. It was early, so the room was mostly quiet, the low hum of the tactical screens playing loops of defensive transitions in the background.

At the far end, sitting on the bench with one foot propped up on a cooler while she taped her ankles, was Maria.

Mapi didn’t look up when the door clicked, but she knew my footsteps. “You look like you’ve just run a marathon in boots that don’t fit, Capitana.”

I didn’t answer. I just walked over, tossed my kit bag onto the floor next to my locker, and sank down onto the bench beside her. I dropped my head into my hands, letting out a long, ragged breath that I felt like I’d been holding since the press conference.

Mapi stopped ripping the tape. She turned her head, her sharp eyes scanning my face, seeing right through the “Alexia Putellas” facade within a fraction of a second. She set the tape down, her tone instantly losing its usual sarcastic edge.

“Hey,” she said softly, nudging my knee with her elbow. “What’s going on? Where’s Ora? I saw the London graphics this morning. Is she actually leaving?”

“No,” I choked out, the word feeling heavy in my throat. I looked up at the ceiling, trying to force down the sudden surge of emotion. “She’s not leaving. She called her agent at dawn and told him to pull the plug on Arsenal. Right now, she’s upstairs with Laporta. Alone.”

Mapi let out a low whistle, leaning back against the lockers.

“I wanted to go with her, Mapi,” I said, my voice cracking slightly as the frustration boiled over. “I almost forced my way into the elevator. It’s killing me to just sit here while they interrogate her about her contract, her focus, her… us.”

Mapi looked at me for a long moment, a deep, knowing understanding crossing her face. She reached over, clapping a heavy, grounding hand onto my shoulder.

“Ale, listen to me,” Mapi said, her voice dropping into that rare, fiercely loyal tone she only used when things were truly serious. “You’ve spent the last years carrying the weight of this entire club on your back. You think you have to fix every leak, fight every battle, and take every bullet for the team. But Aurora isn’t just a teammate you need to shield anymore. She’s the girl you love. And if you don’t let her stand on her own two feet in that boardroom, the club will always think they can use you to control her.”

I closed my eyes, her words hitting me like a physical blow. “I know. It’s just… when I saw that graphic, Mapi… when I thought she was going to London… I’ve never been that terrified in my life. I actually went to her apartment and begged her to stay.”

Mapi’s eyes widened slightly, a faint, soft smile appearing on her lips. “You begged? The great Alexia Putellas actually used the word please?”

“Shut up,” I muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

“No, I’m serious, Ale,” Mapi said, her expression turning incredibly gentle. “That’s a good thing. It means you’re finally letting the fortress burn. You can’t build a real life with someone if you’re always hiding behind a captain’s armband. If Laporta tries to pull anything stupid, we’ve got her back. The whole squad. But right now? Let her show them why she belongs here.”

Before I could answer, the locker room door swung open, and the rest of the team started filtering in, the quiet sanctuary evaporating into the usual pre-training chaos. I stood up, wiping my palms on my shorts, looking toward the hallway.

It was time to go out onto the pitch. But the only thing I was waiting for was my number 24 to come down the tunnel.