Chapter 28

2 weeks later

Alexia

The bubble we had built in Barcelona didn’t just burst; it was systematically dismantled by the arrival of the international break. There is a specific kind of whiplash that comes with leaving your club sanctuary to report for national duty, especially when the person who makes your heart beat faster is suddenly wearing the colors of the “enemy.”

I stood in the hallway of the training center, the scent of fresh grass and industrial cleaner filling my lungs. My phone buzzed in my pocket—a text from Aurora.

Ora: Just landed in Roma. The air feels different here. Heavier. I miss my favorite Spaniard already.

I smiled at the screen, but the expression faded the moment I heard the sharp click of heels on the linoleum floor. I tucked the phone away and straightened my posture.

Montse Tomé walked toward me, her clipboard tucked under her arm, her expression unreadable. Since she had taken over the helm of La Roja, the atmosphere had shifted. It was professional, yes, but there still was always an tension.

“Alexia,” Montse said, stopping in front of me. She offers a smile. “You’re late for the tactical briefing.”

“My apologies, Montse. I was just catching up on some… logistics,” I replied, my ‘Captain’ voice smooth and hollow.

“Logistics,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I hope those logistics don’t involve losing focus. We have Italy in three days. It’s not just a friendly; it’s a statement. And I’ve been looking at their roster.”

She tapped her clipboard. “They’ve called up De Luca. Your rookie. The reports say her form has spiked in the last two weeks. Some are saying she’s the one of the most dangerous midfielder in Europe right now.”

My heart did a traitorous little flip of pride, but I kept my face like stone. “She’s talented.”

“She’s a threat,” Montse corrected. “And she knows your game, Alexia. She’s been training in your shadow for months. I need to know that when you step onto that pitch in Rome, you aren’t seeing a teammate. I need to know you’re ready to shut her down. No mercy. No ‘club’ sentimentality. I had the same coversation with Pina, ok?”

I looked at my coach, and for a second, the ‘Architecture of Us’ felt very fragile. The world didn’t care about our kitchen dances or the way Aurora held me when I was tired. To Montse, and to the thousands of fans who would be watching, we were just two variables on a pitch. Two nations at war. But I nodded.

“I am the Captain of Spain, Montse,” I said, the words feeling like ash in my mouth. “I know exactly what my job is.”

“Good,” Montse said, turning on her heel. “Because the media is already starting to whisper about the ‘New Connection’ in Barcelona. Don’t give them a reason to think you’ve gone soft.”

As she walked away, I felt a cold chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. In seventy-two hours, I would have to walk out into a stadium filled with screaming Italians, look across the center circle, and see the woman I loved—not as my anchor, but as my opponent.

I pulled out my phone and typed a quick reply.

Ale: Focus on the game, Ora. Montse is watching. I’ll see you in the tunnel. And remember… I won’t be easy on you just because you’re pretty.

I hit send, but as I walked into the briefing room, the math in my head was already failing. How do you tackle the person who holds your heart?

Aurora

The Stadio Olimpico was breathing. I could feel the vibrations of the Italian crowd through the soles of my boots, a low roar that sounded like the ocean Elena always talked about. But here, in the tunnel, the air was cold, damp, and smelled of linoleum and nervous sweat.

I adjusted the sleeve of my Azzurre jersey, the blue fabric feeling heavier than usual. My heart was a frantic bird trapped in my ribs. I looked down the line, and there she was.

Alexia.

She stood at the head of the Spanish line, the yellow captain’s armband stark against the deep red of her sleeve. Her jaw was set, her eyes fixed straight ahead on the patch of grass visible at the end of the tunnel. She looked like a statue—cold, regal, and terrifyingly distant. The woman who had whispered “I love you” against my skin two nights ago was nowhere to be found. In her place was the two-time Ballon d’Or winner, a warrior ready for battle.

I felt a wave of nausea. How are we supposed to do this?

“Hey,” a soft voice whispered.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind in a quick, fierce squeeze. I didn’t even have to look to know it was Pina. She was wearing her Spain kit, her game-face on, but she had broken rank just for a second.

“Breathe, Ora,” Pina whispered into my ear. “She’s just doing her ‘Queen’ thing. Don’t let it get in your head. But also… if you try to nutmeg her today, she might actually kill you. Just a heads up.”

I let out a shaky breath, grateful for the brief contact. “Thanks, Pini.”

Pina gave my arm one last pat before slipping back into the Spanish line. I looked back at Alexia. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t even blinked. The professional wall she had built was so high I couldn’t see over it.

Alexia

Every muscle in my body was tight enough to snap. I could feel Aurora’s gaze on the side of my face—I could practically feel the heat of her anxiety radiating from three meters away. It took every ounce of my legendary self-control not to turn my head, not to reach out and pull her into the safety of my arms.

But the cameras were lined up, waiting for a slip, a look, a sign of “club sentimentality.”

Focus, Alexia. It’s just ninety minutes. It’s just math.

But the math wasn’t working. My brain kept flickering between the scouting report on Italy’s midfield and the memory of Aurora’s laugh in my kitchen.

I felt the referee signal. It was time.

As we began to move toward the light, the lines converged for a moment. For a split second, Aurora and I were shoulder to shoulder. I saw her hand twitch, like she wanted to reach for mine out of habit.

I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. Instead, I let my hand drop by my side, and for a fleeting second, I let the back of my fingers brush against hers. It was a ghost of a touch, invisible to the cameras, but to me, it was an electric shock.

I’m here, I meant to say through that touch. I’m still yours, even in red.

I saw her chest rise in a sharp inhale, and then we were stepping out into the blinding stadium lights. The national anthems began to swell, and the distance between us became a physical canyon. She stood under the Italian flag, I stood under the Spanish one.

As the final notes of Il Canto degli Italiani faded, I led my team over for the handshakes. I walked down the line, tapping hands with the Italian players, my face a mask of professional indifference.

Then, I reached her.

Aurora’s eyes were wide, a storm of blue searching mine for any sign of the woman she knew. My heart hammered against my ribs. I took her hand. Her skin was cold, just like that night on the beach.

“Good luck, De Luca,” I said, my voice low, raspy, and completely devoid of the warmth we shared in private.

I felt her fingers tighten on mine for a millisecond too long. “You too, Capitana,” she whispered back, her voice trembling just enough to break my heart.

I let go. I had to. I walked past her to the center circle, the grass beneath my boots feeling like a battlefield. The whistle blew, and the world narrowed down to a ball and a game.

But as I stepped in to make my first tackle, I knew: this was going to be the longest ninety minutes of my life.