Chapter 31

Alexia

The hum of the team bus was a low, vibrating drone that usually helped me think, but today it felt like a headache in the making. We were driving toward the airport, leaving the adrenaline of Rome behind, yet the air inside the bus was thick with something else. It wasn’t the silence of a win; it was the frantic, rhythmic tapping of fingers on glass screens.

Beside me, Mapi was hunched over her phone, her brow furrowed in a way that usually meant she had found something particularly chaotic on the internet.

“Ale,” she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. “You might want to put your phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’ for the next… decade.”

I didn’t have to ask why. I pulled my phone from my pocket, and the lock screen was a waterfall of notifications. Mentions, tags, direct messages—it was a literal flood. I clicked on the first trending link, and there it was.

The image that was currently lighting the football world on fire.

Mundo Deportivo: EL ABRAZO DE ROMA

The Hug of Rome

The Rivalry that Isn’t? After ninety minutes of brutal physical play and a clinical goal by the Spanish Captain, the final whistle brought a scene that has left fans and analysts stunned. This wasn’t the usual post-match jersey swap. This was intimate. This was personal.

Whispers of a “special connection” between the Queen of Barcelona (Alexia Putellas) and the Italian (Aurora de Luca) have been circulating for weeks, but the images from the Stadio Olimpico suggest something far deeper than club chemistry. Is there a new power couple in the heart of Catalonia?

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering. The photo was beautiful, actually. It captured the exact second the world stopped existing, the second I decided that she was more important than the “Standard.” But seeing it laid out like a tabloid headline made the air in the bus feel suddenly very thin.

“The comments are a war zone,” Mapi said, scrolling rapidly. “Half the fans are calling it ‘The Romance of the Century’ and the other half are arguing about ‘professionalism’ and ‘National Team integrity.’ Oh, and some guy in Madrid is convinced it’s a secret tactical signal. People are idiots.”

I leaned my head back against the headrest, closing my eyes. “Montse is going to have a heart attack.”

“Montse is currently at the front of the bus staring at her iPad like she’s trying to set it on fire with her mind,” Mapi reported, peeking over the seat. “She’s not happy, Ale. But honestly? Who cares? Look at that photo. You look human. For once, you don’t look like a trophy on a pedestal.”

I looked down at my phone again. I had a message from Aurora.

Ora: I saw the rumors. Elena just sent me the link. I’m very worried, Ale. Are you okay?

I felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it eclipsed the anxiety. I didn’t care about the headlines. I didn’t care about the critics in the Madrid press or the awkward meeting I was undoubtedly going to have with the Federation.

I looked at the the photo. My friends, my family—standing guard around us. They had known. They had protected us. And now, the world was going to have to deal with the truth.

I began to type, my fingers steady despite the vibrating bus.

Ale: Let them talk, Ora. We knew the storm was coming, one time or another. I’m just glad I’m in it with you. Tell Elena to stick to surfing. See you at the airport.

“What are you going to do?” Mapi asked, looking at me with genuine curiosity. “The ‘Queen’ silence? Or a statement?”

I looked out the window at the Italian countryside blurring past. “Neither,” I said, a small, defiant smile playing on my lips. “I’m going to walk off this bus, get on that plane, and when we land in Barcelona, I’m going to find my girlfriend. Everything else is just noise.”

Mapi grinned, bumping her shoulder against mine. “That’s my Captain. Now, move over. I need to show you this meme someone made of Lessi nutmegging you with a crown on her head. It’s already got fifty thousand likes.”

I groaned, burying my face in my hands, but for the first time since the whistle blew, I was actually laughing.

Aurora

My hands were shaking so violently I had to sit on them.

The Italian team bus was silent, a stark contrast to the rowdy celebrations I usually shared with my teammates. Everyone was giving me space—either out of respect for the loss or because they had all seen the same grainy, high-definition explosion on their social media feeds.

I leaned my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the Roman outskirts blur into a smear of grey and gold. My phone was vibrating in my lap like a dying insect. Every time it buzzed, a fresh jolt of adrenaline shot through my chest.

The Hug. That’s what they were calling it.

I finally worked up the courage to look at the screen again. A notification from a major Italian sports paper popped up:

“Tradimento o Amore? De Luca finds comfort in Spanish arms after defeat.”

“Traitor or Love?” The words felt like a physical weight on my chest. Back in Barcelona it had felt so simple. So right. But here, under the scrutiny of my home country’s media, I felt like I was standing naked in the middle of the pitch.

“Ora.”

I jumped, my heart leaping into my throat. Christiana Girelli was standing in the aisle, looking down at me. She looked worried.

“The press is going to eat you alive at the airport,” she said, her voice low and soft. “You know that, right? They don’t care about ‘club family’ or whatever excuse you’re planning to give. They see an Italian rising star crying into the jersey of the woman who just knocked us out.”

“I… I dont know how to think about all this. It happend so fast,” I whispered, my voice cracking.

Christiana sighed, sliding into the seat across from me. “That’s the problem. When you’re at this level, you don’t get to ‘just think’ about anything. Every breath is a statement. Every hug is a headline.” She paused, her expression softening just a fraction. “But for what it’s worth? You played like a lion today. Don’t let the noise drown out the game.”

I nodded, but the lump in my throat wouldn’t move.

As we pulled into the airport terminal, I saw them. Not just the fans, but a literal wall of photographers and journalists, their lenses pointed at the bus doors like cannons.

My breathing hitched. I felt small.

I checked my messages one last time.

Elena: I’m at the El Prat arrival gate. Lessi is wearing her sunglasses so she looks like a bodyguard. If any reporter touches you, I’ll take them out with a surfboard. Breathe, little sister. You got this. 

I gripped my phone, Elena’s words acting like a jagged anchor. I wasn’t Alexia. I didn’t have her years of practice, her iron-clad “Queen” persona, or her ability to walk through a crowd like she owned the air they breathed.

I was just Aurora. I was terrified. And I was hopelessly in love with the woman who had just made me the most talked-about person in Europe.

I stood up, my legs feeling like lead. I pulled my hood over my head, took a deep breath of the stale bus air, and stepped out into the flashes.