Chapter 7

August 3rd (Saturday)

Aurora

The nerves were finally starting to settle into a dull, heavy thrum in my stomach. Tomorrow was it. FC Barcelona versus Olympique Lyonnais in a high-profile pre-season friendly at the Estadi Johan Cruyff. When I saw my name on the whiteboard under the “Starting 11” column this morning, I nearly choked on my water.

It meant the coaches saw me. It meant I was holding my own.

I was curled up on my sofa, the scent of lavender candles finally masking the “new apartment” smell. Luna was sprawled across my lap, her soft breathing the only sound in the room. I had a glass of water and my iPad open, re-watching Lyon’s defensive highlights, trying to memorize their center-back’s tendencies.

Suddenly, my phone buzzed on the coffee table.

An unknown number. I frowned and swiped ‘answer.’

“Pronto?”

“De Luca. Get up. I’m outside your building.”

I froze. That voice. Cold, authoritative, and unmistakably Catalan. My heart did a panicked somersault. “Alexia? How… how do you have my number?”

“I’m the captain. I have everyone’s number,” she snapped, though I could hear the wind whistling through the phone. “And I don’t like talking to intercoms. Buzz me in. Now.”

The line went dead.

“Oh my god,” I whispered, shoving Luna off my lap. “Luna, the Queen is coming. Hide the mess!”

I scrambled to straighten the pillows, my mind racing. Why was she here? Was I being cut from the lineup? Was she going to tell me to go back to Italy? By the time the knock came at the door, I felt like I was vibrating out of my skin.

I opened the door, and there she stood. She wasn’t in her training kit; she wore a simple black hoodie and jeans, but she still looked like she was about to lead an army. She didn’t wait for an invitation; she stepped past me into the apartment, her eyes scanning the room with that terrifyingly sharp precision.

“It’s small,” she remarked, her voice flat.

“I like it,” I shot back, the week of frustration finally giving me a spark of courage. “And hello to you too, Alexia. To what do I owe this… surprise raid?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, her gaze dropped to the floor. Luna had trotted over, her tail wagging tentatively. My heart stopped. Luna, no, she’ll eat you, I thought.

But then, the impossible happened. Alexia’s hard expression softened—just for a second. She knelt down, reaching out a hand. Luna, ever the traitor, licked her fingers immediately.

“An Australian Shepherd,” Alexia murmured, her voice losing that jagged edge as she scratched Luna behind the ears. “She’s well-bred. Balanced.”

“Her name is Luna,” I said, crossing my arms. “And she’s usually a better judge of character.”

Alexia stiffened, standing back up, the “Captain” mask sliding back into place. “Sit down, De Luca. We’re going over the high-press triggers for tomorrow. I saw you hesitating in the film session. I won’t have you stalling the engine when Lyon starts their build-up.”

She sat at my small dining table and flipped open a notebook she’d been carrying. I stood there for a moment, staring at her.

“Are you serious?” I asked, my Italian temperament finally boiling over. “It’s ten o’clock at night. You drove all the way here to tell me how to run?”

“I drove here to make sure we don’t look like amateurs tomorrow,” she said, looking up at me, her eyes narrowing. “Are you going to argue, or are you going to play?”

I walked over and pulled out the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate thud.

“You know,” I said, leaning forward, “for someone who ‘doesn’t like me,’ you’re spending a lot of your Saturday night in my living room. Is the view from the throne that lonely, Ale?”

The silence that followed was electric. I had used the nickname. I had challenged her. Alexia stared at me, her pen poised over the paper, a flicker of something—surprise? Anger? – crossing her face.

“Watch your tongue, Ora,” she said, though her voice wasn’t as sharp as usual. “Focus. Page one. When Renard has the ball…”

I leaned back, a small, hidden smirk on my face. She was still being a nightmare, but for the first time, I wasn’t just the girl in the shadows. I was the girl at the table.

The tactical session quickly turned into a battle of wits. Every time Alexia pointed at a diagram with her pen, her tone clipped and demanding, I felt a surge of confidence that I never had at the training ground. This was my turf. The walls were decorated with my photos, the air smelled like my candles, and my dog was currently resting her chin on Alexia’s thigh.

“If the ball goes wide to Bacha, you have to drop into the half-space,” Alexia instructed, tapping the table. “You were too slow in the video. You’re ball-watching.”

I leaned back, swirling the water in my glass, a small, playful smirk tugging at my lips. “Maybe I wasn’t ball-watching. Maybe I was just waiting for you to get into position so I actually had someone to pass to.”

Alexia’s pen stopped mid-air. She looked up, her eyes flashing with that famous intensity. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” I said, feeling a rush of adrenaline. It was so satisfying to see her composure flicker. “You’re always shouting about where I should be, but sometimes, Capitana, you’re so far up the pitch you’re practically a striker. I’m just a humble midfielder trying to find my leader.”

“I am creating space,” she hissed, though I could see she was taken aback by my sudden sharp tongue. “It’s called tactical fluidity. Something you’d understand if you spent less time laughing with Pina and more time studying the system.”

“Ah, so that’s it,” I teased, resting my chin on my hand and looking her right in the eye. “You’re just jealous because Pina thinks I’m funnier than you. It’s okay, Alexia. Not everyone can be the life of the party and a Ballon d’Or winner. It’s a lot of pressure.”

Alexia opened her mouth to deliver what I’m sure was a devastating comeback, but Luna chose that exact moment to let out a long, dramatic sigh and flop over onto Alexia’s foot.

The silence in the room stretched out. I watched Alexia’s face. She was trying so hard to stay angry, to stay the “Ice Queen,” but the absurdity of the situation—and my refusal to be intimidated—was clearly wearing her down.

“You are incredibly annoying,” she finally muttered, though she didn’t look away.

“And you’re incredibly bossy,” I countered immediately. “But look at the bright side: at least one of us is having a good time.”

I reached over and snatched the pen from her hand, drawing a quick, aggressive arrow on her notepad that pointed toward the goal. “There. If I get the ball, I’ll kick it there. You run there. We score. Is that ‘Barça’ enough for you?”

Alexia stared at the messy arrow I’d drawn, then back at me. For a second, I thought I had pushed too far. I expected her to stand up and walk out. Instead, she let out a short, sharp huff—it wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was the closest thing I’d heard to one.

“Your drawing is terrible,” she said, her voice finally losing its edge. “But your positioning better be better than your art skills tomorrow.”

“It will be,” I promised, my voice softening just a little. “I’m a De Luca. We don’t fail when the lights are on.”

She stayed for another thirty minutes. We actually talked about the game—real talk, without the shouting. As I watched her point out the nuances of the Lyon defense, I realized that as much as she annoyed me, her obsession wasn’t about ego. It was about love for the game.

When she finally stood up to leave, she paused by the door. She looked at Luna, then at me.

“Don’t be late tomorrow, Ora,” she said. It was the first time she had used the nickname.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ale,” I replied, leaning against the doorframe.

As the door closed behind her, I let out the breath I’d been holding. My heart was racing, but not from fear this time. I looked at Luna, who was looking back at me with bright eyes.

“We survived,” I whispered. “And I think I actually had the last word.”

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🎄 Merry Christmas 🎄