Chapter 9

August 4th (Sunday)

Aurora

Manchester was loud. Manchester was passionate. I had played at Old Trafford in front of thousands, and I thought I knew what “big” felt like. But as the team bus pulled up to the Estadi Johan Cruyff, I realized that Barcelona was a different kind of fire.

The fans were already there, a sea of blue and deep red. Children were pressed against the barriers, holding up signs with names like Alexia, Pina, and Mapi. And then, my heart nearly stopped. A small girl near the front was holding a cardboard sign with my name on it: BENVENUTA AURORA.

“Look at that,” Pina nudged me, pointing at the sign. “You haven’t even touched the ball yet and they already love you. No pressure, Ora.”

“I think I’m going to be sick,” I whispered, my stomach doing a violent somersault.
Inside the locker room, the air was thick with the scent of deep-heat cream and focus.

I walked toward my stall—number 24—and there it was. The home kit. The colors looked even more vibrant in person, the fabric shimmering under the bright lights. I reached out and touched the crest, the embroidery rough beneath my fingertips. My name was printed across the back in sharp, white letters: DE LUCA.

I was staring at it so intensely that I didn’t notice the room go quiet. I felt that familiar, heavy presence behind me. I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Alexia.

“The shirt is heavy, isn’t it?” her voice was low, devoid of the biting sarcasm from the week before.

I turned slowly. She was already half-dressed in her training gear, looking every bit like the leader she was. “It feels a lot heavier than the one in Manchester,” I admitted, my voice trembling just a fraction.

Alexia stepped closer, her eyes scanning my face. I expected a lecture about focus or a reminder about the Lyon press. Instead, she reached out and straightened the collar of my hanging jersey.

“It’s just fabric until you sweat in it,” she said, her gaze meeting mine. “Once you start running, the weight disappears. Just remember what we talked about last night. Don’t look for me. Know where I am.”

I nodded, mesmerized by the sudden calm in her eyes. “I know where you are, Ale.”

She lingered for a second—longer than she usually did. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod followed, and then she turned to address the whole room, her voice rising to a commanding roar.

“¡Venga! Today we show them why this trophy stays in Barcelona! Absolute intensity from the first whistle!”

The locker room erupted in cheers and the rhythmic clapping of hands. I pulled the jersey over my head, the cool fabric settling against my skin. As we lined up in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd outside became a physical vibration in the floor.

I looked ahead at Alexia’s back. She was standing at the front of the line, the captain’s armband a bright yellow stripe against her sleeve. She looked untouchable. But I remembered her sitting at my kitchen table, scratching Luna’s ears and scowling at my bad drawings.

The referee gave the signal. We stepped out into the blinding light of the stadium. Thousands of voices rose as one, a wall of sound that made my skin prickle. I took a deep breath, the scent of fresh-cut grass and salt air filling my lungs.

Time to see if I can swim, I thought.

Alexia

The whistle hadn’t even finished echoing when the game settled into that frantic, high-speed chess match that only happens when two of the best teams in the world collide. Lyon was physical, suffocating, and incredibly disciplined.

I was playing in the pocket, trying to find a rhythm, but my eyes kept drifting to the left. To her.

Ora was moving well. I hate to admit it, but her spatial awareness was even better than the scouting reports suggested. She was ghosting into lanes, pulling Lyon’s defensive midfielders out of position, and creating massive pockets of space for Pina and Graham Hansen to exploit. She was playing the “Barça way” — selfless, tactical, and quiet.

But “quiet” wasn’t what we needed right now.

We were twenty minutes in, and the score was still. I received a ball from Mapi, turned on a dime, and looked for a vertical option. Ora was right there, perfectly positioned to receive, but instead of demanding the ball, she pointed toward Pina, offering herself as a decoy run instead.

I played the pass to Pina, but inside, I was fuming.

“Ora!” I screamed, the name tearing out of my throat as we reset for a throw-in. I marched toward her, ignoring the sweat stinging my eyes. “Stop being a ghost! You’re playing like you’re afraid to break something!”

She looked at me, her chest heaving, her dark hair plastered to her forehead. “I’m creating space for you, Alexia! Look at the gap I just made!”

“I don’t need you to make space! I need you to take it!” I stepped into her personal space, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You have the ball at your feet and you look for the safest pass every single time. This isn’t Manchester. I didn’t stay up until midnight at your kitchen table to watch you play like a coward. If you see the gap, you drive into it. Demand the ball!”

I saw it then—the flare. That Italian temperament I’d glimpsed in her apartment. Her eyes narrowed, and her jaw set in that hard, stubborn line I was beginning to recognize. She didn’t look intimidated. She looked insulted.

“Fine,” she spat, her voice low and dangerous. “You want me to take the ball? Then give it to me. And don’t complain when I don’t give it back.”

She turned and sprinted away before I could respond.

Five minutes later, it happened. Mapi intercepted a long ball and fizzed it into the center circle. Usually, Ora would have cushioned it and looked for the lateral pass to settle the play. Not this time.

She took the touch on her back foot, spun away from Damaris Egurrola with a grace that made my breath hitch, and drove straight at the heart of the Lyon defense. She wasn’t looking for Pina. She wasn’t looking for me. She was hungry.

“Yes!” I shouted, trailing her run.

She drew three defenders toward her, waiting until the very last millisecond—the kind of ice-cold composure you can’t teach—before slipping a reverse pass through the eye of a needle. It landed perfectly in my stride, bypassing the entire Lyon backline.

I didn’t even have to think. One touch to settle, one look at the keeper, and I slotted it into the bottom right corner.

1 – 0.

The stadium exploded. I didn’t go to the corner flag. I didn’t look at the crowd. I turned straight to her. She was standing at the edge of the box, a defiant, triumphant smirk on her face. She didn’t run to hug me. She just stood there, hands on her hips, as if to say: Is that ‘Barça’ enough for you?

I jogged toward her, my adrenaline spiking. As the rest of the team swarmed us, I grabbed the back of her neck—not roughly, but with the firm grip of a captain who finally saw what she was looking for.

“About time you showed up,” I muttered into her ear over the roar of the fans.

She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, her grin widening. “I told you, Ale. I don’t fail when the lights are on.”

I felt that strange prickle of goosebumps again, despite the heat of the match. I turned away quickly to get back to the center circle, hiding the small, involuntary smile that was threatening to break through my mask. She was infuriating, stubborn, and completely unpredictable.

But God, she could play!