Between the Flags.

Nobody's POV

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Isra curled into the corner of the sofa, one knee drawn up to her chest, the other leg stretched out beneath the oversized Spain shirt she wore. The screen flickered with pre-match build-up, commentators buzzing away, but her eyes were on her phone—on a message she hadn’t stopped thinking about since that morning.

A- We only have one fixture as most other teams have two meaning we have that time off—five days extra to be exact which is unfair for the others but… how would you feel if I actually booked the flight to you?

Isra’s lips twitched into a grin, the kind she tried to hide even when no one was there to see. She thumbed over the keys and typed slowly, deliberately:

I- Do it. Only if you want to (you do) and won’t get in trouble. I’ll get my bed ready for you 😈 Good luck tonight, capitana.

The message sent with a soft buzz. She tossed the phone beside her, tugged a throw over her legs, and fixed her eyes on the screen just as the whistle blew.

The best part about being alone while Spain played? She could stare shamelessly at Alexia Putellas.

Her game face was a thing of art—sharp jaw, eyes like they were reading every movement before it happened. The way she ran with the ball, muscles rippling beneath her thighs with each stride, hips moving like a snake as she swerved past a defender—God, it was like watching someone dance. Not that Alexia could really dance, not off the pitch anyway. But here? This was her dance floor. Every missed shot came with a face that made Isra huff out a laugh. Every shoulder feint, every flick of her boot, made her stomach tighten.

She leaned back, still staring, still smiling—Spain against Denmark, but her eyes were on one player only.

Isra settled deeper into the sofa, the Spain shirt loose on her frame as the game played out on the screen. When the first goal went in, she shot up with a grin, fists clenched as she let out a sharp cheer for her country. But the sound in her throat caught halfway when the camera cut to Alexia—her smile, quick and bright, flashing across the screen. Isra felt her stomach flip like someone had kicked the floor out from under her.

As play resumed, she leaned forward, elbows on her knees, urging the team on for a second. Not just because it was Spain—though that was reason enough—but because another goal meant another glimpse of that grin.

It came fast: a quick move, Ona slipping the ball into Alexia, a perfectly timed pass on to Mariona, and the net rippled.

Isra shot up again, shouting, “Golazo! ¡Vamooos! SUPER MARIOOO!” Her voice bounced off the empty walls as if they could carry it to someone.

And then there it was—Alexia, beaming, that grin back on her face as teammates swarmed her. Isra caught herself, cheeks aching from smiling so wide, and glanced around the empty room like someone might have just caught her looking lovesick for a player on the TV. But no one was there—just her, and that grin still dancing in her head.

The final whistle blew—3–0. Isra stayed in her spot on the sofa, one knee tucked to her chest as she watched the team exchange handshakes with the opposition before heading down the tunnel. One by one they reemerged, waving to the fans… except Alexia. Isra clocked it immediately.

Her phone buzzed, a FaceTime from Laia. She picked it up but answered on her laptop instead, the post-match still playing on the TV in the background. Suddenly her screen was filled with the Spain girls, all screaming over each other about the win. Isra couldn’t help but laugh at their chaotic energy.