Between the Flags.

Nobody's POV

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Spain breezed through the group stage like a storm. They averaged at least four goals a game, their chemistry clicking in a way that left opponents chasing shadows.

By the quarter-finals, they’d found their stride. Switzerland held out longer than expected, but a pair of clinical finishes sealed a 2–0 win.

The semi-final was brutal. Germany pushed them to their limits, dragging the game into extra time. Legs were heavy, lungs burning, but Isra found Aitana in the space she needed. A deft pass, a perfect run, and Aitana curled it into the net. 1–0. Spain were through.

And then—the final. England.

It wasn’t just a clash of nations—it was personal. Leah. Beth. Alessia. Lotte. Chloe. Names Isra and Alexia knew well from club football, from friendships, from shared dressing rooms and training camps. It was a game heavy with history, with familiar faces on both sides.

For Isra, it was worse. Because when the final whistle blew, one half of her world would be celebrating under golden confetti, medal heavy around their necks… while the other half would be left standing in silence, gutted.

And when she thought about walking back into the flat she shared with Leah—after Wembley, after ninety (or one hundred and twenty) minutes of war—it hit her harder than any tackle ever could.

One of them would come home European Champion.
The other would come home with nothing but the sting of a loss.

Alexia put up her captain’s numbers: three goals, four assists, and that steady presence in midfield that always made Spain look composed. Isra wasn’t far behind—though her role was less about finishing and more about threading those impossible passes. One goal, seven assists, and countless moments where she slipped the ball through lines no one else even saw.

The celebrations after the semi-final win were loud, messy, and emotional. Spain had made history—for the first time ever, the women were in a Euros final. The dressing room was alive with shouts and laughter, teammates leaping into each other’s arms, music blaring. They danced, they sang, they basked in the moment.

But when the noise died down and they returned to the hotel, reality started to creep in.

Vicky swapped rooms with Alexia for the night—just this once, the coach allowed it, as a reward before the focus had to lock back in.

Isra was sat cross-legged on the bed in Alexia’s hoodie, a half-finished bag of crisps beside her, staring blankly at the muted TV. She should’ve been buzzing still, but instead her chest was tight. The idea of facing England—facing Leah—was twisting her stomach into knots.

Alexia noticed it immediately. She padded over quietly, sitting behind Isra and wrapping her arms around her waist, resting her chin on Isra’s shoulder.
“Qué pasa, amor?” she murmured softly.

Isra shook her head, trying to smile it off. “Nada… just—” She exhaled shakily. “What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down? What if Leah—” Her voice caught, the thought too heavy to finish.

Alexia tightened her hold, pressing a kiss against the side of Isra’s neck. “Stop,” she whispered firmly but gently. “You’re not going to mess anything up. You’re one of the reasons we’re here.” Another kiss, softer this time. “You play your game, amor. The rest will follow.”

Isra leaned back against her, eyes closing. “You’re not scared?”

Alexia chuckled under her breath, brushing her lips against Isra’s temple. “Of course I am. But we’re together in this. I’d face anyone with you by my side.”