Chapter Text
Aitana stared above her. They were filming a campaign for a new football boot. Adidas had brought major footballers in on the campaign, Raphinha, Beckham, Pedri, Bellingham. And there was another name on the list of players to appear alongside Aitana- Alessia Russo.
That name had followed her for quite some time now. Russo had slipped into her life back in 2020, as an opponent, then in whispered comparisons from coaches, and in headlines Aitana pretended to ignore.
Spain had emerged victorious from their first meeting- obviously. But Aitana knew Russo’s runs, finishes, habits inside the box with a precision that could be argued to step outside of professionalism.
Not that that would be admitted to anyone. And, anyway, Aitana knew that much about any opponent, she told herself. If anyone asked. Which they didn’t.
There were lights everywhere on set- too harsh- and they seemed to pulse as people milled around her- makeup artists, stylists etc.
Aitana had never had much patience for the media portion of her job. She understood its importance of course, it brought in money and the awareness needed to keep the women’s game strong, but god, was it painfully mind numbing.
She smiled tightly as a woman explained to her the importance of the blush she was painting on her. And smiled apologetically as another crew member had to resteam her wrinkled jersey. Then she was called up to the cameras, and she filmed her scene. It was relatively simple, she just sat on a sofa and said a line, but they still filmed it around 50 times, making minute adjustments to her setting or face or directions each time.
She was finally let go and almost bolted out of the building, desperate for fresh air and silence after enduring over 5 hours of filming. And she’d only had one scene.
The midfielder rolled her eyes as she imagined the hell those in the advert with more screen time would’ve gone through.
Her apartment in Barcelona was small, only ever intended as a sort of short stay camp, for the times she couldn’t be bothered to make the travel home.
It was a sort of holding space, half lived in and largely ignored. Yet it was the place her friends would stay as she rarely invited them to her home in Sant Pere. It had felt strange the few times she had done it- to mix her home and work lives so brashly.
Rölfo was coming around later in the evening, but she came over so often Aitana no longer felt the need to properly prepare for her visits. The washing was still laid haphazardly across the floors, needing to be sorted, but Aitana just positioned herself across the sofa, her mind still reeling with the heavy scent of hairspray that would surely attach itself to her for the next few days.
Frido let herself in with the ease of a well established habit, and glanced down at her friend, laid horizontally and completely unaware of her presence, instead fixating on a match blaring on the TV across her.
‘Aita.’
‘Hmph?’, she grunted.
‘Get up, the flats a tip. Was it another media day? We have training tomorrow, you do realise this? Get up Aita.’ The left- back had already started collecting laundry as she chidied Aitana.
The midfielder sat up and paused the TV,
‘It was hell, they had me filming for hours Rölfo. I don’t get how anyone puts up with it. Utter nonsense too, for a pair of boots? And I’ll bet I get paid a quarter of whatever the other people in it get.’
‘Who else was in it?’ Frido’s tone was casual, but it carried a hint of insistence.
‘No one, I filmed alone. I think the English will film over in the UK and I don’t know where Pedri’s filming- but I doubt it’s a dingy little studio.’
Frido looked at her knowingly.
‘Aita, that wasn’t the question and you know it.’
Aitana paused, feigned confusion flitting across her face.
‘Obviously Pedri is, there’s Raphinha, Beckham, Bellingham. You know, adidas athletes.’
‘Anyone else?’ Frido asked sweetly, giving the midfielder another look.
Aitana glared at her.
‘They did talk about that Alessia Russo being in on it too.’ she muttered reluctantly, her shoulders suddenly quite tense, and eyes intensely studying the sock dangling off her foot.
Frido hummed noncommittally, and Aitana found a rather awkward silence settle over her. Frido seemed unaffected, seeming to have gotten what she had wanted out of the interaction. She didn’t need to press further- the uncomfortable pause told her enough.
She ended up breaking the silence 5 minutes later, having organised Aitanas washing.
‘So do you have anything to eat or are we going to have to order in?’
Aitana looked at her sheepishly.
‘Didn’t do food shopping this week, I thought I’d have time to go home.’
Frido clasped her hand over her chest in exaggerated shock.
‘So you mean to tell me the last minute text I received inviting me to yours was in fact a last resort and you’d have much rather sat at home with those cats?’
Aitana smiled, she had in fact wanted to sit at home with her cats but dinner with Frido was still a welcome alternative.
‘Sushi?’
Frido grinned yes and Aitana picked up her phone to order.
The evening was pleasant as always. Frido had always had a way of dragging Aitana out of whatever angst driven upset she had gotten herself into, and yet the midfielder still felt slightly uneasy at the name of that English striker.
It wasn’t as though she was unused to her name- it was heard by her well enough- from commentators, coaches, friends. But tonight, its mention has left something unsettled in her chest. A warmth in her face that she couldn’t name.
And she hated- really despised- that the director had shown her those clips earlier, of Russo on set. And that they were playing on a loop in her head.