From Lyon to Barça
The Barcelona sun is already high in the sky when Ingrid steps through the gates of the training ground, her boots slung over her shoulder and her bag weighing heavy at her side. It’s hot, hotter than she’s used to, but she doesn’t let it show, keeping her expression blank as she walks toward the building.
She’s been here before -briefly, for her medical, for contract talks- but this is different. This is real.
Barça.
A three-year contract. A fresh start.
She takes a steady breath.
The entrance doors slide open, and she steps inside, immediately greeted by a rush of cooler air. Pere, the head coach, is waiting near the reception desk, his posture relaxed, a small smile on his face.
“Ingrid,” he says, reaching out for a handshake. “Welcome to Barcelona.”
She shakes his hand firmly. “Thank you.”
His smile widens. “Come, I’ll introduce you to the team.”
She follows him through the corridors, past glass windows that give glimpses into the facility -gym rooms, offices, meeting spaces. It’s nice. Modern. Better than Lyon’s, if she’s being honest.
Her stomach tightens as they near the dressing room. She’s done this before, met new teammates, started fresh in a new club. But it never gets easier. The introductions, the expectations, the unspoken pressure to fit in. She doesn’t want to fit in. She just wants to play football. Pere pushes the door open, and the chatter inside halts for a brief moment before it picks up again, the team turning their heads to look at her.
“Ingrid,” Pere says, stepping aside so she’s fully visible. “Everyone, this is Ingrid Engen. Be nice.”
There’s a mixture of smiles and nods, a few murmured greetings.
“Welcome,” someone calls.
Then, before she can react, a smaller figure is suddenly at her side, grinning up at her.
“Hola,” Mapi says, bright and very close. “You Ingrid.”
It’s not a question, just a statement, like she’s already decided they’re friends. Ingrid nods anyway.
“Yes,” she says.
Mapi’s grin grows. "Good, good. Welcome.”
Ingrid isn’t sure how to respond, but it doesn’t seem to matter because Mapi just claps her hands once, turns, and gestures to the room. “Sit,” she says, then corrects herself. “Uh…locker?”
Pere chuckles. “Go ahead, Ingrid.”
She doesn’t hesitate, moving to an open locker near the back, dropping her bag beside it. She keeps her head down as she unzips it, pulling out her training gear, listening to the conversations around her. Most of the team speaks Spanish, rapid and fluid, words she was thankfully able to understand from months of tutoring. A few switch to English every now and then, but not often. It doesn’t bother her. She’s used to language barriers.
What she’s not used to is Mapi plopping down onto the bench right next to her, watching her with open curiosity.
“You Lyon,” Mapi says. “Before.”
Ingrid nods. “Yes.”
“Now Barça.”
“Yes.”
Mapi tilts her head. “Happy?”
The question catches her off guard. She wasn’t expecting anyone to ask that.
“I…” She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. “I’m here to play football.”
Mapi hums, like she doesn’t quite believe that’s all there is to it, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she just leans back, still watching. Ingrid focuses on getting changed, hoping the attention will drift elsewhere. It doesn’t. Mapi stays close, humming under her breath, her presence impossible to ignore.
It’s going to be a long day.
Training is intense. More technical than physical, but still demanding. Ingrid falls into it easily, lets muscle memory take over, lets herself focus. Football is the one thing that never lets her down.
The team is good. Fast, sharp. They push her, test her limits. She likes that. What she doesn’t like is Mapi still sticking close, always somehow within a few feet of her, throwing her little smirks like this is some kind of game. At one point, Ingrid pauses for a water break, wiping sweat from her forehead, and Mapi appears again, grinning.
“Good,” Mapi says, nodding approvingly.
Ingrid exhales. “Thank you.”
Mapi leans in slightly. “You don’t talk much.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
Mapi just hums again, a knowing glint in her eyes. “I talk a lot.”
“Yes,” Ingrid mutters, taking a sip of water.
Mapi laughs, nudging her arm before jogging off to rejoin the drills. Ingrid watches her go, shaking her head.
She hopes -prays- that Mapi will get bored eventually. She doesn’t. By the end of training, Ingrid is exhausted. Her body aches, her head is spinning from the heat, and all she wants is a shower and some food. But she still has to go home and finish unpacking, which means the day isn’t over yet. She pulls her bag over her shoulder, making her way toward the exit, when a voice calls after her.
“Ingrid!”
She knows who it is before she even turns around.
Mapi jogs up beside her, smiling. “Tomorrow, lunch?”
Ingrid blinks. “What?”
“Lunch,” Mapi repeats, pointing between them. “You. Me.”
Ingrid hesitates. “I…”
Mapi tilts her head, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?”
Ingrid wants to say no. She should say no. She’s here for football, not for making friends. But Mapi’s smile is persistent, and Ingrid is too tired to argue.
“…Okay.”
Mapi beams. “Good! See you.”
Then she turns and jogs away, leaving Ingrid standing there, wondering what the hell she just agreed to.
*
The apartment is exactly as Ingrid left it -silent, still, empty.
She toes off her trainers at the door, dropping her bag beside them before making her way toward the bathroom. The air is thick with the lingering heat from the day, and she feels sticky, uncomfortable in her sweat-soaked kit.
The shower is quick, purely functional. She stands under the water just long enough to wash away the sweat and sunscreen, scrubbing at her scalp until the day’s exhaustion starts to settle deep in her bones. When she steps out, wrapping a towel around herself, she avoids looking in the mirror. There’s nothing new to see, nothing different. Just the same tired eyes staring back at her.
She exhales sharply, brushing the thought away as she pads barefoot into the bedroom, pulling on an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts before heading to the living room.
Her suitcases are still half-full, the apartment still bare. It’s not much, but it gives her something to do. She kneels beside the open luggage, pulling out the last of her clothes, carefully folding them into the small wardrobe. There’s a single framed photograph wrapped in one of her jumpers, one of her family back home in Norway. She sets it on the bedside table, the only personal touch in an otherwise impersonal space.
She knows she could make it more homey if she tried -hang pictures, buy some decorations, fill the shelves with books- but what’s the point? This apartment isn’t permanent. She’s not staying here forever. She never does.
When everything is finally put away, the place still feels just as empty.
She presses her lips into a thin line.
It’s fine. She likes it this way.
Or at least, that’s what she tells herself.
Her stomach grumbles faintly, though she barely feels hungry. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast -eleven hours ago, maybe longer- but she could easily go without if she let herself. It wouldn’t be the first time.
She shouldn’t, though.
With a quiet sigh, she makes her way into the kitchen, opening the fridge. There isn’t much inside, just the essentials she picked up the other day, knowing she wouldn’t have the energy to cook for a while. She grabs a yogurt and a banana, more out of obligation than appetite, eating mechanically as she leans against the counter.
The last thing she needs is to pass out at training tomorrow. That would definitely draw attention, and attention is the last thing she wants.
When she’s finished, she tosses the empty container into the bin and rinses off her spoon before heading to the couch. She grabs the remote, flipping on the TV. She’s not watching anything in particular -just background noise, something to fill the silence.
She likes being alone. She always has. But there’s something about the quiet that unsettles her, makes her skin crawl like she’s waiting for something bad to happen.
A therapist she saw once told her it was PTSD. That the tension, the discomfort, the way her body braced in the quiet -it was all a response to her past. To Isabelle.
Ingrid hadn’t gone back after that session.
She shifts on the couch, pulling her knees up to her chest.
She doesn’t want to think about Isabelle. Doesn’t want to remember the way silence never boded well when Isabelle was in a bad mood. How silence had been a warning, a signal that she’d done something wrong. How she’d learned to fear it.
Goosebumps rise along her arms, and she shakes her head, forcing the memories away.
What’s done is done.
Nothing she does now can change the past.
She turns the volume up a little, letting the sound drown out the thoughts in her head. Then she leans back against the cushions, staring at the screen without really seeing it. Tomorrow is a new day. Another training session. Another chance to focus on football and nothing else.
She’ll be fine.
She has to be.