New friends
The days blend together.
Ingrid barely sleeps.
She falls asleep late, wakes up early, and in between, she fights off nightmares that leave her chest tight and her sheets damp with sweat. The cycle is exhausting, but she’s used to it.
Every morning, she drags herself out of bed, gets dressed with robotic precision, and meets Mapi downstairs to carpool. It’s not something they explicitly agreed on -there was no discussion, no invitation, just a quiet understanding that this is what they do now.
She doesn’t want to rely on Mapi, but it’s easier. It’s nice, even, because Mapi talks, fills the silence with stories and observations, but she never asks anything of Ingrid. She never demands a response, never presses when Ingrid stays quiet. She just exists beside her, and Ingrid finds herself clinging to that more than she wants to admit.
Training goes as well as it can. She plays well, technically speaking, but she’s still in her head. Still second-guessing herself, still thinking instead of playing. Pere notices, because of course he does.
(He pulls her aside after a session, brow furrowed, voice even.
“You’re doing well,” he tells her. “But you need to trust yourself more.”
She swallows. “I do.”
Pere sighs. “Ingrid.”
She clenches her jaw, shifts on her feet. “I’m still adjusting,” she says eventually. “It hasn’t even been a week.”
Pere watches her for a long moment before nodding. “Okay,” he says. “But if it gets too much, you tell me.”
She forces out a nod.
It’s a lie. She won’t. She never does.)
She eats enough to keep going. Showers. Crawls into bed, where the same cycle repeats the next day. She’s tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep tired. But this is just how it is.
On her seventh day, though, something changes. Training is over, and she’s packing up, unwrapping the tape from her fingers, when a shadow falls over her.
She looks up.
Frido.
The defender offers a small, hesitant smile. “Hey.”
Ingrid blinks. “Hey.”
Frido shifts, adjusting the strap of her kitbag on her shoulder. “I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee after this?”
Ingrid’s breath catches. Her mind blanks. Panic seizes her chest, ice-cold and sudden. This sounds like -like a date, like something she can’t do, something she doesn’t do, something that sends her heart racing in all the wrong ways-
Frido must notice because her hands come up quickly, palms out. “Not a date,” she says hurriedly. “I’m very much straight. I just- I’d like to get to know you better. That’s all.”
Oh. Ingrid swallows hard. Her pulse is too fast, her hands too cold, but the panic loosens slightly. Just coffee. Just talking. She can do that. She think She forces her lips into something that feels like a smile and prays it looks natural.
“Okay,” she says, voice rough, unsure. But it must be enough because Frido’s smile widens, easy, unbothered.
“Cool,” she says, nodding toward the door. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
And then she leaves. Ingrid stares after her for a long moment, her heart still racing, stomach still churning. This feels big in a way she doesn’t fully understand.
But she shoves the feeling down, grabs her bag, and turns towards Mapi who was staring at her from her own cubby with a smile. Ingrid doesn’t know what to say, and simply points to the door, basically saying, ‘she wants me to go with her’. She doesn’t quite know if she’s asking for help, assurance, or if shes she’s just simply telling Mapi the change of plans, but Mapi simply shoots her a double thumbs up, her smile, if possible, widening as she gestures for Ingrid to go. And Ingrid does, her legs feeling like jelly beneath her.
Frido drives them to a coffee shop not far from the training grounds, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. The radio plays softly in the background, some indie song Ingrid doesn’t recognise, and Frido hums along as she navigates the streets with ease.
“This place is the best in town,” Frido says as they pull into a small parking lot. She gestures toward the café, a cosy little spot tucked between two larger buildings, its windows glowing warmly in the early evening light. “I come here all the time. You’ll love it.”
Ingrid forces a small nod, swallowing the lump in her throat. She has no choice but to take Frido’s word for it.
Her stomach is already twisting at the thought of ordering, of standing at the counter and talking to a barista, of stumbling over her words or saying something wrong. She knows she’s being ridiculous, knows that ordering coffee isn’t difficult, but the anxiety sinks its claws in anyway.
She clears her throat, gripping the strap of her bag. “I can grab us a table while you order,” she offers, voice deliberately even.
If Frido notices anything off about the suggestion, she doesn’t let it show. She just nods, smiling. “Sounds good. What do you want?”
Ingrid hesitates. “Uh. Just a coffee. Black.”
Frido raises an eyebrow. “Just a black coffee? No sugar? No milk?”
Ingrid shifts in place. “I like it plain.”
Frido laughs, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Black coffee, coming up. Go find us a good spot.”
Ingrid nods, relieved that Frido doesn’t push, and quickly makes her way inside, Frido following shortly after. The café is quiet, thankfully. A few people sit scattered around, some on laptops, some chatting in hushed voices, and the low murmur of conversation blends with the soft jazz playing overhead.
Ingrid picks a booth near the window, sliding into the seat and exhaling slowly. Her leg bounces beneath the table as she looks around, trying to ground herself. If she were alone, this would be…nice. She could sit with a book, sip on coffee, and just exist without worrying about talking or making a fool of herself.
But she isn’t alone, and she’s abruptly reminded of that fact when Frido sets a coffee cup and a plate with a pastry down in front of her.
Ingrid startles.
She doesn’t mean to, but her body reacts before her mind can catch up, shoulders jerking, breath catching.
Frido immediately pulls her hands back, eyes widening slightly. “Shit, sorry -I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
Ingrid feels humiliated.
She shakes her head quickly, staring at the coffee cup like it might somehow save her from this conversation. “No, it’s fine,” she murmurs. “I just…wasn’t paying attention.”
Frido doesn’t press. She just gives a small, understanding nod before sliding into the seat across from her. Ingrid takes the distraction, reaching for her wallet. She needs to pay her share. She can’t let Frido pay for her too -not after Mapi had already done that earlier this week. But before she can pull out any cash, Frido clicks her tongue and waves a dismissive hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says, smirking. “I invited you, remember? That means I pay.”
Ingrid hesitates, gripping the edge of her wallet. “I don’t mind-“
“I do,” Frido interrupts, leaning back against the seat with an easy grin. “Consider it a ‘welcome to the team’ treat.”
Ingrid bites the inside of her cheek, debating whether to argue, but Frido’s expression is light, playful. There’s no pressure, no expectation. Just…kindness.
Slowly, she tucks her wallet away. “Alright,” she says quietly.
Frido grins, pleased. “Good. Now, drink your coffee before it gets cold.”
Ingrid obeys, lifting the cup and taking a small sip. It’s hot, strong, and bitter, just the way she likes it. She picks at the pastry next, breaking off a small piece and nibbling at it absentmindedly as Frido starts talking.
At first, the conversation is easy. Frido tells her about the café, about how she first stumbled across it when she moved to Barcelona. She talks about the barista, about how they always mess up her order in the most ridiculous ways. Ingrid listens, nodding along, even managing a small smile at some of the stories.
But then-
“So,” Frido says, tilting her head slightly. “Tell me about you.”
Ingrid freezes.
Her hands tighten around the coffee cup, the warmth suddenly too much against her palms.
Frido doesn’t seem to notice her panic. She just rests her chin in her hand, waiting expectantly. “Where’d you grow up?”
Ingrid swallows. “Norway.”
Frido huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I figured,” she teases. “Where in Norway?”
Ingrid hesitates. It’s a simple question. A normal question. But her mind is screaming at her, every instinct telling her to shut down, to deflect, to run. She forces herself to take a breath.
“Melhus,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
Frido smiles. “That sounds nice. Small town?”
Ingrid nods. Silence stretches between them, and Frido seems to realise that Ingrid isn’t offering anything more. She doesn’t push. Instead, she switches gears.
“Alright, let’s make it easier,” she says, propping her elbows on the table. “What do you do when you’re not playing football?”
Ingrid stares at her. What does she do? She used to have answers for that. Used to have hobbies, things she loved. But now? Now, she just exists.
Sleeps -barely. Eats -barely. Trains. Repeats. Her throat tightens.
Frido must see the hesitation because she quickly adds, “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
And for some reason, that makes Ingrid want to try.
“…I read,” she says eventually.
Frido lights up. “Oh, nice! What kind of books?”
Ingrid shrugs. “Different kinds.”
Frido smirks. “That’s vague.”
Ingrid presses her lips together, fighting the urge to shut down completely. “Mostly mysteries.”
Frido nods in approval. “Solid choice. Any favourites?”
Ingrid hesitates, but then, before she can second-guess herself, she murmurs, “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”
Frido whistles. “Good one. A bit dark, though.”
Ingrid lifts a shoulder. “I like dark.”
Frido grins. “Noted.”
For the first time since they sat down, Ingrid feels her shoulders loosen just a little.
The conversation continues -Frido does most of the talking, thankfully, telling stories about her disastrous first month in Barcelona, about how she once got lost on the metro for two hours. Ingrid listens, nods, even laughs at one point, and Frido looks delighted when she does.
And by the time they leave, Ingrid realises something.
She’s still anxious.
Still overthinking.
Still exhausted.
But…
But she’d had a good day.