STARGIRL, alexia putellas

20. mi chica estrella

The first half was like a chess game, each move calculated, each pass scrutinized. Chelsea was putting up a tough front, and the scoreboard reflected the deadlock: 2-2. It was a standoff, and both teams seemed to be playing a tactical waiting game, like a slow burn in a suspense thriller.
As the halftime whistle blew, Sam Kerr strolled over with a sly grin on her face, eyes scanning me from head to toe like a coach analysing a rival team's star player.

"Arias, you're running through my defence like a  burglar, stealing more than just goals," she teased, her Australian accent adding an extra layer of charm.

I chuckled, trying to focus on the upcoming tactics discussion. "Just doing my job, Kerr. Goals are the only things on my shopping list tonight."

But she wasn't ready to let up, continuing her playful banter. "Well, if you ever want to switch teams, consider Chelsea your open invitation. We could use a forward with your... scoring talents."

My eyebrows shot up, caught off guard by the audacity of her flirtation. "I think I'm committed to my current squad," I replied, gesturing toward the Barca logo on my jersey.

Undeterred, Sam leaned in, her tone lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. "Ever considered a hat-trick in the Premier League? It's a tempting offer, you know."

I smirked, realizing that her tactics weren't limited to the soccer field. "Maybe next season, Kerr. But for now, I'm here to score goals, not hearts."

She chuckled, a glint of amusement in her eyes. "Fair play, Isabela. Let the second half decide which team's tactics reign supreme – on and off the pitch."

 The players retreated to the locker room, strategizing and recharging. As I guzzled down some water and contemplated the intricacies of our next moves, I couldn't shake off the feeling that the real drama was about to unfold.
The second half kicked off like a storm. Suddenly, the game wasn't just a series of passes and tackles; it was a rollercoaster of emotions. We dominated the field, and the scoreboard came alive like fireworks on New Year's Eve. 5-2, and Chelsea seemed entirely outmatched.

The final whistle blew, signalling the end of the exhilarating match. The crowd roared with applause, celebrating Barça's resounding victory. As I made my way off the field, basking in the afterglow of triumph, I couldn't help but notice Sam Kerr lingering on the sidelines.

However, any hopes of post-match banter or flirtatious exchanges were swiftly extinguished when Alexia, my ever-supportive and wonderfully possessive girlfriend, approached. There was an unspoken understanding between us, and she embraced me in a way that left no room for ambiguity.

As Alexia wrapped her arms around me, the message was clear – we were together, and Sam Kerr's attempts at playful banter were nothing more than a sideshow. I could practically feel the disappointment emanating from the Chelsea player, but in that moment, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of Alexia's embrace. "Mi chica estrella." My stargirl  Alexia murmured to me. 

I shot a casual glance toward Sam Kerr, offering a polite nod as I mouthed a "good game." Her expression, a mix of disappointment and acknowledgment, hinted that maybe this match wasn't just about football for her.

The victory celebrations continued, and Alexia and I walked off the field hand in hand, leaving Sam Kerr to ponder the outcome of a match that had turned out to be more than she bargained for. The game might have ended on the field, but the off-field dynamics had certainly added an extra layer of drama to the spectacle.

-

There I was, sprawled out on the couch, surrounded by glossy pages filled with my younger (ish) self From gowns that cost more than a small country's GDP to campaigns that dared to challenge the conventional norms (yes, some of them naked). Each photo told a story of couture, camera flashes, and the delicate art of not tripping over your own feet in those towering heels.

Alexia, bless her curious soul, stumbled into the room like she was lost. Her eyes widened as she caught sight of the glamorous chaos on the coffee table. "What's all this?" she asked, a mischievous grin playing on her lips.

"Oh, just a little trip down the runway of nostalgia," I replied, waving a photo of me in an absurdly expensive dress that probably cost more than this whole living room.

She perched herself on the edge of the couch, her eyes scanning the pages. "You model for some high-end stuff, huh?"

I chuckled. "Well, 'high-end' is an understatement. Some of these designers wouldn't even let me into their stores now without a credit check."

She nudged me with her elbow. "Come on, show me more. Any scandalous ones?"

I shot her a sceptical look. "Define 'scandalous.'"

"You know, the ones where you're, like, posing topless or something."

I feigned outrage, clutching my invisible pearls. "Topless? Alexia, I'm shocked! I never—"

She cut me off with an amused smirk. "Don't play innocent with me, Isabela. I can see it in your eyes."

With a dramatic sigh, I conceded. "Fine, but you asked for it." I reluctantly flipped to the pages featuring the slightly more risqué side of my modelling career.

Her eyes widened, and a mischievous glint took residence in them. "Oh, this just got interesting."

As I continued flipping through the pages, sharing anecdotes about various photoshoots, my I heard my phone buzzing profusely from the kitchen. Getting up from the floor and wandering over to see who was calling me, expecting it to be Mila.

With an intrigued expression, I picked up my buzzing phone from the kitchen counter. The caller ID displayed an unfamiliar number, and for a split second, I hesitated. Could it be another telemarketer trying to sell me something I didn't need?

Curiosity got the better of me, and I swiped to answer the call. "Hello?"

A voice on the other end, firm and authoritative, spoke. "Isabela Arias? This is Victor García, the editor-in-chief at Vogue Barcelona."

My eyes widened, and I could feel the tension in the room escalate. Vogue Barcelona? Why on earth would they be calling me?

"Isabela, I've been following your recent work, both in football and modelling," García continued. "I believe you have a unique story to share, and we would like to feature you in an upcoming issue of Vogue Barcelona."

I stood there, phone pressed to my ear, a mix of shock and excitement swirling within me. Vogue? Me? It was an unexpected twist, and my mind raced with the possibilities.

"Isabela, are you there?" García's voice brought me back to the moment.

"Yes, yes, I'm here," I stammered, a grin spreading across my face. "Vogue Barcelona? I... I would be honoured."

The call ended, and I slowly lowered my phone, staring at it as if expecting it to suddenly sprout wings and fly away. Vogue Barcelona. I couldn't believe it. The air in the room seemed charged with disbelief and excitement.

Alexia, who had been sitting beside me, looked equally stunned. For a moment, we just sat there in silence, absorbing the enormity of what had just transpired. It felt like a dream, too surreal to be true.

Then, Alexia took a deep breath, breaking the silence. "Isabela, this is... incredible. Vogue Barcelona wants to feature you."

I looked at her, my eyes wide, still grappling with the reality of the situation.

She chuckled, the disbelief slowly transforming into a warm smile. "You really are the stargirl, Isabela."

I couldn't help but laugh at that. The stargirl. It was a nickname Alexia had given me early on, teasingly calling me the stargirl who brought a touch of eccentricity to her life. And now, here I was, about to grace the pages of Vogue Barcelona. Together, we sounded like a cartoon couple - like fireboy and watergirl except it was la reina and her stargirl. And I wouldn't have it any other way.