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first match.
“Is this the real stadium?” Alora asks, pressing both palms to the elevator glass.
“Realer than on TV,” Tío Fer tells her.
She gasps like that’s the coolest thing she’s ever heard, then spins around to look at her grandfather. “Abuelito, it’s real!”
“Very real,” Fernando Sr. confirms, clearly amused.
Alora twirls in a fast circle as the elevator rises, curls bouncing, her oversized Barça jersey flapping slightly with the movement. Ferran’s name and number are printed on the back, and she’s been pointing to it all morning, proudly announcing, “That’s my papá. He scores goals.”
“You excited, muñeca?” Rosie asks, smoothing the shoulders of her granddaughter’s jacket before the doors open.
“Yes!” Alora says. “But I can’t be loud because Papá says the box is quiet and serious.”
“You?” Fer raises an eyebrow. “Quiet?”
She thinks about it seriously. “Maybe just a little bit loud.”
They reach the private box a few minutes before warmups. Alora immediately makes herself at home, climbing onto one of the padded seats and sitting on her knees so she can press her nose to the glass.
“This is so big,” she says in awe. “Like a… like a dragon cave!”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Rosie asks, settling into the seat beside her.
“Good,” Alora answers without hesitation. “Dragons are huge.”
Fer walks over behind her, holding a juice box and a tiny pair of noise-cancelling headphones. “Here, champ. Just in case it gets too loud, yeah?”
Alora snatches the juice box from him, her grin wide. “You’re the best.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You say that now, but you haven’t even tried the popcorn yet.”
“There’s popcorn?” She whips around so fast her pigtail smacks him in the chin.
Warmups begin and Alora gasps like someone’s just opened the gates to Disneyland.
“Look, look! That’s Mami!” she shouts, pointing with sticky fingers at the screen as the players jog across the pitch.
Rosie smiles softly. “Sure is.”
“And there’s Papá! That’s Papá!” she says, nearly bouncing in her seat. “He’s got his socks pulled up too high again.”
Fer snorts. “He always does that. Superstition.”
“Supersi…?” Alora scrunches her face. “That’s not a real word.”
“It’s a football word,” Fer says, leaning forward to help her adjust her headphones. “You’ll learn.”
She points to the far end of the pitch, where players are stretching. “What are they doing?”
“Warming up,” Fernando Sr. says.
“But it’s not cold,” she replies, puzzled.
A few minutes later, she’s on Fer’s lap, legs swinging, head tilted back to keep her eyes glued to the field.
“They look so small,” she says.
“That’s because we’re high up,” he tells her.
She narrows her eyes. “They’re not tiny in real life, right?”
“Nope. Mamí and Papí are still regular-sized.”
She hums, satisfied. Then leans back against him like she owns the place. “Okay. I like it here.”
Once the match starts, she’s locked in.
She doesn’t understand everything, but she’s full of questions. Constant ones.
“Why are they running so fast?”
“Is that man the boss?”
“Why did he blow the whistle? Papa wasn’t being mean.”
“Can they slide like that? That’s what penguins do.”
“Why’s Mami on the bench?” she whispers, slightly concerned. “Did he get a timeout?”
“He’s just resting,” Rosie reassures her.
Alora crosses her arms. “He should be playing.”
Rosie hides her smile. “He will.”
“Good. Mamí plays super good.”
About halfway through the first half, Ferran makes a run down the left wing and Alora nearly jumps off Fer’s lap.
“That’s my Papá! That’s him!” she shouts, banging her tiny hands on the glass.
“Hey, hey,” Fer chuckles, steadying her. “You’ll break the window.”
“He’s so fast!” she beams. “Like lightning. But in socks.”
“That’s a new one.”
“Can I tell him later?”
“Of course,” Fer says. “He’ll love that.”
When Pedri takes a corner kick and the stadium crowd rises behind him, Alora blinks wide-eyed.
“Is that cheering for Mamí?”
“Yep.”
Her whole face lights up. “Whoa.”
She whispers, like it’s a secret. “I think Mamí’s famous.”
Fer grins. “You think?”
By halftime, she’s eaten exactly seven kernels of popcorn, abandoned her juice box on the floor, and drawn what she claims is a tactical diagram on the back of a napkin. It’s mostly circles and spirals, but she insists it’s “how papá ran before his goal.”
Rosie folds the napkin up carefully and slips it into her purse.
“I’m going to give it to him,” Alora says. “After. So he can do it again.”
The final whistle blows and the crowd roars, all clapping, flags, and waves of noise, but Alora’s already halfway down the hallway, tugging at Fer’s hand and yelling, “We have to go tell them they did it!”
Rosie calls out behind her, “Shoes, Alora!”
“I have shoes!” she says indignantly, still charging forward in her little sneakers with mismatched socks.
They take the elevator back down, this time buzzing with excitement. Alora is bouncing in place, asking every thirty seconds if “Papi won,” and “Did Mami do a tackle?” and “Can I go on the green grass?”
Tío Fer answers all of it with practiced calm, even though she talks fast enough for three people. “Yes, yes, and only if you don’t eat it.”
“I don’t eat grass,” she replies. “I’m not a cow.”
“Glad we cleared that up.”
The security staff already know who she is. One of them smiles and gives her a small wave as she trots out from the tunnel, holding Fer’s hand tight with one fist and lifting the other in her grandfather’s.
Pedri spots them first. He’s still in his kit, half-sweaty, half glowing under the stadium lights, smiling like his face forgot how to do anything else.
“There’s my girl,” he says, walking over, arms open.
“Mami!” Alora yells at the top of her lungs, barreling toward him and jumping, not particularly gracefully, into his legs.
Pedri lifts her up in one motion, kissing the side of her head as she laughs in his ear. “Did you like it?”
“It was so good. Papa did three kicks. And you did the run thing with your arms.”
“I did do the run thing.”
“And I wore the shirt with papá’s name! And I sat on Fer like a chair!”
Pedri looks up at his older brother, who shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”
A few moments later, Ferran joins them, jogging over with a towel slung around his neck and a grin stretched wide across his face.
“Papi!” Alora shouts again, reaching out from Pedri’s arms.
“Hey, princesa,” Ferran says, brushing a kiss over her forehead and then another across Pedri’s cheek. “You made it all the way to the pitch?”
“She was already down here at the barrier not even a minute after the final whistle,” Fer reports.
“I saw you on the screen!” Alora says breathlessly. “You were so big and your socks were still too high and the whole stadium clapped when Mamí did the corner thing!”
“Wow,” Ferran says. “You saw all that?”
“Yes. And I did a picture for you but it got folded but it still has the goal thingy.”
He blinks, genuinely touched, but laughing slightly. “You made me a goal thingy?”
“Mhm.” She nods. “It’s in Abuelita’s bag. She said she’s saving it.”
Rosie, a few steps behind them, lifts the purse as evidence.
Pedri leans into Ferran slightly, voice low. “She said you run like lightning.”
“Lightning in socks,” Alora corrects seriously.
Ferran laughs, eyes crinkling. “I’m framing that.”
Alora insists on walking around the edge of the pitch with one hand in each of theirs. She’s very small, very determined, and very loud.
“Is this the grass Messi stepped on?”
“Maybe.”
“Did he touch this exact bit?”
“Unclear.”
“Okay,” she says, dramatically serious, “I’m gonna stand on it just in case.”
She plants both feet, raises her arms above her head, and shouts, “Now I have Messi powers!”
Pedri pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why is she like this?”
“Because you married me,” Ferran replies, very smug.
Eventually, they stop near the sideline, close to the tunnel entrance. Rosie and Fernando Sr. are chatting a few steps behind them, and Fer is trying to get Alora to pose for a photo, but she won’t stand still.
“Can I roll on the floor?” she asks, halfway into a somersault already.
“No,” Ferran says quickly. “You’re not grass-approved.”
“Can I wear the armband?”
“No.”
“Can I touch the armband?”
“Maybe.”
Pedri’s watching the two of them like they’re a sitcom, sipping water and pretending not to laugh.
“You two know she’s never going to let us top this again, right?”
Ferran shrugs. “Let her have her moment. This is her Camp Nou debut.”
Alora suddenly spins around, hands on her hips. “Can I come to every game now?”
Pedri crouches down so they’re eye level. “Not every game, chiquita. It’s a bit much for you sometimes, remember?”
“But I was brave!” she says. “I didn’t cry at the whistle and I only yelled when Papa scored.”
“You almost threw popcorn,” Fer reminds her.
“Only because it was exciting when Papá scored.”
Ferran leans over and kisses her head. “You were perfect, princesa. But next time, let’s leave the carrot at home.”
Pedri blinks. “What carrot?”
“She tried to pack a backup one,” Ferran says without missing a beat. “For emergencies.”
“It was gonna be for Mami,” Alora says sweetly. “Because sometimes you look like you need a snack.”
As the post-match crowd begins to thin out and the lights start to dim just slightly, Ferran picks her up again. She wraps her arms around his neck and lets her forehead rest on his shoulder, still buzzing with energy but finally letting her body slow down.
Pedri falls into step beside them, arms folded, watching the way Ferran adjusts her weight like he’s done it a thousand times.
“She’s going to remember this,” he says.
Ferran glances over. “You think?”
“Absolutely. She’ll probably tell her whole class tomorrow.”
Alora pipes up, muffled by Ferran’s shoulder. “I’m gonna tell them Papá scored the best goal ever and Mamí ran so fast the wind couldn’t even catch him.”
Ferran’s grin grows. “Yeah, she’s definitely mine.”
Alora’s tucked into bed wearing Ferran’s Barça shirt from three seasons ago, the hem reaching her ankles, sleeves bunching at her wrists. She’s curled under a soft pink blanket with a stuffed dinosaur in one hand and her thumb in her mouth, even though she’ll deny that in the morning.
“Did you have fun today?” Ferran asks softly, sitting beside her and brushing curls away from her forehead.
“The most fun,” she mumbles around her thumb. “Mami did a pass and Papi did a run and the people clapped so loud.”
Pedri leans against the doorframe, watching. “You were the loudest.”
Alora blinks slowly. “I had to cheer. No one else said ‘go Papi go’ the way I do.”
Ferran grins. “They definitely heard you.”
She yawns, mouth wide, then mumbles, “Can I come next time?”
“We’ll see,” Pedri says, stepping closer to kiss her cheek. “Maybe just home games for now.”
“But only if I sit on Fer again,” she says sleepily. “He’s a very good chair.”
Ferran tries not to laugh as she rolls onto her side, pulling the shirt higher over her shoulder.
He waits until her breathing evens out, then stands up, quiet.
Pedri’s already at the door. “Still wound up, huh?”
“She fell asleep talking about the game.”
Pedri smiles. “She’s yours.”
Ferran flicks the hallway light off. “Yeah,” he says, not bothering to argue, “I know.”
- sofía ✎ᝰ.