The stadium was buzzing with anticipation. Flags waved furiously in the stands, and I could hear the distant chants of both English and Spanish fans echoing across the pitch. I tried to block it all out, focusing on the moment—this moment. The World Cup final. It was surreal, standing here, knowing that everything I had ever worked for, dreamed of, came down to this.

My eyes scanned the Spanish players, settling on Ona Batlle. Her face was set, determined, just like mine. We'd faced each other many times before, but nothing like this. This was for everything. There was no room for mistakes, no second chances. We both knew it.

As the whistle blew and the game kicked off, all the noise, all the pressure, faded into the background. This was just football now—eleven against eleven. Spain came out strong, their possession game as deadly as ever, moving the ball with precision, keeping us on the back foot early on. But we were England, and we weren't going to let them dictate the game.

I found myself matched up against Ona right from the start, her every movement sharp, calculated. I could feel her eyes on me every time I got the ball, every time I pushed forward. I knew what she was trying to do—get inside my head. But I couldn't let her. Not today.

The first twenty minutes flew by in a blur of intensity. Both sides were battling hard for control of the midfield, and neither team had managed to create any clear-cut chances. But then, in the 29th minute, Spain broke through.

It was quick, almost too quick. Ona Batlle picked up the ball deep in her own half and exploded forward, her pace and control breathtaking as she surged past our midfield. I sprinted back to cover her, trying to close her down, but she was too fast, her touches too precise. She slipped past me and delivered a low pass to Mariona Caldantey who did the same to Olga Carmona, who was waiting just outside the box.

Olga took one touch to set herself, then unleashed a low shot that curled perfectly past Mary and into the far corner of the net.

1-0. Spain.

For a moment, everything stopped. I stood there, my breath catching in my throat as the Spanish section of the crowd erupted in wild celebration. My heart sank, but I couldn't afford to dwell on it. I shook myself out of it, clenching my fists. There was still time. We had to respond.

The minutes that followed were some of the hardest I'd ever played. Spain, buoyed by their lead, continued to press us, their intricate passing game making it nearly impossible to get a foothold. Every time I tried to push forward, Ona was there, marking me tightly, not giving me an inch of space. It was like she was everywhere, always one step ahead, and it was getting into my head.

I could feel the frustration building, not just in me, but in my teammates. We needed a moment—something to break Spain's rhythm. Sarina's voice echoed in my ears, telling us to keep our shape, keep fighting. But every time we thought we'd broken through, Spain's defense closed us down. They were like a wall.

As halftime approached, we pressed harder, desperate for an equalizer. I pushed up from the back, trying to get more involved in the attack. But again, there she was—Ona Batlle, intercepting a through ball that was meant for me. She turned, glancing at me briefly before driving forward, leaving me chasing after her. It was a bitter reminder of how well she knew my game, of how closely she had studied me.

The halftime whistle blew, and I trudged off the pitch with the others, my heart pounding, frustration gnawing at my insides. In the locker room, Sarina's voice was calm but sharp. She pointed out the spaces we needed to exploit, where Spain was leaving themselves vulnerable, but I couldn't stop thinking about that moment—when Ona had outplayed me. I couldn't let it happen again.

The second half began with renewed energy. We knew this was it— half a game to turn it around. We pressed harder, trying to create more chances, but Spain was disciplined, organized, frustratingly solid in defense. And always, Ona was there, thwarting every attempt I made to push forward.

The clock was ticking, the pressure mounting with every passing minute. The 70th minute came and went, and still, we hadn't found a breakthrough. I could feel my legs getting heavier, my lungs burning, but I couldn't stop. Not now. Not when we were so close.

In the 80th minute, we came agonizingly close. A cross from Chloe found Alessia in the box, and for a brief, glorious moment, it looked like she might turn and shoot. But Ona was there again, sliding in with a perfect tackle to knock the ball away before Less could get her shot off.

I let out a frustrated shout, clenching my fists. She was everywhere, like a shadow I couldn't shake. And with each passing minute, the weight of it all—the pressure, the stakes—pressed down harder on me.

The final whistle loomed, and as we entered stoppage time, desperation set in. We threw everything we had forward, leaving ourselves exposed at the back, hoping for one last chance. One last moment of magic.

But it never came.

The final whistle blew, and just like that, it was over.

Spain had won.

I lay on the pitch, staring up at the glaring lights above, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. My body ached, but it was the heaviness in my heart that hurt the most. We had come so close. All the sacrifices, all the hours of preparation, the sweat, the tears... and it wasn't enough.

The sound of the Spanish players celebrating echoed around me, the noise too loud, too sharp in my ears. I pressed my palms into the grass, trying to ground myself, but the sinking feeling in my stomach only deepened.

And then, suddenly, there was a shadow cast over me.

"Elena..." A familiar voice says softly.

I blink through the tears clouding my vision and see Ona standing above me. Her face is full of emotion, a mixture of elation and sympathy. She'd won. Spain had won. But the look in her eyes tells me she understood exactly what I'm feeling. We'd been here before, just on opposite sides.

For a moment, neither of us say anything. She kneels down, her hand reaching out to touch my arm. It isn't a triumphant gesture. It's gentle, tentative. And that is the thing about Ona. She fights like hell on the pitch, but off of it? She's one of the kindest people I know.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the noise of the crowd. "You played amazing."

I let out a shaky breath, struggling to find the words. My throat feels tight, my emotions too raw to control. "It doesn't feel like it," I mutter, turning my face slightly so she can't see the tears starting to well up again.

Ona shifts closer, crouching down next to me now, her hand still resting lightly on my arm. "I know how much this hurts," she says softly. "I felt it too, after the Euros. But you were there for me then, and now... I'm here for you."

Her words hit me harder than I exepct. I remembered that night after Spain had crashed out of the Euros. I had found her, just like she had found me now. She had been broken, just like I was now. And I had told her not to beat herself up.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the overwhelming emotions, but Ona's presence is comforting in a way I hadn't anticipated. She's not gloating or boasting. She's just... there. A friend, in the midst of chaos.

"You'll be back," Ona says, her voice firm now, like she's willing it to be true for me. "You're too good not to be. This isn't the end for you, Elena."

I let out a bitter laugh, wiping a hand across my face. "Right now, it feels like it."

Ona shakes her head, her grip on my arm tightening slightly. "No. Trust me. You'll rise from this. You've got too much fight in you not to."

I nod slowly, not trusting myself to speak. She stands up and offers me her hand, and after a second of hesitation, I take it. She pulls me to my feet, her grip steady as I try to find my balance—both physically and emotionally.

For a brief moment, as we stand there face to face, I feel an unspoken bond between us. Two warriors, two competitors, but also two friends. She gives me a soft, reassuring smile before stepping back, the moment slipping away as she turns to join her celebrating teammates.

I watch her go, my heart heavy, but somehow... I feel a little lighter. Not because the pain's gone—it's not. But because I know she understands. She had been here before, and she had come out stronger. Maybe... maybe I could too.

As I walked off the pitch, I felt the weight of the moment pressing down on me, but there was no escaping the inevitable. The medal ceremony loomed ahead, the final act of this crushing defeat. We lined up near the stage, and I glanced around at my teammates. Their faces mirrored my own—pained, exhausted, struggling to hold back tears. We were all just trying to hold it together.

The Spain team climbed onto the podium first, their smiles wide and radiant, their hands already itching to lift the trophy. I could hear their fans cheering, chanting, as though the entire world was celebrating with them.

My mind drifted back to the game. The missed opportunities, the times I had run at Ona and couldn't break through. And then there was Olga's goal. The one that sealed it. I replayed it over and over, every detail etched painfully into my memory. I should've been better. I should've done more.

My turn came, and I forced myself to move. I climbed the steps, my legs heavy, every part of me resisting what was about to happen. The officials smiled kindly, offering words of encouragement that fell flat. When they placed the silver runner-up medal around my neck, it felt cold, like a weight I didn't want. It wasn't gold. It wasn't what we came here for.

I stared down at it, my fingers grazing the smooth surface. I had thought I would feel pride, that maybe, in some small way, this would feel like an achievement. But it didn't. It just felt hollow.

The celebrations continued around me, but I couldn't stay. I couldn't stand there and watch Spain lift the World Cup trophy, couldn't hear the cheers that were meant to be for us. I turned and walked off the stage without looking back. The cameras flashed as I left, but I didn't care. Let them say what they want. I needed to get away.

My breath came in short, shallow bursts, the roar of the crowd fading into the background as I made my way toward the tunnel.

The noise grew distant, almost muted, as I retreated further away from the celebration. All I wanted was to find some quiet, to let myself process what had just happened. But the disappointment was too raw, too heavy to confront all at once. I pushed open the doors to the tunnel, my legs barely carrying me as I stumbled forward, numb to everything around me.

Just as I was about to collapse into a seat, I heard my name.

"Elena!"