Playing as a defender for your national team has always been your biggest dream since you were four. Now, as you were standing in the tunnels of the stadium at nineteen years old, ready to make your national debut, you couldn't help yourself but to smile. The emblem of your national team on your chest made you so fucking proud, as well as your name and the number 15 on the back. You were more than ready. If there wouldn't be this one problem: Your debut was going to be against Spain, the best team in the world right now. You let your gaze wander over the eleven spanish women, aligned behind each other, all looking serious as hell in their red kits. Fuck. Your eyes fell onto their defender, number 2, Ona Batlle. Two years ago, you were sitting in your room, gazing at your TV, watching a Manchester United game with her in it. At that time, you swore to yourself that you would play against her one time, wanting to defeat her and her team at least once. Today was your chance. You looked onto the pitch infront of you, more serious than ever as you walked out with your team, hearing the cheers behind you. If you would defeat Spain today, you would be in the quarter finale of the FIFA Women's World Cup. If not, Spain is.