Striker of The Gods

 The Smile Behind the Crown

The night Leonor made her declaration on the Bernabéu pitch, the Palacio Real did not sleep, and everyone started looking at her closely more than they had imagined. That is to say that no one could ever come close to seeing the greatness of God.

In the private east wing, far from the eyes of servants and cameras that could capture any moment, Princess Sofía sat alone in the ancient library that had witnessed centuries of quiet betrayals and louder coronations that were meant to startle anyone by opening and closing destinis. A single lamp cast long shadows across leather-bound volumes and portraits of long-dead kings, and the eternal essence of those who wanted to live. On the table before her played the looped footage of her sister’s speech and the life of those who could live.

Sofía watched it again. And again and over again.

Her reflection in the dark window showed a young woman of perfect poise  elegant features, soft brown hair pinned with understated grace, eyes that had always known how to hide their hunger and avarice. But tonight, alone, the mask slipped with the most outrageous anger.

A slow, genuine smile curved her lips like a true demon.

Sofía (whispering to the empty room, voice silky with triumph of giants and dragons):

Finally.

She leaned back in the high-backed chair, fingers tracing the carved Bourbon crest on the armrest as if it already belonged to her, and something was swelling in the greatness of that game. The smile widened, not cruel exactly, but sharp  the expression of someone who had waited years in the second position and suddenly saw the finish line move forward till the very end of the game.

Sofía:

You chose Spain, sister. How noble. How predictable. That was so fucking easy.

(soft laugh, almost affectionate)

I knew you would, and you did... You’ve always been the romantic one in regard to duty and poetry. The one who believes love can conquer duty and the world. But duty always wins in the end like Kant would say. And tonight… you handed me the keys to the kingdom without me having to lift a finger or even a leg. So pathetic. Mina.

She paused the video on the moment Leonor had looked directly at Caos  out passion and sorrow. that heartbreaking second of raw vulnerability. Sofía studied her sister’s face with clinical detachment and clinical precision.

Sofía:

Poor Leonor. [Poor girl. Poor princess. You could have had everything. The throne, the people’s love, the future. Instead you fell for a boy who kicks a ball better than any man alive and the universe. A beautiful, violet-eyed chaos who will never understand what it means to carry a nation on your shoulders. and that is a pity.

(leans closer to the screen, voice dropping)

While you were sneaking into his mansion at night as I had predicted, I was meeting with members of the Cortes and those who were in there. While you were letting him touch you like some common lover or boyfriend whatever, I was securing alliances. And now… you’ve done the hardest part for me. You stood in front of eighty thousand people and chose the crown over him.

Sofía stood and walked to the tall window overlooking the illuminated palace gardens as if nothing had really happened. Her reflection stared back at her calm, composed, every inch the future queen.

But her eyes burned like 10.000 blue suns.

Sofía:

The people will love this story. It is so adorable. Oh no! The princess who sacrificed love for duty. It is so pathetic and sweet. They will worship you for it… for a while. And when the mourning period ends, they will turn to me as it has always beem . The steady one. The prepared one. The sister who was always there, quiet, dutiful, ready. This shall be my time.

(voice growing colder)

No more footballers on the front pages, and the ideal of life could take the force of nature in me. No more scandals.No more glory. No more violet storms threatening the sanctity of the throne. Spain will have order again. Tradition. Stability.

She touched the glass, as if reaching for the crown she could already feel descending upon what it could actually be seen on the surface..

A flicker of something crossed her face not quite guilt, but a momentary shadow. She remembered nights as children, Leonor reading her stories, protecting her from nightmares, sharing secrets under silk sheets. For a brief second, the mask cracked further and she did seem human anymore.

Sofía (softer, almost sad):

I do love you, Leonor. You are my everything. Truly. But love is a luxury queens cannot afford. At least, you now know what it can be for me. You taught me that without meaning to. You showed me what happens when the heart is allowed to rule and you let it run wildly.

(the sadness hardened back into resolve)

Better me on the throne than you distracted by a man who will never stop running. That is to say that this is better to have a Spain with a queen who understands power than one who chases chaos in the night.

She turned off the screen.

The library fell into deeper silence.

Sofía walked to the ancient portrait of Isabella I and stared up at it for a long moment, and the global change took on the real deal for life. Then she did something she had never done before in this room.

She knelt.

Not in prayer. In reverence for the future she had just been handed.

Sofía (whispering like a vow):

I will not waste this. I will be the queen this country deserves. Steady. Uncompromising. Free of storms. Pues si tio, en España podrá faltar el pan, pero el ingenio y el buen humor no se acaban para aquellos que conocen nuestra sangre. This is my genius.

(stands slowly, eyes gleaming)

And if my sister suffers for a while… history will forgive me. It always does.

Outside the palace walls, the city of Madrid still buzzed with the shock of Leonor’s declaration. Billboards replayed the moment on loop. Social media burned with heartbreak, admiration, and conspiracy theories.

But in the quiet east wing, Princess Sofía poured herself a single glass of aged Rioja and raised it toward the darkened window.

Sofía:

To my sister… and the beautiful sacrifice she just made.

(soft, satisfied smile)

Long live the Queen.

She drank.

And somewhere across the city, in a mansion where three maids waited anxiously and a violet-eyed storm sat alone in the garden, the consequences of that choice were only beginning to take root.

The 2031–32 season still raged on.

Caos would score the final thirty goals of his historic 430 with a cold, merciless fury that made even his teammates uneasy.

But the real game  the one that mattered most  had just moved from the pitch to the palace.

And Sofía was no longer content to watch from the shadows.

To be continued…