This must be a dream, this must be a dream," Clarke Griffin kept on chanting as she examined herself in the mirror. White had never really been her colour – until now. "I am going to wake up any second now; this must be a dream."

She closed her eyes for a second, but when she opened them again nothing had changed. She was still standing in front of the huge mirror watching herself grinning like she'd just had the most amazing sex in her life. Well, she was sure about one thing, this was so much better than sex. With trembling hands she touched the crest embedded on her white jersey affectionately. She remembered wearing a jersey like that, bearing the three blue lionesses on its crest, for the most part of her teenage years. The only difference was that this was her jersey. It had her name printed on the back.

Griffin. Again she couldn't keep her face from displaying a huge grin. Her name was on the official jersey of England's national football team. Griffin. She was never, ever going to take it off. God, the fabric felt so good on her body; better than anything that has ever touched her skin before.

Granted she was a bit cross that instead of her number – the number she had worn with pride since her first football game in a mixed team at the age of six – the number eleven was printed on the shirt. It was bad luck that the star player and national hero Lexa Woods had claimed the number five as her own years ago. But not even that could ruin her mood today; she was fucking ecstatic.

She had finally made it. After years of sweat, tears and dedicating every spare second, every bit of leisure time she had to growing into the best player she can be. After losing so many friends and lovers, because she wasn't able to give them the attention they deserved. After too many injuries and nervous breakdowns to count, she had finally made it.

"Griffin, it's your turn," a loud voice made her flinch. She turned around to see a small, balding guy whose name she didn't remember looking at her expectantly.

With one last look in the mirror, she turned around. "Yeah, yeah. I'm coming."

He ushered her out of the room, through a deserted corridor, a staircase and another corridor into a brightly lit room. The room was full of people running around making last minute changes to the setting or just standing by watching the scene in front of them unfold. Surprisingly it was rather quiet considering how many people were gathered around. Everybody was talking to the those next to them in hushed whispers; only the voice of the photographer could be heard booming across the room, telling the girl in the spotlight what to do, how to look and especially what not to do.

Clarke recognized the pretty brunette girl at once. Raven Reyes. She was playing for Everton and was the only other new recruit on the national team besides Clarke. She remembered playing against her this season; Raven was Everton's shining star. The defender joined the team two years ago and since then had become a fan favourite.

And man, she was good.

Again the photographer, a mean and intimidating looking man, barked out commands. Raven didn't look comfortable with the white light illuminating her face in all the right places and the camera only mere inches away from her face. But she did what the guy told her to do anyway. Finally he dismissed her with a small movement of his hand and Raven trotted off with her head hanging low; Clarke almost didn't recognize her then; the woman she knew had enough passion and fervour to set the whole room aflame. She didn't notice Clarke still standing at the door waiting for somebody to call her up.

"Nice try, hon, but way too slow," Clarke couldn't help herself. She repeated the words Raven had shouted at her during their last match against each other; Clarke had been so close to scoring, when Raven blocked her shot.

Raven looked up and their eyes met.

"Well, if it isn't the infamous Clarke Griffin." They both smiled at each other. Apart from their rivalry on the field, they had developed a mutual respect for each other; maybe even more than that. They both lived in Liverpool and since they had a few friends in common they had occasionally met on parties or a night out and there was something resembling a friendship starting to grow between them.

"And so we meet again." Clarke grinned. She looked the defender up and down and said, "Looking good, Reyes. Even though I almost didn't recognize you under all the make up."

"And I'm so looking forward to finally taking it off and getting out of here. But damn, white is so your colour, babe." Raven hit her arm playfully. "I have to admit, I'm fucking glad to finally play on the same team you do."

"When you say, play on the same team you surely mean…" Clarke lets the sentence end in a meaningful silence. She raised her eyebrow, while Raven only laughed.

"You still haven't given up on that, huh?"

"Never."

"Griffin!" the small, fat guy from before shouted suddenly. "We are ready for you."

"I'm coming", she shouted back at him. Turning back to Raven, she said, "Honestly, I am happy that we are going to play together. It's going to be nice to have somebody I know on the team."

"Clarke Griffin, you big baby. No need to get all sentimental on me now," Raven teased her.

"Griffin!"

"Oh, for fucks sake. I'm coming." She threw Raven one last apologetic look and blew her a kiss, before turning around to be greeted by the angry face of the photographer. Behind her she could hear Raven wishing her luck before she disappeared soundlessly out of the room.

"Hi," was all Clarke got to say before the photographer started shouting at her: about not being professional, about her tardiness, about disturbing his peace on set, about how much work it was going to take to make her look even remotely pretty and so on. She just let him rant and rave. He only stopped, when the fat man poked him in the side, pointing at his clock and telling him to get a move on. He then turned his rage against the small men, before proclaiming that he was surrounded by unprofessional idiots and told Clarke grudgingly where to stand.

A little self-conscious, she went to stand at the spot he told her to go. Behind her was a green curtain and she was lit by four, no five huge lamps. The crew had started to change the position of those lights and told her to move her head in different directions and into weird postures. After a few minutes she noticed that she had started to sweat, damn those lights, warming up the room to forty something degrees.

"Can you hurry this up, please!" Clarke Griffin was not a very patient woman and after standing there for what felt like an eternity with not one photo being taken in all that time, her patience was gone.

"Art knows no time." The photographer smiled at her sweetly and there was nothing she'd rather do than hit him in the face with one of his light posts. He was enjoying this too fucking much.

Finally, after thirty minutes of demonstrating every facial expression that Clarke knew for the camera, she was just exhausted. The muscles in her face hurt either from fake smiling or from having to look all serious and determined. She just wanted to get the fuck away from these people.

The photographer seemed to be happy. "I'm a genius! Come, come and see, the way I made you look every woman will want to be you and every man is going to want to fuck you senseless."

"Well, thank you… I guess, but I'd rather have it the other way around," Clarke said tiredly. "Are we finished?"

The guy needed a moment to take in what she'd just said, and when he got it he looked at her, as if she had suddenly turned into a living breathing dream of his. "Oh, well, yeah, but don't you want to see…"

"Naaah, I'll see them sooner or later." With that she just left them. Finally outside, she took a deep breath. She hated small, confined spaces. Even more so, if the people that shared her breathing space were douche bags like the ones she had just encountered.

For a second she leaned against the wall next to the door. That wasn't the beginning she had imagined. She had come to play ball, not to play dress up, be ushered around and forced to make faces at a camera for thirty minutes straight. At least, that was behind her now. They had their pictures and they could do whatever they wanted with them. Fucking vultures.

She just wanted to get out of here, if she only remembered where the dressing room was. Where all of here stuff was lying around just waiting to be picked up by her. Fuck, she had just followed the fat guy and hadn't paid any attention to where they were going. For a second she considered going back in and just asking him, but… no, she was Clarke Griffin. And Clarke Griffin doesn't crawl back and ask for help, she solves her problems alone.

So she started walking along the corridor; unnamed doors to the left and right. Everything looked the same. She kind of got the feeling she was in a prison. She knew that those rooms were mostly storage rooms – at least that was what the receptionist who had been kind enough to show her the way had told her. Damn the Football Association for owning such a large building complex. And for not putting signs on the doors, it's not like it's a hard thing to do. If she had a computer and a printer she could do it for them. Maybe she should suggest it to them, heck she would even do it for free.

After ten minutes she was lost. She had been a scout when she was younger, she was able to estimate what time it was from where the sun was standing on the sky, she could work a compass and was exceptionally good at reading maps, but she got lost inside this stupid building. Damn her pride, she should have just asked the fat, bald guy where to go, but no Clarke Griffin had to go out on her own.

Admitting defeat, she tried to find the elevator to ask the receptionist for help. Again. It wasn't like she found the way to the room when she first arrived; no they had to show her. With her head hanging low she boarded the elevator. When another guy entered all dressed up in a suit and tie, she realized that she was still wearing the jersey, shorts, her knee socks and stud shoes. The guy looked her up and down, then nodded slightly at her.

The elevator ride was awkward as fuck. The guy kept staring at her when he thought she didn't notice, but of course she did. Normally she would have shot an insult his way, but today she didn't really feel like confronting anyone, she just wanted to get her stuff, get out of here and go play some ball. She wasn't so sure anymore if being on the national team was as much fun as she had imagined.

The receptionist recognized her immediately. The pretty blonde woman flashed Clarke a huge smile when she approached. "I do understand that you don't want to get out of those clothes, but I'm not sure if the people of London are ready for you strutting around town in your full attire."

Clarke smiled a tired smile. "Yeah, you know... as much as I love this jersey and would love to never take it off… um, I guess, I kind of got lost... again... and don't know where the fuck the dressing room is, where I left all of my shit."

"Wow, you really do have a poor sense of orientation. Don't you, Ms. Griffin?"

"It's Clarke. And it's not my fault that the FA can't seem to put up signs at the doors telling people what's inside."

"Touché. But to be honest, we've never had anybody get lost before; before you that is."

"Great, not only am I the first, but I actually got lost twice in one day. Kudos to me."

The woman laughed again, and put a reassuring hand on Clarke's arm.

"I don't want to sound selfish, but I do appreciate you getting lost and having to come here. So I got to see you not only twice, but also proudly wearing our national colours." Her smile seemed to grow even broader. "And they look really good on you."

A loud cough behind Clarke made both of them snap out of the little bubble they created.

"Good morning, Natalie," she heard somebody say. Strangely the voice reminded Clarke of her mother. The stern voice all mothers use when they catch their child in a situation they disapprove of. "I don't mean to interrupt the quaint little chat you are having, but I would really appreciate it if you could get me my visitor's pass. They are waiting for me upstairs."

"No, of course, Lexa. Just give me a second." With that and an apologetic look in Clarke's direction, the receptionist disappeared into the room behind the counter. The second the name "Lexa" was mentioned, Clarke had figured out exactly who was standing behind her and interrupting her nice and cute conversation with the receptionist. Of course it had to be Lexa fucking Woods. Meeting her just out of the blue wasn't the plan. It's not like she really had a plan, but if she had made one, it wouldn't include chance meetings with the freaking captain of the national team.Her captain, she realized now. Woods who three years ago, when she first got into professional football, ridiculed her in an interview that was published in every fucking paper whose readers were even remotely interested in woman's football.

Worst thing, Woods didn't even know her then. At all. Their teams had played against each other one time before that interview and she was a reserve. She'd played for exactly twelve minutes before the referee blew the final whistle. Clarke's team lost and Woods scored the winning goal.

And then that bitch went on telling everybody that players like Clarke were the reason the WSL was kid's play compared to the German Bundesliga or the Swedish Damallsvenskan, because they just signed anybody on to their professional teams. Again making an example of Clarke by expatiating on her non-existent professional football experience, her young age (she had just turned eighteen) and her complete and utter uselessness on the field.

Needless to say Clarke was seething. For weeks she collected pictures of Woods to either throws darts at her face or burn them in a ceremonial act. Whenever someone mentioned the name Woods, she let loose a hateful tirade and wasn't able to stop herself. There was also a lot of crying involved, in the beginning at least.

Her girlfriend at the time left her because of it, because of Woods. Niylah had said that what she was doing bordered on an unhealthy obsession with the midfielder. That and the anger management issues Clarke was struggling with at the time, made her leave Clarke. All her stuff was just gone one morning and in a voicemail she told Clarke that she just couldn't take it anymore. Again, all Lexa's fault.

Clarke tried to even her breathing. That… cunt, who had ridiculed her publicly without even knowing her and made her personal life hell for months, was standing behind her. Relaxed. Probably not even realizing who she was. And she even had the audacity to disturb the amiable and charming talk she was having with the receptionist, Natalie. And she didn't even acknowledge Clarke, just talking over her head, as if she didn't exist. Damn her. What was it with Woods that made her blood boil and those violent and malicious thoughts appear? She felt like she was her eighteen year old self again, full of anger, rage and insecurity. And at the moment there was nothing she wanted to do more than to...

"You are one of the rookies, right?" Clarke needed a second to comprehend that Woods was talking to her, before she whipped around abruptly. Just as she had anticipated Lexa Woods was looming over her and regarded Clarke with a look that in no way made her feel as though the captain was happy about her being there. Woods' icy stare appeared to imply exactly the opposite.

In her mind she played out a lot of different scenarios, in which she told Woods exactly what she thought of her, what a bitch she was and how she could fool everybody else with her comradely act towards her team mates, but she couldn't fool Clarke. But all she could muster was a stiff nod.

"I thought as much with you wearing our jersey. Congratulations." Clarke was amazed how insincere the captain acted towards her. She didn't even try to come across as… well, not a bitch. "I am sure you already know who I am, but let me introduce myself nonetheless. I am Lexa Woods, your humble captain." Humble, my ass. She was even worse in person than Clarke had expected her to be. "And you are?"

Was she fucking serious? For a second Clarke had assumed the reason Woods was acting like a bitch towards her was, because for some unfathomable reason she didn't like her and continued her personal vendetta, but now… she didn't even know who the fuck she was?

God, if Clarke hadn't already hated her, she would surely have hated her now.

"Clarke Griffin."

"Right, the striker." She gave her a nod. "It is nice to have you on the team, Clarke." Woods looked like saying the words hurt her physically.

Luckily Natalie chose this moment to come back, thus saving her from spending more time alone with Lexa Woods.

"Sorry, it took me so long, but here you go, Lexa." She handed the captain her visitor's pass.

"Thanks." For the first time Clarke saw the captain smile. Not the forced smile when she had talked to Clarke or those in the magazines or when she gave interviews, but a real, almost human smile. And man, did she look different when she smiled. If her perception hadn't been so clouded by her hatred towards the other woman, she might have even called her absolutely gorgeous.

But apparently smiling was hard work for Woods, so it only took mere seconds for the frown to reappear on her face. Without as much as a word, she left.

Natalie looked back at Clarke. She was all smiles and sunshine. "Now, back to our problem patient, what to do with…" She suddenly stopped dead in her tracks realizing something that was seemingly obvious to everyone but her. "Lexa, wait up!" she shouted after the dark haired midfielder.

Oh no, was all Clarke could think. Everything happened in slow motion from that moment. Clarke's gaze wandered from the happily smiling receptionist to Woods who turned so slowly you might think she wasn't turning around at all. But when she did, she didn't look very happy. Natalie didn't seem to notice at all. Instead she went on explaining the situation to Woods. The more Natalie talked, the more Clarke hoped that the hellmouth would just open up and swallow her whole. If the situation wasn't embarrassing enough the way it was, now Woods knew all about how much of an idiot Clarke was. Woods' judgmental face was too much; Clarke fixed her eyes on the ground not wanting to look at either Natalie or Woods. Great, Lexa Woods had found yet another one of Clarke's faults to judge her by. And no matter how endearing Natalie tried to make her wanderings sound, Clarke was still the idiot that got lost in a corridor two fucking times in a row.

"So, I was wondering if you could show her the way since you are heading there as well."

"It would be my pleasure," was all Woods said.

If Clarke had thought the elevator ride down with suit guy was awkward, this was a whole new level of awkwardness. Woods just stood there; she hadn't said a single word to Clarke. Didn't even look at her. She just... walked in front of Clarke towards the elevator and got in, not even looking back. Clarke rushed inside not wanting to get crushed by the elevator doors. It was just the two of them, standing at opposite ends of the elevator. Neither saying a word.

Clarke couldn't take the silence any longer. "So, Sweden, huh? Can't believe we are leaving in a week. I'm so excited." She knew she was rambling, but the silence was just unbearable. "Aren't you excited?"

"Yes."

Woods didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on some advertisement poster at the wall. After that the silence engulfed them again. Clarke was so happy when they were finally on the right floor. Putting more distance between herself and the midfielder seemed to be a good idea. She slowly followed Woods. She felt safer behind the midfielder. From here she could watch her and didn't have to suffer Woods' penetrating gaze.

Again, she noted how tall Woods was. She looked more like a basketball player than anything else. Clarke was tall as well, but Woods still towered over her. She was wearing dark jeans and a polo shirt from the British FA. Her hair was pulled back in a braid. Clarke had never seen Woods with loose hair, now that she thought about it.

Woods suddenly halted and Clarke congratulated her wise decision to not walk right behind her captain, because otherwise she would have crashed into her when she stopped. The captain opened the door and entered the room.

Finally. Clarke couldn't wait to get changed and get out of there.

"Thank you," Clarke managed to say. Her mum had taught her well. Even if you didn't like the person that helped you or if she was currently trying to kill you with her stare, you still said thank you and smiled. Again, no real reaction from the icy woman; she just stood there watching Clarke. Wasn't she going to leave? She surely had somewhere more important to be... the almighty Lexa Woods.

"Right…"

It was getting too weird. Clarke decided just to act, as if she were alone since Woods didn't do anything but loom over Clarke. She went over to her bag, to change into her everyday clothes. She sat down to take her shoes off. She hesitated for a moment before getting out of her shorts. It was not like she was self-conscious about her looks. She knew she was fit, but the other woman just standing there was weird.

Clarke changed into a pair of sweat pants that she also got from the Football Association. She liked wearing the national crest on her clothes. It made her feel like this wasn't only a dream, but that this was really happening. That she really was part of the national team and that she was going to Sweden and in a few weeks she would play for her country in the European Championship.

Clarke smiled; only to remember that she wasn't alone. She looked in the mirror one last time, admiring the jersey, the way her name seemed to perfectly fit onto it. And eleven, she decided, was her new favourite number.

When she took it off, she was extremely conscious of the way Woods was staring daggers into her back. She neatly folded the jersey and put it in her bag. She wasn't sure why, but she suddenly felt very confrontational. She turned around. Woods wasn't looking at her, but at the floor. Clarke was confused. She had had the feeling that Woods had been watching her every move.

But it didn't matter.

"Is there something you need?"

Woods looked up and said nothing. Clarke wasn't sure what to make of her reaction. Well reaction might be a bit too much, it is not like the woman reacted like other people did; that was with words and emotions. Her eyes were fixed on Clarke's, not once wandering anywhere else.

"I mean is there a reason you are still here? Doing nothing but watching me undress?"

"I am waiting."

"Waiting?"

"Yes. Waiting."

Woods must be socially retarded or something. She wasn't even able to answer a question with more than a monosyllable reply. Who had she paid or fucked to ever be promoted to be the captain of the national team? Or was she just fucking with her? Playing some stupid little game she would later laugh about.

"What are you waiting for? For me to have an anxiety attack because you keep shadowing me? Or to plunge a knife in my back?"

Again she didn't say anything, but just looked at Clarke.

"So, which one is it?"

"I am not sure what you are implying, but I am just waiting for you to finish so I can change."

"I'm not stopping you. There is enough space for both of us." Clarke gestured at the empty bench opposite her.

"I'd rather not."

"Suit yourself." There was just no use. Having a conversation seemed impossible. Clarke again turned her back on Woods, not really sure what to make out of their conversation. She didn't want to get changed while Clarke was there? So… Woods was shy? No freaking way, there had to be another reason. Maybe she just wanted to get a rise out of Clarke or enjoyed making other people uncomfortable. Or she was afraid that Clarke would jump her bones when she got out of those clothes; she probably imagined Clarke to be a horny dyke with no self-restraint at all.

Clarke put on a chequered shirt and stuffed her football shoes and everything else into her bag. She just wanted to get out of there. Woods was still standing in the same spot, not moving, silent as a forgotten melody. Clarke passed by her without saying anything. She opened the door and was just about to leave before she thought better of it.

"So, I was just wondering… Do you act like a bitch towards everybody or am I special?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, I was…"

"I heard what you said."

"… so?"

"I don't know you, so why should you be special?"

"Let me think... maybe because I cannot kick with my left foot, cannot kick with my right foot, cannot head a ball, cannot tackle and am too slow to ever come close to scoring a goal. Or that the only reason I ever got signed is because it was cheaper than hiring a professional water carrier." After reading that article so many times, she knew the words by heart.

Fucking bitch.

Stunned silence. Woods still had the audacity to lock eyes with Clarke who by now was very near to either crying or punching the other woman. Taking deep breaths Clarke kept staring at her. Still no reaction. Colder than the iceberg that sank the Titanic.

Clarke closed the door behind her with a loud bang that resounded through the silent room.