Archive of Our Own

England Base Camp — Kansas City, Missouri

* * *

Jude couldn’t remember another day in his life when he’d felt quite so heavy in the limbs or light in the chest.

He lay back on the sun-warmed tiles by the pool, his feet in the water, and let gravity have its way. He was, today, a world champion at doing absolutely nothing.

Saka was sprawled beside him, out cold, with nothing but a rolled jumper for a pillow. He was completely unaware that Anthony was crouched at his feet, easing one ankle toward the water inch by patient inch. The others had stripped to their trunks and were launching themselves into the water with atomic abandon.

The sun was still going strong, though it was falling fast, the sky overhead all gold and purple. Jude could’ve slept there, right on the tiles, but someone cold and wet thwacked his shin, and he blinked.

Harry loomed above him, grinning, hands on knees.

“You been on your phone yet?” Harry asked.

Jude considered lying, but his phone had stayed face down since the bus ride back. “Not really,” he said. “I figured we’d get ratio’d by all the South Americans.”

“Au contraire.” Harry dropped to a crouch and nudged Bukayo, who didn’t so much as twitch. “Internet’s melting. Even my nan texted.”

Jude squinted up at him, the glare outlining Harry’s head in a corona. “How’s your throat?”

“Fine.” Harry waggled his eyebrows. “The Haaland stuff is wild, he’s been all over X and Insta. Proper monster game. Did you see the highlights?”

That got him. Jude fished out his phone, thumb smudged with suncream, and flicked open X. The first twenty posts were all England—mostly clips of his header and Harry’s penalty. 

Jude Bellingham FIFA World Cup! then Jude Bellingham Mad Speed! with a meme of his legs photoshopped onto a horse. He kept scrolling, eyes skimming past the heat maps and pundit breakdowns, until he found what he wanted.

‘Haaland’ was #1 trending. The thumbnail was his face, mouth open in a bellow.

Jude clicked the video. He watched the replay. Then he watched it again. Erling, even on a grainy sideline cam, looked like he was running on some gradient only he could feel.

First goal, classic header. Second, a mess of bodies, but Erling just out-muscled everyone. He kicked the ball right between Danilo’s legs, and did a lap of the pitch afterwards, carrying two teammates on his back like football was just the world’s most intense piggyback game.

Jude liked that bit best.

“He did the robot,” Jude said.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, amused. “Norway’s through. You know what that means.”

Jude grinned. “I’m going to spend five nights not sleeping.”

“You versus your soulmate.” Harry heaved a sigh. “Gonna be carnage for the rest of us.”

Jude laughed, though he wasn’t sure if the prospect made him nervous or if it just made the air feel even stickier with anticipation.

Harry squinted at the strip of lounge chairs. “You know those are for sitting, not just for show, yeah?”

“I’m all right,” Jude said, meaning: it’s fine, it’s perfect, leave me here to dissolve.

Harry left him with a pat to the shoulder. Jude lolled his head to the side and half-watched as the others cannonballed into the pool, shattering the glassy surface into a thousand sunlit shards.

He gave up resisting the phone. He unlocked it again and scrolled back to the Haaland video. Below it was one of his own face gurning back at him in a split-second clip from the post-match tunnel. On X, it was all superlatives and clips of his goal, the one where he’d flown in off the left and bent it, almost blind, to the far post. Jude liked the angle from behind—it made the swerve look impossible, like a physics cheat code. He saved it for later and kept scrolling.

England fans had already started the memes about the Norway game. There was some weird anime crossover, and someone had photoshopped him and Erling as Godzilla and Kong battling over the Miami skyline. Jude laughed for real at that one, bookmarking the meme so Bukayo could see if he ever woke up.

He scrolled up to his messages, past the ones from Mum and Dad, past the team admin reminders, and tapped on the nearly-buried thread. Their last text was from two weeks ago, a blurry screenshot of a group FaceTime where Jude looked like he’d fallen asleep on-camera.

Absolute scenes. Brazil got Haalanded

Congrats, mate

He debated an emoji, went with the goat. Sent.

The dots showed up at once.

👍🤪

Jude laughed out loud. Harry gave him a look from where he was submerged to his chin in the pool.

“Sorry, it’s nothing,” Jude said.

Harry shook his head. “It’s always funny with you two. Like a pair of puppies.”

congrats to you too

i saw you score

psycho

Jude smirked. Psycho. The best compliment he’d ever gotten.

You watching the games tonight?

i’m in

an ice bath

Jude chuckled. Clearly not, then.

You must be buzzing

Top of the group now?

always buzz. you next.

I’m not a walkover like Brazil

true

u are not brazilian

Takk for det

i teach you norwegian

after I score

In your dreams

i don’t sleep like mortal men

i sleep at least 12 hours

13 if lucky

That’s the problem with you

🙄🙄🙄

Erling sent a gif of Godzilla punching Kong, lifted straight from X.

Jude snorted and set the phone face down on his chest.

Beside him, Bukayo sighed and rolled over, and a shadow passed over them. Jude titled his head back to see Tuchel holding a stack of papers, looking like he wanted nothing more than to throw them in the pool.

“Gentlemen,” Tuchel said. “Team dinner in twenty minutes, and then film review. I hope you enjoyed your sun, because you will not see it again.”

Bukayo mumbled, surfacing from his nap. “Is it food time?”

Jude nodded, and got reluctantly to his feet, everything in him resisting the upward movement. He’d give anything for another hour on the tiles, just scrolling, belly up like a lizard. But there were matches to review, and soon enough, a Norwegian terminator to stop.

He followed the others through the grand double doors back into the hotel, feeling the faintest buzz in his pocket that told him Erling had sent another message.

Tuchel’s shadow was still stretching down the hall when Jude and Bukayo made it into the lobby, dripping a trail past the empty reception, and up the stairs toward the elevator.

Harry was already there, towel around his shoulders, relaying some gossip to Declan and Elliot in a stage whisper that carried across the marble floor. The elevator dinged, and the lot of them shuffled in.

Jude peeled off on the third floor, Elliot and Bukayo still arguing about who could out-bench the other, and let himself into his room. The instant the door closed, the heat and echo of the corridor vanished, replaced by the low tick of the AC. Jude kicked off his slides and stripped off his shirt, skin still warm and a bit sticky from the sun.

He dropped onto the edge of the bed and picked up his phone from where it had landed on the duvet. The lockscreen glowed with a new notification.

He opened it. It was a photo of Erling in a bar somewhere dim and wood-panelled, holding up a glass of something white. His long, tan arm was looped around the shoulders of a guy slumped forward onto the table. Nyland, if the mop of blonde hair and tragic posture were anything to go by. The caption underneath said ‘bildet av vinnerne.’

Jude highlighted the text, tapping on the little translate button that hovered above it. ‘The picture of the winners’ apparently.

Jude snorted and thumbed out a reply.

Where are you?

The response came back before he set the phone down.

1808

?

What

hotel bar

That’s it’s name?

i see you didnt bother to look where im staying

I’m not a stalker like you

What are you drinking?

white russian

told barman hold the vodka

and the kahlua

So just milk then

yes

Elite recovery

i don’t remember last night lol

Looks like Nyland doesn’t either

Grinning, Jude switched to the team group chat. The earlier Godzilla meme was there. It still hit. Beneath it, Bukayo had sent a voice note, something about Jude’s header defying physics and requesting a rematch at teqball when they got home. Jude gave it a thumbs-up, then tossed the phone onto the pillow and headed for the bathroom.

The shower was one of those glass cubes that always steamed up instantly, the water pressure strong enough to knock the sweat straight out of you. Jude stood there, letting the heat loosen everything the pitch had tightened up.

No matter how many hotels, how many continents, the shampoo always smelled the same: fake coconut, sweet and nearly plastic, and it made him think of half-remembered childhood holidays when he’d swim until he forgot he had a body at all.

He towelled off and pulled on a pair of black slacks and a black shirt—supposedly ‘smart casual.’ He looked at himself in the mirror. Still sun-dazed, hair a bit mad at the crown, but the heat in his arms and chest had finally cooled down.

He headed back into the room just as his phone buzzed again. He sniffed the collar of his shirt as he tapped the screen. This time, the message was an X link, no context. He clicked it, holding the phone so the screen wouldn’t glare. Spain 1-0 Portugal.

He checked the time. Less than half an hour since the pool. His whole life was measured in thirty-minute slices these days. He scrolled the replies, then flicked back to the text thread.

Not surprised. I told you Spain are built different

That’s who you should worry about

i never worry. i prepare.

also i eat

🤨

You watching the live game?

nahhh

We’re off to dinner, then film

hamachi ceviche tostada

Jude just stared at that for a second, then realised what Erling was on about.

Did you look at the menu???

perhaps

Stalker behaviour

it says it is a vibrant, refreshing dish pairing delicate, buttery raw fish with a crisp, fried corn tortilla

Jude stifled a laugh as he slipped his feet into loafers and left the room. The noise of the on-site restaurant was already pulsing through the wall when he rounded the corner into the lobby.

good luck with Tuchel

Ta

I’ll need it

Verbena was already filled with the burly, loud-mouthed parade of England’s finest. Jude pushed through the doors and found most of the squad already mobbing the salad bar, plates piled high like kids at an all-you-can-eat.

Tuchel sat at the head of the long table, chin propped on his hand, reading from a stack of match reports. He looked up, clocked Jude immediately, and waved him closer. “You are ready for the tactical inquisition, yes?”

Jude gave a mock salute. “Born ready, boss.”

Across the table, John and Jordan were making a dent in the bread basket, eyes glazed in what looked suspiciously like carbohydrate bliss. Jude loaded his plate with grilled chicken and salad and slid into the seat with a view of the room.

He could feel the itch of anticipation already, the pre-game tension even though the match was nearly a week off. Five days to figure out how to stop the most dangerous forward on the planet, who also happened to be his best mate. Five days to turn every last drop of this weird, nervous energy into something useful, or at the very least, something unforgettable.

Jude forked a piece of chicken, chewed, and let the noise of the squad fill in around him. Every so often, he felt his pocket buzz and he had to resist the urge to check it even though he knew who it was. Only when he was finished with his first plate did he finally let himself look. He leaned back in his chair, half-listening to the others discussing the live match, and slipped it covertly out of his pocket.

Erling had sent more photos. One was of an empty gym, captioned: ‘night session. always open.’ Another was just Erling giving a thumbs-up next to a plate with a whole fish on it, with the words ‘viking diet.’ Jude only just managed to hold back his snort.

On his left, Tuchel rapped his knuckles against the table. There was instant silence.

“Enjoy your food,” he said, eyes sweeping the table. “But remember—tomorrow, we work. Tonight, we learn. And in a few days, we make history again.” He paused, as if for effect, then said, “Upstairs. Fifteen minutes. We meet in media suite for film.”

The room groaned as one and Tuchel rolled his eyes, making shushing motions.

Harry wagged a finger at the table as a whole. “We’ve got our work cut out with Norway, men. Not just Haaland—whole team looks like they’re carved from polar ice.”

Delcan snorted. “Did you see Nyland in goal? Man was a wall.”

Grunts of agreement sounded from up and down the table. Elliot did that thing where he dropped his head and smirked, like he’d already drafted the obituary for Norway’s midfield.

“Norway is very good,” Tuchel conceded. “But so are we. If we had the will to win against Mexico in that altitude, even with half the squad trying not to die, we can do this. We do not discount our own victories.”

Jude steepled his fingers with a smile. The will to win. Easy to say, but he could still taste the lung-burn from that second half.

Anthony, from the end of the table, lifted his fork like a toast. “Even if they’ve got the Viking, we’ve got Jude.”

Jude rolled his eyes. “That’s a relief, then. I’ll just mark myself, shall I?”

Harry leaned in, lowering his voice. “We just use Jude as a lure. Dangle him on a fishing line, and Haaland follows. Bang, easy win.”

“Godzilla!” Bukayo cawed, as if the word alone could conjure up the meme.

Declan pulled a face. “It’s Kongzilla, get it right.”

Tuchel held up his hands with a theatrical sigh. “Enough monsters. Upstairs in—” he paused, checking his watch. “You know what? Right now.”

The squad scattered in loose, laughing knots, and Jude stopped by the buffet table to swipe one last forkful of chicken.

Back in the main building, Harry lingered in the lobby, holding the elevator for him. Jude hopped in, his mind already miles away on the replays of Erling’s last game and how defenders simply fell off him in clumps like he was some seismic event and they were just loose gravel. 

Jude had studied all the clips, of course. There were hours of tactical breakdowns in his future, but nothing would compare to standing across the pitch from that guy again.

He drifted with the crowd up the stairs and into the too-cold corporate boardroom they’d commandeered as a media suite. Rows of expensive white chairs hugged a long oak table, the big screen already glowing with a paused frame: Mexico’s number 2 off-balance, Jude in perfect focus, head snapping the ball toward the back post. He slid into the seat next to Bukayo, who was animatedly narrating his own first touch from the game (as if the rest of them hadn’t just lived it) and settled in.

His phone buzzed in his pocket—a short pulse this time. He flicked his thumb over the screen, glancing down.

Erling had sent a pic of his laptop, the screen open to Shawshank Redemption queued on Teleparty, a second tab split-screened with the Dallas Stadium match he was ‘not watching’ but obviously watching because he could never resist.

Jude zoomed in on the picture, noting the background clutter of resistance bands and protein bars arranged in a neat pyramid.

He grinned and texted back.

We’ve got film review till at least 9

Which will be 10 your time

i can wait

Slave for my whims

😐😶😶‍🌫️🫥

Idiot. Jude bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He pocketed the phone as Tuchel fiddled with the remote. Harry stood at his shoulder offering technical advice that was really just a string of increasingly unhelpful jokes. Jude watched, amused, as both of them squinted at the screen, their heads tilting in unison when the TV flickered blue.

Beside him, James stretched his sore leg out into the aisle, massaging the top of his thigh with small, tight circles. The tape was still scored faintly into his skin.

“You good?” Jude pitched his voice low, not wanting to make a thing of it.

James didn’t look up, just pressed his thumb deeper into his own quad. “Had worse,” he said. “You got any of that arnica gel left?”

“Yeah, in my bag.” Jude glanced at the door. “Want me to grab it?”

“Nah. After film. Can’t miss the show.”

Jude nodded.

James scrolled on his phone with his free hand and Jude leaned into his side to sneak a peek.

“Look at this madman,” James said, tilting the screen to show Erling on his back, somehow kicking the ball into the goal without even looking. “He’s crazy.”

Jude grimaced, not sure if he should play it down or just admit it. “He is. But he also gets bored if no one passes him the ball, so maybe we just bully Odegaard for ninety minutes.”

That made James laugh. “I think Declan will have that one covered.”

Jude’s phone buzzed again and he checked it discreetly under the table. A link from Erling. He clicked it, and up came a highlight reel: Spain leave it late as super-sub Mikel Merino scores a stoppage-time winner to send his side into the quarter-finals! 

Spain had won. Merino scored in the dying seconds, and the whole Spanish bench pile-on nearly flattened the fourth official. He thumbed a response, subtle under the table.

Told you to watch out for Spain

The reply came instantly.

rather watch out for you

Something fluttered in Jude’s gut, stupid and light.

He swallowed it down, shoving his phone into his pocket just as Tuchel flicked off the lights and hit play.

The Swope Soccer Village — Kansas City, Missouri

* * *

Jude rested his head against the window as the bus rattled down the road toward Swope.

He had passed out mid-way through Shawshank Redeption and still somehow woke up at half-five, his shoulders sore despite the mattress having ‘high-GSM layers of natural, breathable materials’ (whatever that meant) and moulding to his entire body.

The rest of the squad were at various stages of sleep or lost to their headphones, the only real movement the low bob of necks and the occasional fist pressed into a yawn. Jude kept his phone at chest-level, thumb scrolling, a single AirPod in but nothing playing.

He opened his text thread with Erling, half-expecting the troll to be awake and lurking. The last thing Erling had sent was a picture of his own foot with a sock half on, staged on Berge’s left shoulder. Poor man no doubt lost a bet to sit in front of the behemoth.

No one wants to see your prehistoric toes at this hour.

Erling replied instantly, as always.

u cant even see them

Jude grinned at the screen, then checked the bus aisle. Still nothing from Declan except the slow rise and fall of his fleece hood. Jude could see Harry further up, arms folded, eyes shut but jaw clenched. Probably rehearsing set pieces in his head.

His eyes flicked back to his phone.

Hey, which is your favourite weapon right now? Need to warn our keeper

left foot, right foot, head. in that order

i’m a triple threat

you?

I don’t need weapons

I have cunning

lol. u have a very big head

You have a bigger head than me

that’s why it’s so good at scoring goals

Erling sent a photo of himself with his cheeks puffed, eyes wide, looking like an actual cartoon. Jude stifled his laugh, but the bus was so quiet it came out as a weird snort.

He glanced briefly out the window, watching the trees blur by. The sign for Swope rose up ahead, backlit by the bright Kansas sun, and Jude tried to picture what the Norwegian camp would be doing right now. He wondered if Erling still did meditation in the morning, or if he’d forgone that now to just stand outside and eat raw oats and flex at the squirrels.

Jude pocketed the phone, then pulled it out again a second later, anxious not to kill the thread.

I’ll say it now

If you score, I’m blocking you for a week

A minute ticked by. It made Jude twitchy.

if i score u have to dye ur hair blonde

Jude grimaced.

You always want everyone to look like you

do not correct me

If I score, you have to call me Champion for the rest of the cup

fine

but only in private

Would never humiliate you in public

A cropped photo popped up next—a picture of Jude himself, but at a very unflattering angle. The caption beneath it said ‘nice chin.’

Jude rolled his eyes.

You’re obsessed with my chin

Starting to get worried

The ellipsis appeared and disappeared just as quickly.

your chin is famous in my team

Jude grinned at his own reflection in the window, which was no more than a shadowy double-exposure as the sun was swallowed behind a cluster of buildings.

That’s not even my best feature

There was a pause, then the ellipsis again.

what is

?

Jude considered, his thumb hovering over the screen as he debated. He flicked a quick glance at the bus aisle. Everyone was still conked out.

want me to tell u what i think?

;)

No

My right foot. Followed by my sense of modesty.

right foot still your favourite

Always

Left foot just for show

my left foot is the same as my right foot

both are better than yours

You actually believe that

i don’t believe

i know

Jude rolled his eyes skyward. “Dickhead.”

He couldn’t resist his next message.

If you ever feel off your game, you’ll tell me, right? Just as a friend

why so you can tell ur team?

Noooooo

if i feel off i just score with my big head instead

you should try it more

Cheeky bastard

Some of us aren’t 6ʼ5

not my fault ur short

I’m 6’1

lol

If you’re bored of being a nine, you can always try my job for a game

Box to box

It’s fun :)

I don’t like running like you do

freak

I’ll have you know Wikipedia says I’m an "advanced playmaker"

who wrote that

you?

Maybe.

He felt stupidly warm as he typed it. The trees were gone now; they’d turned onto a bigger road.

Nearly at Swope. Wish me luck

play nicely with the other children

Yes dear

say hi to swope for me

I’m not saying hi to a field for you

why?

you should be nice to it since you’ll be spending a lot of time there

training

to beat me

Wow

The confidence is staggering

Did you rehearse this

been thinking about it since last night

You’re unhinged

i’m preparing you mentally

You’re preparing me to block your number is what you’re doing

Save that energy for Saturday

i have unlimited energy

i slept 14 hours

That is genuinely concerning

text me after

🥛

There was a weird rush in Jude’s chest. He was pretty sure it was a cocktail of caffeine and the affection that only Erling could inject through text.

Jude wiggled his finger along the screen, watching their text bubbles bounce around, considering whether or not to reply.

The bus rolled into the lot four minutes later, and Jude tucked his phone into his kitbag. He could practically feel the shift as twenty grown men flexed their legs and prepared to re-enter the land of the living. He stretched and nudged Declan awake with his knee. 

Declan finally stirred, blinking at Jude as if he’d just been teleported in.

“Was I out?” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.

Jude snorted. “Like a light. But don’t let it get to you.”

He shouldered his bag and followed the others off the bus. The early morning air was thick and humid, the perfect temperature for lounging beside the pool and doing nothing all day. Ahead of them, the Swope fields stretched out in an endless emerald grid, the goals already set, lines fresh and blinding.

Tuchel was ready at the front, corralling everyone onto the nearest field.

“Today we focus on fast transitions,” Tuchel said, clapping his hands hard enough to sound like a starter pistol. “Norway will be physical, but so are we.”

They did warm-ups, then break-out drills, then small-sided games that made Jude’s calves shiver and the back of his shirt glue itself to his skin. It was one of those sessions where you sort of black out for half an hour and come to with your lungs burning and your brain bright as a stadium under floodlights.

Jude tried not to check his phone, but every time they paused for water, he found himself glancing at the kitbag anyway.

Practice broke for lunch at eleven, but nobody wanted to move. The sun hit the pitch with a vengeance, turning the grass into a blanket of hot needles. Jude collapsed back onto it anyway, laying flat like a starfish.

Harry flopped down beside him, propping his phone between his knees as he tore into his sandwich. He was FaceTiming Katie and his kids, Katieʼs phone angled so all their little one’s faces were in full view.

Jude squinted at the sky until the white bled out his vision, then dug around in his kitbag for his own phone. A voice message from his mum, a notification from some random American number (probably a spam lawyer, it had happened before), and two texts from Erling.

i am doing fan service

There was a selfie after the message: Erling in full kit, surrounded by a cluster of teens. The grin was real, but the eyes wore the haunted thousand-yard stare of someone who’d already signed fifty shirts since breakfast. Jude chuckled.

Big man can’t handle the love?

the love is fine its the marker pens

they stink

You have the nose of a bloodhound

your banter is worse than the marker

You’re soft as Oslo yogurt

that’s not a thing

Fine, what do you lot eat for breakfast?

protein

oats

sometimes small animals

You’re not supposed to hunt the squirrels at Greensboro

why not

Another picture came through. Erling mid-eye-roll, locked in an awkward handshake with a man-sized blue-and-yellow eagle.

they made me shake hands with a mascot

Jude grinned and saved the photo.

😂😂😂

Oh my days

Iʼm making that my lockscreen

💀

i saw your video

Yikes. That was never good.

Which one

the one where you nutmegged 3 defenders at once

Jude let out a sigh of relief.

You’re just jealous

i’m not jealous i’ve never been nutmegged in my life

Liar

prove it

I got you once in training

i remember differently

Well obviously your memory is selective

That’s why you’re so happy all the time

i am happy because i choose to be

Okay guru

You never get nervous before games?

of course i do

Same

oh really

you’re finally admitting it?

Just for the ones against you

:p

:)

You remember Leipzig?

You ran 10k in mad heat and said you were going to die after

i did almost die

but at least we won

Dream team

yess

i miss it

Jude didn’t know what to do with that. For a second, all the madcap banter slipped away, and he was back in the away dressing room at Olympiastadion, the ceiling fans barely keeping the sweat out of their eyes, and Erling pouring a water bottle over his own head and letting it soak his shirt because it was the only way to cool off.

So when are you signing for Madrid then?

We’d play every day together if you did

The typing dots lingered, vanished, then returned.

you know i want to

but i like city

i’ll play out my contract

I get that

But I’ll hold you to it

i know you will

A whistle blew from Jude’s left, making him jump. Tuchel stood by the mound of cones, already calling for everyone back on the grass.

Gotta go

bye champion

Jude grinned and tucked his phone away, rolling onto his stomach and then up to his feet, running toward the centre with the rest.

England Base Camp — Kansas City, Missouri

* * *

Jude had been to loads of hotels for games outside of England, but Meadowbrook really took the cake this year.

The best part of the Inn, he thought, was The Courtyard. It had a little firepit and a bunch of fancy chairs and overlooked the lake.

When Jude poured himself into one of the chairs nearest the fire, Swope felt like a lifetime away—everyone harping on about Erling, every drill a referendum on how to stop him, as if he’d be rolled into Kansas City any moment in a Trojan horse.

At Tuchel’s request, Jude had spent most of the afternoon spilling every secret he knew about Erling’s game and ended up feeling like he’d auctioned off his own best mate for spare parts. They’d spent ten whole minutes on the way Erling liked to collapse his run at the last second, then pulse forward like a torpedo.

Declan dropped down beside him, holding a porcelain cup of something steaming. Harry occupied the opposite side of the ring, gesturing wildly as he argued the potentials of the current live game with Nico. Next to them, James sat with his sore leg straight, foot braced against the low wall, head tilted up at the darkening sky.

Restless, Jude pulled out his phone and scrolled on X. #HaalandInvasion was trending with seventeen thousand posts and counting, all from the last hour. He stopped at a video of Erling being mobbed by children in a car park, one of them clinging to his waist while Erling grinned and posed with a thumbs up.

Jude watched it three times. He tried to imagine how much of Erling’s day was spent being public furniture for adoring fans.

A mosquito dive-bombed the screen and Jude flicked it away in disgust, then checked the time. It had been three hours since Erling had last texted, which meant either the Norwegians were still getting run ragged or he was doing that thing where he turned his phone off to have ‘me time.’

Out late? Or are you ghosting me already

He hovered over the send button, feeling stupid. The message just made him look needy. He deleted it.

It would have been fine (if embarrassing) to send it, but he knew better than to invade the sanctity of a friend’s off-hours.

Just as he’d decided to put the phone away for the evening, it buzzed in his hand so unexpectedly he nearly dropped it.

He opened the message. It was a gif of a blow-up skeleton drifting down a pavement.

Jude snorted.

Thought you’d been locked in a sensory deprivation tank until kickoff

Long day for you?

always but today extra

going up against the big boys

Oh yeah

We’re a real threat

bigger than brazil it would seem :p

High praise

Had me on your mind all day I see

all day

Jude felt the smile widen involuntarily. He didn’t want to give Erling the satisfaction, but he also didn’t want to pretend. There was a queasy pleasure in knowing Erling had spent all day thinking about him, too.

We did 4 sets of 1200m

Almost killed half the squad

good

it’s important to suffer

You’re sick

i’m god

Jude rubbed his brow in exasperation, cheeks aching from grinning like a loon.

You heading out partying after? Or just straight to bed with a glass of milk?

you’re funny

coach is making us eat together

team bonding

Hope you choke❤️

hope you stub your big toe on the shower door❤️

🙄

Bet Solbakken’s been grilling you for hours

Does he have a special notebook with my name on it?

two notebooks

one for strengths, one for weaknesses

the latter is significantly bigger

What a bellend, Jude thought, delighted.

you tell Tuchel my secrets?

They got it all out of me

I’ll have to change my number after this

its cute you think you can escape me

Jude’s thumbs hovered over the screen to reply, but it was hard to land on the right tone. ‘You wish’ sounded needy. ‘Bring it on’ sounded forced.

Guess Solbakken knows about my feints

and your exploitation of half-spaces

Bro

i’d give up all your secrets for a bounty bar

I hate you

you love me

Jude briefly considered leaving him on read.

I told everyone about your faked frustration to drag defenders off the line

thats hardly breaking news

😒

To think I actually felt bad about taking away your mystery

😂

i’m still mysterious

Not even a little bit

I’m the mysterious one now

i know everything about you

not everything

????

what don’t i know

Jude let him sweat on that for a bit, taking the time to reintegrate himself into the conversation happening around him (“I’m telling you, the humidity here has a knock-on effect on the balls.” Delcan. “No it doesn’t, you knob.” Harry.)

The sky above was finishing its turn from blue to purple. Jude watched the clouds and took small, evil pleasure in the constant buzzing from his phone.

Finally unable to contain himself, he looked down.

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

what don’t i know

Jesus H. Christ

Nothing I’m going to tell you over text

you’ll tell me in person?

Jude snorted. No way he’d be doing that.

Yeah

He watched the three dots appear and disappear, then appear and disappear again until finally they didn’t come back.

Jude waited. He expected a last word or volley of emojis, but there was nothing.

He locked his phone and frowned up at the sky.

“You ready to eat,” asked Harry, startling Jude from his thoughts. “Or are you communing with extra-terrestrials?”

The phone vanished into his shorts pocket before he could even register the heat in his cheeks. “Yeah, let’s go. Starving.”

Harry stood and stretched, groaning theatrically. “Swear, these chairs look posh but they snap your pelvis after ten minutes.”

“Thatʼs just because youʼre old,” Nico teased, dancing out of the way when Harry made to pounce on him. 

Declan was already up, shaking out his arms and legs. He turned on James. “I’ll race you. But no elbows this time.”

James, limping and dramatic about it, said, “Race me? Mate, I’m literally one-legged.”

“Then you’ll get head start, won’t you?” Declan grinned, swatting a mosquito that tried to join them.

“He’s so brave,” Harry stage-whispered, then kicked James right in the arse. “And he was jumping around on the pitch not that long ago.”

James yelped and smacked the offending leg.

The path to Verbena took them around the edge of the main building. Jude felt his sweat chill then reheat under the aircon draft that hit as soon as they stepped inside. It was set up buffet-style again, and the rest of the team were already there, filling their plates.

Jude noticed he was trailing too far behind the others and sped to catch up, annoyed at himself.

Erling was one hour ahead and eating with his own team. Being left on read was fine. It was normal. It was completely, one hundred percent not a sign of anything.

At the last second, Jude slipped the phone half-out of his pocket and thumbed the screen back on, just to check. Nothing.

He pocketed the phone, picked up a plate, and reminded himself that he was a grown man with fifty-three caps and a Champions League medal who did not need to be texted back within twenty minutes. 

Or fifteen.

Not that he was counting.

* * *

Four-hundred and twenty minutes. 

What the fuck.

If the past seven hours of his life could be summed up, it would be with one word: embarrassing.

Jude spent way too long doing anything but what he was supposed to be doing. AKA, sleeping.

He’d watched the match highlights of Argentina v. Egypt (wild), then three reels of cats getting progressively more violent, then an old Top Gear segment where all three of them crashed the same car in under six seconds. He’d answered family texts, offered one gif to the team group chat, and then found himself orbiting the same blank conversation thread.

The air in his room had grown staler and more artificial with every hour. He’d opened the window even though the Midwestern humidity slapped him in the face and made his forearms sweat against the duvet. He’d even opened The Athletic and read a thinkpiece about England’s ‘unorthodox leadership core’—featuring a photo of himself, arms crossed and scowling, like he was about to deck the photographer. He closed it pretty quickly, annoyed by his own scowl.

He checked the time. 01:12. He’d pay for this later. Or he would, if it wasn’t a rest day. Small mercies.

He opened his messages with Erling again. The last one Jude sent was a picture of Erling’s face superimposed on one of those Kpop photocard things. He’d expected at least one laughing emoji at that one.

Jude scrolled up through their old texts briefly, purposefully not lingering on the ones from months ago that he didn’t let himself think about too closely, then glared up at the ceiling.

He was not going to double-text. 

Sure you’re not in prison or something?

Fuck sake. He locked his phone and threw it to the foot of the bed.

He prodded the pillow into a new shape and rolled over, trying to count backwards from a hundred, but made it to ninety-six before picturing Erling in prison, eating mackerel out of a can and teaching cellmates how to hyper-oxygenate their blood.

Jude snatched up his phone and flopped onto his back, balancing the device on his forehead for a full count of twenty before unlocking it.

He checked X. The memes had multiplied. Now there was one with Erling running around with a massive axe.

“People are so talented,” Jude mumbled in awe, then bookmarked it.

The phone buzzed suddenly and Jude dropped it on his face. It smacked him right between the brows, which was deeply unfair, and he fumbled it, thumb-mashing half his home screen. When he finally got the message thread open, he actually exhaled out loud like he’d just surfaced after two straight minutes underwater.

why would i be in prison

Jude glared at the screen in shock, not sure if he wanted to throw the phone again or clutch it to his chest like Gollum.

You disappeared for 7 hours

I assumed the worst

Also thought we were watching godfather tonight but nvm

He watched the dots pulse, then vanish. He’d overshot it. Idiot. He started to delete his next message, but Erling replied before he could get halfway through.

do you want to watch it now

Jude checked the time—1:30. God help him. He should be a responsible adult, or at the very least, not the sort of idiot who FaceTimes a mate at one in the morning for the sake of marathoning a three-hour mafia epic.

It’s nearly 2 you psycho

so?

Don’t you have friendlies today?

do i look worried

I can’t see you, you donut

no friendlies

rest day

do you have a balcony

Jude blinked, then sat upright.

Yeah why

go onto your balcony

Why

just do it

Jude rolled off the bed with a curse. He unlocked the slider, the seal giving way with a hiss that made his ears pop. Outside, the air was muggy and weirdly alive with the twinkle of insects in a way it never was back home.

He leaned out, phone in hand, typing as he did.

You’re so annoying

I’m on the balcony

Now what

look down

Jude did.

On the grass below, half-swallowed by the shadows of a line of cypresses, was a hulking figure in a black hoodie, arms raised overhead in a V-for-victory pose.

Jude’s heart leapt so hard in his chest that for a second he thought it would break free, fall three stories, and land between Erling’s feet. 

what thefucasdJ8we9k

say it to my face

I will say it to your face

You absolute madman

come down???

Jude nearly laughed himself off the railing.

What the fuck

You’re actually insane

How did you get here

plane???????

You’re in missouri

and you’re in missouri

Are you drunk

no

this is the part in the movie when the hero climbs out the window

A shiver went through Jude, and he realised he was grinning wide enough to make his cheeks ache.

what the actual fuck

ok but are you coming

Jude glanced toward the side of the main building. No lights, just the blue glow of the emergency exit and the last embers from The Courtyard firepit. He could make it down the stairwell and out the door without passing a single soul.

It was a terrible idea, but also maybe the only idea.

Jude darted back into his room and yanked his shoes on before barrelling out the door.

The carpet in the hallway was so thick it swallowed every footfall. He sprinted past three doors and the elevator and made for the stairs, skipping steps.

Outside, the grass was dry and crispy from a day baking in the sun. Erling was ahead, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hair tied up in a bun, watching him with a grin.

“You’re proper mad,” Jude breathed out. His footsteps were way too loud, but he didn’t slow. His feet ignored all orders from above and he was already bracing for the impact before his brain caught up.

The hug was instant and ferocious. Jude collided with Erling chest-first, face mashed into the soft bulk of his shoulder, and Erling’s arms came around his back with enough force to drive the breath out of him.

For a second, all Jude could smell was Tiger Balm, and underneath it, the remnants of recycled cabin air. 

Jude stepped back reluctantly, hands braced on Erling’s forearms, and squinted at him under the half-light. Erling looked exactly the same as always, his face blank except for a faint, almost secretive smile that would’ve annoyed Jude if he hadn’t spent the past seven hours wanting to see it.

Jude actually couldn’t find words. “How the hell did you—?”

“Surprise,” Erling said, wiggling his fingers in an approximation of jazz hands.

“Mate,” Jude managed. “You were in North Carolina seven hours ago.”

“Yeah, but I’m here now. Flight was only two and a half hours.” Erling said it flat, as if geography and time had never been real obstacles in his life.

Jude choked on a laugh, confirming that no, this was not a sleep-deprived hallucination. He pressed his palm to his face, then raked it up through his hair. “You just— what, landed and came straight here?”

Erling simply nodded, unbothered.

Jude laughed again, the sound weird and hoarse. “Does anyone know you’re here? Does your— does Solbakken know?”

Erling’s lips twitched upward. “I said I’d be back before dinner. He doesn’t care what I do on rest day, as long as I sleep.” He tilted his head, considering Jude with a lopsided smirk. “I slept on the plane.”

“I don’t think that counts—”

“You’re the one who told me to be more spontaneous.”

Jude had, once, but he hadn’t meant fly to Kansas City on a whim 72 hours before a big game. “You’re going to get assassinated by your media guy if you get caught, by the way.”

“No one even recognised me in the airport,” Erling said with a shrug. He jerked his head toward the parking lot. “Are you coming, or are you going to just stand there with your mouth open?”

Jude tried to look offended, but he was pretty sure he just looked delighted.

He followed Erling across the grass and caught up at the edge of the lot where the streetlight made Erling’s hair look almost silver.

“What’s the plan?” Jude asked, feeling as though his chest was full of helium. He was half-hoping for a plan, half-hoping Erling would just say, I don’t know, and they’d go back to Jude’s room to watch movies until dawn.

Erling stopped beside an ugly, passion fruit coloured Chevy Spark and opened the passenger door with a bow. “Sir Jude.”

Jude laughed. “What is this?”

Erling reared back in mock offence. “My lord is not content with his carriage?” 

“Your lord is not,” Jude said, with maximum haughtiness. 

Erling snorted. “The rental company didn’t have anything else on such short notice,” he said. “It was either this or a mid-2010s Dodge Journey.”

“The garbage will do,” Jude quoted solemnly and ducked inside, sliding across the faux leather seat.

Erling got in after, crowding the whole driver’s side with Viking mass. The door shut and the world narrowed to only them.

“Where are we going?” Jude asked.

“You’ll see,” Erling replied mysteriously, and put the car into drive.

* * *

For twenty minutes, they drove with the windows down, one of Erling’s hands loose on the wheel and the elbow of his other arm jammed so far into the armrest Jude wondered if it would leave a print.

Jude slouched like a cat in the passenger seat. Every time Erling took a corner, the car threatened to tip over, but Jude barely noticed. They could have been driving to the moon and he’d have gone, no questions.

Only when the car coughed off the main road and doglegged down a familiar stretch did Jude sit up.

The sign for Swope Soccer Village flashed past in the headlights.

He groaned. “You cannot be serious.”

“I’m always serious,” Erling said, which was the biggest lie ever told.

“You are not seriously taking me to Swope at half two in the morning.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“You’ve kidnapped me for a field trip to the training ground!”

Erling tilted his head. “Is it kidnapping if you came willingly?”

“You flew two hours to break into a football field?”

“I flew two hours to see you,” Erling said, guiding the car into the empty parking lot. “This is a bonus.”

The place was dead—no cars, no security, just a few sodium lamps muting the white concrete and the chain-link fence that ringed the fields. Jude could see the distant outline of the main building, hunched and shut.

Jude turned sideways, and Erling did the same.

“You’re such a freak,” said Jude.

Erling rolled his eyes and then jerked his thumb toward the back seat. “Get the ball.”

Jude looked. Sure enough, there was a ball. He couldn’t help but let out a helpless sound somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “You brought a football?”

“Always bring a football,” Erling said, already out of the car, feet crunching the gravel. He was so massive he made the little Chevy Spark look like a toy left behind by a careless child.

Jude grabbed the ball and ducked out of the car, jogging to catch up. Just before the first field, he stopped and looked out across the grass. It was all dark, except for one lopsided streetlight that bled pale yellow across half the pitch and left the rest in black.

Jude cocked his head. “Pretty sure this is breaking and entering.”

Erling looked down at the grass, considering. “We’re not entering. We’re just outside. Grass is for everyone.”

Jude choked on a snort. “You’re a fucking nutter.”

They cut across the lawn, the ball bouncing between them, until they reached the farthest pitch.

“You are aware there are probably motion sensors,” Jude said.

Erling shook his head, already toeing the ball back toward the centre spot. “No cameras out here. Only at the doors. I checked.”

Jude eyed him suspiciously. “Weird thing to check.”

Erling ignored him and held up a hand, referee-style. “First to five. No tackles above the waist.”

He jogged to the middle and Jude followed until they stood three feet apart.

Jude cupped a hand around his mouth, doing his best impression of a Sky commentator: “And here he is, the legend himself—Erling Haaland. Ready to take on the Champion.”

Erling bowed to the non-existent stands, then pointed at Jude. “Don’t cry when you lose.”

Jude grinned. “Loser buys breakfast. If you can find a place open before five.”

“Easy,” Erling said, nudging the ball back and forth. “Are you ready?”

Jude pretended to check his pulse. “Go on, then.”

Erling spun the ball to Jude with a flick of his foot.

A giddy thrill cut through Jude as he caught it, weaving it around playfully before kicking it back.

They played. Not proper football, Jude gave up on tactics almost immediately. They were both moving at half speed, laughing too hard to keep straight faces, but the ball kept ricocheting between them and every time Jude lost it he wanted it back twice as bad.

He scored first, a cheeky nutmeg that made Erling howl, and then Erling scored two in a row, both times just bullying through like a rampaging ox.

The ball was still rolling half-heartedly on the grass when the moon came out from behind the clouds. Jude sprinted after it, chest burning, took a wild stab and shot it off into the empty dark, where it vanished and then boomeranged back on the bounce. Jude caught it between his ankles and made a show of juggling it, losing control after three touches but somehow wrestling it back.

Erling was bent double, cackling, face flushed in the low light. “You play like a child!” he called, in a bad impression of Tuchel’s voice.

Jude wiped sweat from his brow and flicked it at Erling. “You look like a child,” he shot back, “a massive albino toddler.”

Erling grinned, leaping after the ball and setting it at his own feet. “Goal to win?”

At Jude’s nod, Erling advanced with a loping, predatory gait. Jude backpedalled, feinting left, then dropped his shoulder hard and poked the ball free. It skittered away; Erling lunged, missed, and Jude sprinted for the goal. He was laughing so hard he wheezed.

The net loomed. He could hear Erling pounding after him.

“—and here he is, folks,” Jude called out, “the man himself, a living legend, what will he do now, with the eyes of the world upon him, the pressure of a nation on his broad, terrifying, disturbingly tan shoulders—!”

At the last second Jude pulled up, back-heeled the ball, and spun out of Erling’s grasp. The move wasn’t graceful, but it worked well enough. He took two more steps and side-footed a rolling shot into the lower corner.

He spread his arms and wheeled off, letting out a wordless whoop. “Yes! Get in!”

Erling caught up and crashed into him, arms around Jude’s waist, nearly lifting him off his feet. “He cheats!”

“The comeback of the century!” Jude hollered, trying to twist free, but Erling kept hold, both of them tipping perilously to one side until they landed in a heap on the floor.

“Foul!” Jude yelled. “Red card! Unbelievable scenes at Swope Village!”

Erling laughed and rolled them, pinning Jude to the grass.

He could feel his own heart thundering, not just in his chest but everywhere—wrists, temples, even his thighs, which were clamped either side of Erling’s hips.

Jude flung his arms out. “Jude Bellingham, victim to the stupid Viking’s foul.”

Erling’s smile split wide and he dropped all his weight. “Jude Bellingham, crushed by stupid Viking.”

Jude let out an oof. Erling’s forehead found the hollow above Jude’s shoulder, breath hot through the thin cotton of his shirt.

Jude might have been content to die there if not for the fact that he was pretty sure his spine was bending at an angle that was not officially sanctioned by the FA. He flailed a hand and whacked Erling on the back, but Erling just trapped the arm.

Jude gave up. He stared up at the sky, smeary with cloud and the glittering light of a few stars. He could feel Erling’s heart thumping against his own chest as he fished for air and something clever to say.

“You trying to subdue me before the quarter-final, or is this just your latest tactic?”

Erling’s voice was muffled. “I don’t need a tactic to win,” he said, and then he was moving, his lips dragging up the side of Jude’s neck, across his jaw, and stopping just shy of his mouth.

The tickle of it sent a shock straight to Jude’s gut. He tried to drag up something clever, but his voice, when it came, didn’t sound like him at all. “Had me on your mind all day, I see.”

Erling braced up on one elbow and smiled, a barely-there thing, but it softened every angle of his face. “All day,” he said. His gaze flicked from Jude’s eyes down to his mouth, and in the split-second before Jude could muster a quip, he asked, “Will you tell me now?”

Jude blinked. “Tell you what?”

“What you said yesterday. That thing I don’t know about you.”

For a second, Jude thought he might actually combust. “You came all the way here for that?”

Erling shrugged one shoulder. “You said you’d say it in person.” He tilted his head. “I’m here. So say it.”

Jude tried to muster a deflection, but he couldn’t think of a single thing. “You already know.”

Erling looked amused. “But I want you to say it.”

The silence stretched between them. Jude wasn’t sure he wanted to say anything. That if he did, the world would change and never go back.

Jude let out a shaky breath. “You’re such a dickhead.”

Erling raised a brow. “Is that your final answer?”

“Yes,” Jude said petulantly.

Erling rolled his eyes, lifting one hand to grip Jude’s jaw, tilting his head up. Then, without warning, Erling leaned in and kissed him.

Jude’s eyes stayed open a second too long before his hands came up almost on instinct, settling at Erling’s nape as he kissed back.

When Erling drew away, both of them were breathing like they’d run a marathon. Jude’s head spun.

“Finally,” Erling muttered, and something about that made Jude laugh, the sound bubbling up uncontrollably.

His heart was still going batshit, hammering against his sternum like it was about to do a front flip out his mouth. The grass was itching the back of his neck, but he didn’t dare move.

Jude let his hand wander up from Erling’s nape to tug on his bun. “What if I’d just said something stupid? Like, I dunno, the thing you don’t know is that I secretly like pineapple on pizza.”

Erling shifted his weight, his mouth grazing Jude’s cheek as he said, “Still wouldʼve been worth the trip.”

Not for the first time, Jude found himself wanting to kick Erling for being so earnest, so unashamedly sure of himself.

“Who knew you were such a romantic,” Jude teased. “Very Notebook. Very pulled up outside your window with a boombox.”

Erling was grinning down at him now, face inches away, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That was Say Anything.”

Jude snorted. “See? Deep down, you’re soft.”

“I’m not soft,” Erling said, in the most deadpan way imaginable. “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her.”

Jude choked on a snort and elbowed Erling in the ribs. “You’re such an idiot.”

Erling’s hand found the back of Jude’s shirt and snaked beneath it, fingers pressing into his skin. “You can’t call the best player in the world an idiot.”

“You’re the best player in the word?”

“Do you wanna know what my Wikipedia page says about me?”

“No,” Jude laughed, tugging on Erling’s bun, this time with intent.

Erling caught the cue, leaning in to kiss him again until Jude’s brain fizzed and went blank. His lips were softer than Jude had let himself imagine, and all at once his brain was suddenly aware that their bodies were pressed full-length together—shoulder to hip, thigh to thigh.

When they parted, Erling rolled off and lay flat beside him, arms crossed behind his head like a sunbather.

Jude exhaled, nerves still sparking with the aftershocks, and turned his head to the side. Erling was already looking at him.

“Hungry?” Jude asked.

“Starving,” said Erling.

* * *

Prairie Village was deserted on the drive back. Jude had never seen a place so empty, not even during the pre-dawn runs in Barajas Ancelotti used to make them do as punishment for group chats leaking to the press.

So much for breakfast, Jude thought wryly.

They rolled down the main road at a speed that would’ve gotten them flagged in any other suburb, but here the only living thing between Harmon Park and a place called Meddys was a raccoon, halfway up the metal pole of a street lamp and frozen like he’d just been caught in a crime.

Erling didn’t bother with the radio or Spotify. He drove with both windows down like before, letting the night air blow in. Jude’s legs were splayed out as far as the footwell allowed (which was not very far at all), his arm out the window to catch the breeze.

At first they said nothing, content to just be in each other’s company. Every minute that passed without a word felt like the best joke they’d ever played on the universe—like at any moment, someone would pull them over and tell them, ‘Sorry, but footballers aren’t allowed to be this happy.’

Erling broke the silence with, “That goal wasn’t normal.”

Jude snorted. “Which one?”

“The backwards one,” Erling said, face lit in profile by the dash. 

“Not my fault you have the turning radius of a barge,” Jude replied. “Maybe if you could decelerate at speed, you’d have stopped me.”

Erling gave him the slow look he reserved for annoying reporters, a look that said, Your days are numbered.

Soon, the Inn came into view, and Erling drove the car up the road to the parking lot, the engine ticking over at a volume that seemed grossly inappropriate for the hour.

“We look like shit,” Jude said, peering into the rearview mirror.

Erling glanced up. “We look normal.”

“You’re six-five and look like a Bond villain.”

Erling rolled his eyes and opened the door.

Jude followed, bracing himself against the humid air. He checked the windows of the hotel for signs of life, but all was dead except for a desk lamp at reception.

Jude had never snuck into a hotel in his life, but he was certain the effort would be more convincing if he wasn’t wearing a pair of neon trainers and a shirt stained with two hours of grass and sweat.

They crossed the car park at a reasonable stroll, though Erling carried a small overnight bag, which made him look even more like he was casing the place.

At the doors, Jude fished the key card from his back pocket and prayed it wouldn’t beep too loud. The little green light flashed, the lock giving a sedate clack, and they slipped through into the cool, over-oxygenated air of the lobby.

The night receptionist looked up, made eye contact, and smiled. She was young and wore her hair piled high in a way that suggested she was halfway through removing it for the night when they’d interrupted her.

Jude tilted his chin up, doing the world’s worst impression of a man who belonged here. “Evening,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as suspicious as he felt.

She glanced at the clock behind them. “Morning, technically,” she said. “Rough night?”

“Nah,” Jude said, and tried to keep walking. “Just had an evening, uh... walk.”

Erling chimed in: “Football.”

Jude resisted the urge to elbow him in the ribs, but the receptionist’s eyes gleamed with new understanding.

“Practice never sleeps,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “Room service opens at seven.”

“Thank you,” Jude said, slightly mortified, and steered Erling toward the elevator. He felt giddy, as if the training ground was finally catching up to him, or maybe it was the violence inflicted on his shins during the world’s stupidest pre-dawn kickabout.

The elevator, when it came, was mercifully empty, and the moment the doors slid shut, Jude exhaled.

“That was way too easy.”

“Why would she be suspicious?” Erling asked, amused. “It’s not like she knows the faces of every team member.”

“They have our roster,” Jude argued. “What if she tells security?”

“Then we run,” Erling stage whispered.

“And you hide behind a ficus and leave me to take the fall?”

“You’re very good at running,” Erling said, poker-faced, which made Jude choke on a laugh.

The elevator lurched upward. He watched the numbers tick past, then glanced sideways at Erling, who was watching him with an expression of absolute contentment, as if there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

“What,” Jude asked, smiling despite himself.

“Nothing,” Erling said, also smiling.

The elevator dinged. Jude’s room was at the far end of the corridor, just beyond the weird, fake-plant display. They snuck down the runner carpet, keeping as quiet as they could, which was not very.

Erling’s hand grazed Jude’s twice—an unmistakable nudge that was not, in fact, an accident. Jude turned his palm and let their fingers thread together. He didn’t look over, but he could practically feel Erling’s smile, wide enough to be visible in his peripheral vision. His grip was warm, a little too tight, like he was testing if Jude might pull away.

Jude did not pull away. But just as he started fishing for the key card with his spare hand, a door opened up the hall and someone stepped out.

Jude’s body went into a rigor mortis so sudden he almost yanked Erling’s shoulder out of the socket when he jerked his hand away.

It was Harry. Of fucking course.

Harry clocked them at once, pausing mid-stride. His eyes flicked from Jude to Erling to the space between them, where the air still felt like it was fizzing from the hand-hold. The three of them hung in that moment like a glitch in the goddamn Matrix.

Jude’s mind went into hyperdrive, constructing and destroying explanations, but none of them survived contact with reality.

Before he could so much as open his mouth, Harry raised a palm, not so much in greeting as in the universal gesture of stop.

“The less I know the better,” Harry said, in the exact voice he used to signal the end of a team huddle or a post-match grilling.

He walked past without another look, got in the elevator, and vanished.

Jude and Erling stared at the closed doors, then at each other. The shock lasted until the elevator beeped, and then it popped like a cartoon bubble and they lost it. Both of them tried to muffle the laughter, but it came out ragged and half-choked, tears prickling at the corners of Jude’s eyes. He bent double against the wall, Erling’s shoulder propping him up, and for a minute it was like being teens together again, laughing at something that only made sense in the moment and would be inexplicable in the cold light of day.

When they could breathe again, Jude shouldered open his door and they tumbled inside.

The room was dark except for the blue glow from the charger block by the bed. He peeled off his shirt and flopped onto the mattress, enjoying the way his muscles ached from the 2 a.m. game.

Erling shut the door, set down his bag, and toed off his shoes. Watching him, Jude felt the last of the giddiness twist into something warmer.

Erling crossed the room and dropped onto the bed beside him, which made the mattress dip alarmingly. He lay back, arms behind his head, feet hanging off the end like some sort of misaligned Greek statue.

“Are you ready for Saturday?” Jude asked.

“Are you?” Erling teased.

“More than you,” Jude joked, then rolled onto his side, propping his head on his hand. “You know, Iʼve wanted to ask you—did you always know you wanted to play? Even when you were a kid?”

Erling considered, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I never really thought about wanting it. I just thought about doing it.”

Jude smiled. “I can’t even picture you as a kid,” he said. “Bet you came out of the womb full size.”

Erling smirked, then reached up and tugged the elastic from his hair, letting it fall loose around his jaw. “My mum says I was perfectly average until I was twelve. Then: boom.” He mimed an explosion with his hands.

Jude laughed. “I was the opposite. Everyone thought I’d be five-seven forever. They called me Miniature Jude.”

“Mini Jude,” Erling said, seriously, as if making a note of it for later. “It’s cute.”

Jude rolled his eyes. “Don’t.”

Erling shifted onto his side, mirroring Jude’s position. For a moment he just watched Jude, not bothering to hide it. Jude could feel heat crawl up his neck, a whole new kind of ache spreading through his chest.

“What time is your flight back?” Jude asked.

“Ten.” Erling leaned in and kissed him, soft and quick. “Can I use your shower?”

Jude blinked. “‘Course.”

For some reason, that was somehow more embarrassing than being caught holding hands in the corridor.

Erling stood, shedding his hoodie and his shirt with zero shame, then made for the bathroom. He didn’t bother to shut the door all the way, and a minute later Jude could hear the water running.

He sat up, picking at a scab on his knee, trying to decide if it would be desperate or just normal to follow him in. He didn’t have the guts, though. Instead, he watched the draft of steam curl out into the bedroom, listened to the splatter of water. If he tilted his head, he could see Erling’s outline through the frosted glass.

When the shower switched off, Jude averted his gaze, pretending to care deeply about the state of his phone charger. Erling stepped out, unselfconscious, towelling himself dry. He pulled on a black tee and Nike shorts from his bag. He then crossed to the bed and dropped onto it, this time fully crushing Jude with a careless, full-body sprawl that left him pinned and breathless.

“You’re going to break the bed,” Jude wheezed.

“Beds are supposed to hold two people,” Erling said, easing over to one side and flopping an arm over Jude’s chest.

Jude sighed and wrapped his own arm around Erling’s shoulders. “We’re gonna be so dead tomorrow,” he mumbled.

Erling made a low, pleased noise, but made no effort to move.

They didn’t bother with movies, didn’t talk about what happened at Swope or anything else. Jude didn’t mind.

In the quiet, he looked over. Erling’s eyes were closed. Asleep, just like that.

Jude watched him for a while, then reached for his phone and set an alarm for 7:00.

* * *

The sudden, shrill shriek of the alarm didn’t so much wake Jude as drag him back into existence by the ankles, groggy and dry-mouthed. He had no recollection of falling asleep, and now every inch of his body was stiff, like he’d been glued to the mattress with industrial-strength adhesive.

For a moment, it didn’t make sense why he’d need to be awake, then he registered the pleasant weight pinning his left arm and leg.

He looked down and found Erling draped across his side, his entire upper body wound around Jude’s like a weighted blanket.

Jude blinked, propped himself up on an elbow, and found Erling already awake and watching him.

“Creep,” Jude muttered, voice raspy. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“No,” Erling lied.

Jude rolled his eyes and collapsed back onto the pillow. “You’re so weird. You know that, right?”

Erling leaned over him. “You talk in your sleep.”

Jude grimaced. “You’re not going to tell me what I said, are you?”

“I would if you asked nicely,” Erling said, then leaned in and kissed the corner of Jude’s mouth.

Jude’s lips parted on instinct, and for a moment he forgot everything except the warm weight of Erling’s arm pulling him in for a proper kiss. He sunk the fingers of one hand in Erling’s hair, letting his other hand wander up the side of Erling’s thigh, feeling the not-quite-dry chill of his skin.

“Did you shower already?” Jude asked against his lips.

“I get up early.”

“You practically never went to sleep.”

Erling chuckled and leaned over Jude to rifle through the bedside table drawer. “I’m hungry.”

Jude was also hungry, but not for food. “Room service?”

Erling laid himself across Jude’s stomach and leafed through the little menu. “They have...” he squinted. “Yogurt parfait, avocado toast, smoked salmon bowl, breakfast sandwich, breakfast burrito, and a breakfast bowl.”

Jude huffed, amused, and rubbed a hand down his face. “I’d kill for a tea.”

“A proper brew?” Erling teased, in an exaggerated West Midlands accent.

“A proper brew,” Jude agreed with a grin.

“Do you want a breakfast sandwich,” Erling asked, grabbing the phone with his free hand. “Or the burrito.”

Jude closed his eyes and let the fingers of his left hand tangle in Erling’s hair again. “What’s in the sandwich.”

“Egg, muenster, marinated scallion, brioche, and choice of bacon or avocado.” Erling paused. “And something called ‘wake-up sauce.’”

“That’ll do.”

Erling made the call, ordering for them both.

When the knock came, Jude grabbed the edge of the duvet and flung it over Erling, who immediately went rigid with suppressed laughter.

“Stay there,” Jude ordered, and scrambled for his shirt and shorts, which were still grassy from the night before but not so obviously tragic as the alternative: answering in his boxers.

Before opening the door, he glanced back. Erling was a perfect, motionless lump under the duvet, except for the two enormous feet sticking out the end of the bed.

“Feet,” Jude whisper-shouted.

The feet disappeared under the duvet with great dignity.

Jude opened the door.

The server rolled in a trolley after announcing “Room service” and Jude signed the bill with a scribble, trying not to look guilty, or giddy, or anything at all.

When the server left, Jude poured himself a cup of coffee because the tea was terrible, and added three sugars before Erling could comment.

They ate on the little balcony table, knees pressed close, and the way the sun slanted in made Jude feel strangely like he was home, sitting with his brother or his mum and dad, except that here every few seconds his ankle would bump Erling’s, or he’d look up and find Erling watching him with a familiar, lazy focus that made it hard to remember what the food even tasted like.

Jude finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin, trapping Erling’s ankle under the table between both his own. He leaned back, balancing the coffee mug against his thigh, and looked out at the lake below, which shimmered in the sun. It was going to be another boiling hot day.

Erling was the one to break the spell. “I have to go soon.”

Jude made a show of checking his watch even though he’d memorised the time when Erling first mentioned the flight. “You’ve got thirty minutes,” he said, and was surprised at how childish it sounded, as if he were negotiating screen time with his little brother.

Erling smiled and leaned closer on the table until their knuckles brushed, and Jude watched the empty coffee cup rotate between his hands. It was the most unhurried he’d ever seen Erling, which made the minutes bleed out all the faster.

After breakfast, Erling stood first, nudged Jude’s knee under the table, and said, “Shower.”

Jude complied. From the shower he could see the ghost of Erling’s shape through the steamed glass—packing, tidying, doing everything with that stoic neatness that made him impossible to fluster even when he was in a rush. Jude had played with teammates who needed a whole extra hour just to get their heads on straight the morning after a night out, but Erling packed up his life like he was on loan to the army instead of a football club.

When he got out, Erling had zipped the overnight bag and perched it at the foot of the bed.

Jude sat down next to him and laced up his trainers. “Let’s try not to get caught by anyone important.”

Erling smirked. “You mean like last night?”

Jude almost smiled.

They stepped into the hall, and the difference between night and morning was a punch to the senses.

The corridor was clear, but instead of waiting for the elevator, they took the stairs, pausing at every landing to listen for the echo of anyone else’s footsteps. It gave Jude a weird case of the giggles.

He’d assumed that, at eight o’clock on a rest day, they’d have the place to themselves. But there were voices from the lobby as soon as they turned the corner. Erling glanced back, caught Jude’s eye, and they ducked into an empty room on the right. It was pure instinct—Jude had never run from authority in his life, but he couldn’t think of anything worse than bumping into Tuchel right now.

Erling inhaled sharply and Jude glanced up in time to see him try to school his face.

“Stop laughing,” Jude hissed, but it just made Erling laugh more.

The voices eventually faded and they hurried out the side door that led to The Courtyard. They cut across the grass to the car park where the rental Chevy waited, looking even more ridiculous in daylight.

Jude had never seen Erling actually hurry before, but the sense of being chased by invisible responsibilities made them both half-jog to the car, and it was a relief when the car doors closed and muffled the world.

Erling sat silently for a second with his hands on the wheel. “You don’t have to come,” he said.

“You’re not driving by yourself to the airport,” Jude said.

“I do it all the time.”

“Not today. I’ll just get an Uber back.”

Erling nodded and put the car into gear. This time, he did put the radio on—classic rock, just above the threshold of hearing.

The town was a different universe entirely from the 3 a.m. joyride through empty streets—the world was awake now; other cars on the road, dogs dragging their owners down the pavement. Jude watched it all through the windshield, letting the blur of the suburbs distract him from the inevitable return to earth.

The drive to the airport was thirty-five minutes, tops, but it stretched out in both directions—behind, the night at Swope and everything they’d said and not said; ahead, the thin slice of time before both of them were back on flights to another stadium.

Erling shifted in his seat, thumb tapping the steering wheel in time with the music. “When do you fly to Miami?”

“Thursday morning.” Jude glanced over. “You?”

“Thursday morning,” Erling said.

Jude let out a sigh. “Guess that’s where I’ll next see you.”

The highway spat them out at Kansas City International. They followed the signs for rental return, Jude navigating by guesses and signs that Erling ignored in favour of following the GPS. There was hardly any traffic, just a few sedans creeping along in the slow lane, and a truck with a decal that read Jesus Is My Co-Pilot.

They pulled the Chevy into the return lane. Erling killed the engine, then grabbed his bag from the backseat.

Inside the rental office, everything was an ugly green. Erling handed over the keys and was immediately presented with a flurry of forms and a clipboard. He signed his name whilst the attendant checked the odometer, asking about the dent in the back bumper. Erling peered at her, deadpan, and said: “It was there before.”

Jude tried to mask his grin by faking a cough, but it was impossible.

When it was finished, Erling rejoined him with a little nod, as if to say, See? I’m normal. Just a normal guy, returning a car.

They trudged through the winding tunnels toward the terminal, hoods pulled up. Nobody seemed to recognise them. No one stared or pointed, not even when Erling’s duffel bag clipped a bin and nearly toppled it. They might as well have been two uni lads heading home after a wild spring break.

They reached the security barrier where only passengers could pass, and just stood there for a moment, staring at the sign: TICKETED PASSENGERS ONLY BEYOND THIS POINT.

This was it.

Jude thought to make an ‘end of the line’ joke but didn’t.

“You’re frowning,” Erling said.

“I’m not frowning,” Jude lied.

Erling chuckled. “You’ll miss me?”

Jude shot him a dry look. “I’ll see you in three days.”

Erling set the bag at his feet without a word and wrapped Jude in a hug so suddenly, Jude’s own arms went tightly around his waist automatically.

Jude didn’t let go first, and neither did Erling, so they ended up releasing at the exact same moment, like they’d both agreed on an unspoken cue.

“See you soon,” Erling murmured, nudging the underside of Jude’s chin with two fingers.

“See you soon,” Jude echoed.

Erling smiled and stooped for his bag, swinging it over one shoulder. He moved into the queue, tall enough that Jude could track him through the crowd until he reached the front.

He didn’t look back—not once. Typical.

When he was through the scanner, the mass of people on the other side of security absorbed him instantly.

Jude stood for a while, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie, watching the departures board tick over. He pulled out his phone—the team group chat was already alive, but thankfully no one was asking after him.

His thumb hovered over the direct thread with Erling, but he didn’t type anything.

Instead, he ordered an Uber and headed for the exit.

The Belgrove Resort and Spa — West Palm Beach, Florida

* * *

Jude stood at the buffet, knuckles braced on the cold marble as he weighed up the relative merits of a Miami bagel and a stack of pastelito with guava and cheese.

His phone buzzed beside his plate, then stilled—the team group chat. He put it in his pocket without checking the message.

He’d slept with the balcony doors open last night, drowning in the humidity. Even after two days, the Miami air felt like moving through mouthwash. Earlier, rain had briefly sheeted the terrace, but now the sun was back at full blast.

Jude took his breakfast with the others out under a covered patio and let the heat soak into his arms.

He still hadn’t heard from Erling, though he hadn’t texted either. He could, right this second. He could mention the weather (“mad, isn’t it, like playing football on a boiling trampoline”) or make a joke about the game later (England vs. Norway, everyone melting into the pitch, Erling Haaland inevitably scoring off a corner, probably). Or he could just say hi.

He did none of those things.

Harry dropped into a seat next to Jude and nodded at his plate. “Guava and cheese? That’s breakfast now?”

Jude shrugged. “Tuchel says they have twice the potassium of a banana.”

Tuchel appeared behind them, as if summoned by the sound of his name. “Everyone to the lobby in fifteen,” he said, standing on his toes briefly to do a headcount.

“Any news on the storm?” Harry asked.

Tuchel swiped his own phone with a frown. “It is not ideal. And lightning always makes things complicated.” He looked first at Harry, then at Jude, then past them both to the sky. “I want you all indoors if it comes back. No exceptions.”

Jude nodded, and Tuchel moved on.

“Awful out, isn’t it?” Dan said with a sigh, taking a seat on the other side of Declan. “News is having a tizzy. Says if there’s actual forked lightning within ten kilometres, match gets paused till it clears.”

Declan checked his own phone. “Martin says Norway switched hotels because of noise.”

That got Jude’s attention in a way he couldn’t hide. “When’d they move?”

“Last night,” Declan said, turning the phone so Jude could see the message. “Sounds like it was pretty stressful.”

Jude felt a weird, prickly satisfaction. There it was—a reason. Erling was just busy. Still, he’d have liked to hear it from the source.

He finished off his food, wondering if he should just cave and send a quick ‘Survived the move?’ message.

“Jude,” Harry said, startling Jude from his thoughts. “You’re with me for media at half nine, yeah?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Jude said. “Want me to mention the pitch conditions, or leave it?”

“Tuchel wants it mentioned,” Harry said, heaving himself to his feet. “Make it sound like we’re flexible, but safety comes first.”

Jude nodded and waited until Harry turned to leave, then thumbed out a quick message to Erling.

Heard you changed hotels. Hope it went alright

Don’t let the humidity wipe you out before we do

He hit send before he could overthink it, then slid the phone away. The others were already stacking plates, clattering chairs as they filtered inside. Jude followed, half-listening to Dan and Declan debate whether the weather delay could actually help England’s chances (“If the pitch is soup, Haaland can’t run in behind me.” Declan).

The team’s route to the lobby took them past a line-up of Gatorade coolers and boxes of pre-packed electrolyte drinks alongside cans of coconut water in a glimmering ice bath. Jude reached for a bottle just as his phone started buzzing in his pocket. He slipped it out, expecting to see his mum calling, but instead it was Erling.

A hot, ridiculous flush ran up Jude’s neck, but he kept his voice even as he answered. “Alright, mate?”

“No,” Erling said, with the same always-brutally-honest deadpan that made Jude laugh every time. “I’m already melting. I can’t go outside or I die.”

Jude turned away from his teammates, ducked into the corner by the ice machine. “You make it through the move?”

“Yeah. My suitcase broke.” A big sigh. On video, Erling’s hair was damp at the temples, his face flushed from the heat. He looked like he was broadcasting from a sauna. “The new hotel has a huge pool. You want to go after?”

Jude’s lips twitched up. “Yeah. If we’re not still playing when the sun comes up.”

Erling leaned closer to the camera, holding it at such an angle that made it look like he was avoiding any onlookers. “You’ll come alone?”

Jude laughed quietly, aware of the others congregating down the hall. “Yeah, I’ll ditch the MI5 tail and meet you in the service tunnel or something.”

Erling made a noise that sounded pleased, then looked away from the screen and shouted something in Norwegian. Out of nowhere, Patrick’s face appeared over Erling’s shoulder, eyebrows raised.

“Are you seriously FaceTiming the enemy?” Patrick said. “Morning of the match?”

Jude snorted so hard some blue Gatorade almost went up his nose.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Erling groused.

Patrick just smiled, delighting in the embarrassment. “I can say hi to Jude, too, he’s not just yours. Hi, Jude!”

“Hi,” Jude managed, voice strangled. Patrick disappeared again, cackling. Erling sighed.

Jude felt the stupid smile stretch across his face, so wide it hurt his cheeks. “We’re headed to the stadium in ten,” he said. “You lot there already?”

“Soon,” Erling said. “Want to meet before?”

Jude nearly said yes on instinct, then remembered the layers of managers and assistants and the fact that at least three different people were tracking his location for ‘social media synergy.’

“Dunno if we can,” Jude said. “Cameras everywhere.”

“Find somewhere with no cameras,” Erling replied, as if that were a reasonable request.

Jude tried to think if there anywhere in the stadium that wasn’t crawling with press. Unlikely.

“Maybe the media tunnel,” he said. “I can get there five minutes early. But if I’m late, they’ll notice.”

“I’ll think of something,” Erling said, and then, “It’s good to see you.”

The honesty of it landed like a header at the near post. Jude had to resist the urge to duck his head. “You too,” he said.

A blonde head popped into Erling’s frame—Patrick again, presumably intent on causing trouble now. Erling glanced over his shoulder, grimaced, and hung up.

Jude chuckled and pocketed his phone, jogging to catch up with the others.

In the lobby, Tuchel and the rest of the staff were clustered by the glass doors, checking out the sky. There was a single rumble of thunder in the distance, fading fast. Jude held a hand over his eyes to block the glare, the parking lot shimmering with heat and the low, angry buzz of bugs.

On the bus, he took the window seat and pressed his forehead to the glass, watching the city flicker by—palms, strip malls, the blue-black stacks of thunderheads on the horizon. The air conditioning was up full blast, but even then, his shirt stuck to his back.

An hour later, the bus swung into the stadium lot. Security waved them through; a crowd of England shirts and Norway shirts were already forming a loose, sun-dazed scrum outside the gates. Jude scanned the sea of faces, knowing Erling wouldn’t be out there, but still looking.

Just as the bus crawled to a stop, Jude’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out.

central service tunnel

16:45

come find me

Jude grinned.

Deal

Miami Stadium — Miami Gardens, Florida

* * *

The hours before kickoff blurred into the familiar, rigid choreography of pre-match madness: security sweeps, team walkthrough, the feint of ‘downtime’ in a windowless lounge stacked with massage tables, and the dreaded media circuit. By the time that finished, Jude would have traded both boots for a ten-minute nap.

In the locker room, Harry had already started up the speaker, playing something thudding and just shy of loud enough to wake the dead. Jude tuned it out and focused on the sequence: boots, shin pads, socks rolled just so. At the mirror, he ran a wet hand over his cropped hair, checking for stray curls.

Tuchel’s voice boomed down the corridor. “Fifteen minutes, gentlemen! Make it count.”

Jude edged toward the door. No one was paying him any mind, wrapped in their own nervous rituals as they were. He took his chance.

“Gonna hit the loo,” he said, not waiting for acknowledgement.

He power-walked past the showers and out the main doors, keeping his pace brisk and his head low. Overhead, the echo of the public address system and fan-chanting was muffled to a ghostly roar.

Jude moved fast through the next two halls, scanning for security or stray journalists. All the big venues had a secret heart, a mesh of tunnels and storage bays where people could meet without a load of cameras following them. At the mid-point, near the media conference room, he slowed. The door was closed, but voices buzzed behind it. Some photographer was showing off his best shots to a bored-looking press officer no doubt.

At the T-junction ahead, Jude spotted Erling immediately, waiting in the shadow of the service alcove, back pressed to the wall, hands in the pockets of his shorts.

Jude didn’t slow. He was halfway to a smile before Erling’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him into the dark.

Jude’s back smacked the wall. “Jesus!” he hissed, “There’s probably a CCTV in here—”

Erling ignored him, reaching up to cup Jude’s jaw in both hands before leaning down to kiss him.

Jude’s pulse did a little victory lap. He felt Erling’s fingers slide up his neck, and slipped a hand up under the back of Erling’s shirt just to feel the heat of his skin. He couldn’t help it; he wanted all of him, right that second.

The door of the conference room banging open mere feet away drove them apart with a start.

Erling glanced down the hall, then leaned back and straightened his shirt, then did the same to Jude’s. “Good luck today.”

“You too,” Jude murmured. “I hear they’re putting out traffic cones to slow you down.”

“Maybe you’ll score one before me for a change,” Erling teased with a cocky smirk.

Jude scoffed. “I’ll score twice. Just for you.”

Erling grinned and nudged the underside of Jude’s chin with a finger. “See you at the tunnel,” he said, already retreating back the way heʼd come, his stride the same predatory walk as always.

“Don’t trip on the way out,” Jude called after him.

Erling shot back a thumbs-up without turning.

Jude rubbed a hand down his face to force it into some semblance of neutrality and then jogged back to the locker rooms. He pushed his way inside just as the team started its pre-match huddle, and joined them like he’d never left.

Harry was already in full captain mode, eyes flicking to each of them in turn.

“Doesn’t matter what anyone says about the weather, or the pitch, or anything else,” Harry said. “What matters is us, yeah? You saw what we did in the qualifiers. We keep the shape, we keep the ball, and we make them run in that bloody heat.”

There was a loud, collective clap as everyone put their hands together in the middle of the huddle. 

Jude closed his eyes. When he opened them, he’d be walking out into the loudest place on earth, for the biggest game of his life, and Erling Haaland would be four feet to his left.

He couldn’t wait.

— E N D —