Chapter 35: Public Claim
The VIP box at the Bernabéu smelled of lemon polish and cold, expensive air. Aurora stood just inside the door, clutching her small purse, feeling like an exhibit. The colors of Callum’s team—a deep, vibrant red—felt shockingly bright against her usual muted palette. The dress was a vintage piece she’d found online, a soft, delicate thing, but wearing it here felt like wearing a billboard. A target.
Leo, the security man from the gray sedan, had somehow become her shadow. He’d materialized at her door that morning with a first-class ticket and a folder. “Mr. Nordskov’s instructions,” he’d said, his voice devoid of inflection. The car, the airport, the private escort through Madrid’s terminals—it was a blur of seamless, suffocating privilege. Now Leo stood a discreet distance behind her, a solid, silent presence in a black suit.“Ms. Bellweather.” A young, anxious-looking club official in a blazer hurried over. “Welcome.Please, right this way. Would you like champagne?”
She wanted a glass of tap water and a paper bag to breathe into. “Sparkling water, please,” she managed.
The box was half-full of other people—polished, beautiful people who spoke in low, rapid Spanish or moneyed English. A few glanced her way, eyes lingering on the dress, then flicking away with practiced indifference. She recognized a former Italian striker turned pundit, and the CEO of a German sportswear brand. She found a seat by the enormous glass wall overlooking the pitch. The stadium was a colossal, roaring bowl of light and noise, a living organism of ninety-thousand hearts. The scale of it stole her breath. It was nothing like watching on television. The noise was a physical thing, a pressure in her chest.
Her phone buzzed in her purse. Callum.
>>> You there?
>>> I’m in the fishbowl. It’s loud.
>>> Look at the camera by the corner flag. Left side of our goal.
She scanned the dizzying array of equipment around the pitch, her glasses slipping. Then she saw it—a small, black dome. She gave a tiny, awkward wave.
>>> Saw the dress. Fuck. I’m hard in my kit. Distracting.
A laugh burst out of her, tight with nerves. She typed back.
>>> Focus. Earn this dress.
>>> Watch me.
The teams walked out. The roar intensified, a seismic wave of sound. There he was, number eight, his dark hair messy under the capricious stadium lights, his posture loose but thrumming with a lethal kind of calm. He didn’t look up at the box. He was in the tunnel.
The game was a frantic, beautiful battle. Callum moved differently here—a predator where in his bedroom he was something else entirely. Every touch was economical, every pass a calculated risk. He was everywhere, a dark-haired engine in the red midfield, dictating the tempo. She forgot to breathe, forgot she was surrounded by strangers, her knuckles white on the armrest.
At halftime, Leo appeared at her elbow. “A moment, Ms.Bellweather. There’s a situation.”
He led her out into a quiet, carpeted hallway. A cluster of reporters and cameras had somehow breached the perimeter, held back by two more stern-faced security men. Microphones were thrust forward like a thicket of metal weeds.
“Ms.Bellweather! Aurora! Over here!”
“Are you and Callum Nordskov dating?”
“What’s your relationship to the player?”
“Is it serious?”
The questions hit her like thrown stones. She froze, the blood draining from her face. Leo stepped slightly in front of her, a human wall. But the image of that gossip site headline, the grainy photo, flashed in her mind. The silence, the hiding in his house. The code 0601. His birth date. Eat my food. Sleep in my bed.
Something solid clicked into place inside her.
She put a hand on Leo’s arm, a silent request to step aside. He hesitated, then gave her a sliver of space. She looked directly at the nearest camera, its red light a glaring eye.
“One question,” she said, her voice clearer than she felt. “Which one of you asked?”
A Spanish journalist in a blue blazer seized the chance. “What is your purpose here today? Are you his good luck charm?”
She thought of his text. Watch me. She gave a small, deliberate smile, the one she practiced in mirrors when her publisher asked about deadlines she wouldn’t meet.
“I suppose we’re about to find out,” she said.
Just then, a new, deafening roar erupted from the stadium. The second half had started. A staff member urgently waved them back. The reporters shouted more questions, but she was already turning, Leo guiding her firmly away.
She barely made it to her seat. Play had resumed, a frantic surge. Callum had the ball, driving forward through a maze of white shirts. He played a one-two off his striker, his movement a blur of red.A defender lunged. Callum feinted left, went right, and was suddenly clear on the edge of the box.Time seemed to slow. He didn’t take a touch. He struck the ball with the inside of his boot, a pure, sweet connection.
The sound of the strike was lost in the collective intake of ninety-thousand breaths. The ball curled, elegant and vicious, kissing the underside of the crossbar and exploding into the net.
The Bernabéu, for a split second, was silent. Then it erupted.
But Callum wasn’t running to the corner flag. He was sprinting, full-tilt, toward the sideline, directly toward the camera by the left post. The one she’d waved at. He slid on his knees, stopping inches from the lens, his face a mask of pure, exultant joy. He looked directly into it, his green eyes blazing, and kissed his fingertips. He didn’t touch his own chest. He pointed directly at the camera, kissed his fingers again, and pressed them to the lens.
The broadcast, for the entire world, was a close-up of his face, then his kiss aimed like a missile.
Aurora’s hand flew to her mouth. The noise in the box was overwhelming, everyone on their feet. The Italian striker was clapping, laughing. She saw people turning to look at her, now with dawning, intense recognition. The girl in the red dress.
The rest of the game was a formality. They won 2-0. When the final whistle blew, Leo was immediately at her side again. “This way, please. Now.”
He whisked her through a labyrinth of back corridors, down service elevators, into the pulsating belly of the stadium. The noise was different here—echoing, concrete, filled with the shouts of officials and the distant thunder of the departing crowd. They stopped outside a heavy door marked Zona Mixta.
“Ready?” Leo asked.
She wasn’t.But she nodded.
Inside was controlled chaos—a long, narrow room with a backdrop of team logos. Callum stood in front of a thicket of microphones, still in his kit, sweat gleaming on his skin, a towel around his neck. He was answering a question in fluid, accented English, his media smile in place. He saw her over the scrum of journalists. His eyes found hers, and the smile changed. It softened, became real.
“And Callum, the celebration! Who was the kiss for?” a reporter shouted.
Callum reached out a hand. Leo gave her a gentle nudge. She walked through the parting journalists, her heart a wild drum against her ribs, and took his hand. His fingers were calloused, warm, and tight around hers. He pulled her gently to his side.
“This is Aurora,” he said, his voice carrying easily without a shout. The room fell quiet, every lens zooming in. He looked at her, and the noise of the world faded to a background hum. “And she’s not my good luck charm.” He paused, letting the correction hang. “She’s the reason I remembered how to play for joy.”
The flashbulbs erupted, a continuous, blinding stutter of white light. Questions were yelled, but they were a distant buzz. He was looking only at her, his thumb stroking her knuckle, a private touch in the most public place imaginable.
Later, in the sanctity of his hotel suite, high above Madrid’s glittering skyline, the silence was profound. He’d showered, the scent of his body wash cutting through the lingering memory of grass and sweat. He wore just a pair of grey sweatpants, his hair damp.
He handed her a glass of wine. “You terrified me,” he said quietly.
“Which part?”
“When Leo said you were talking to them. And then when you smiled like that… Jesus.” He took a sip of his water. “And then I scored.”
“You were inspired,” she said, a faint tease in her voice.
He set his glass down.“I was desperate. I saw you up there, wearing my colors, sitting in that box full of vultures… and I just wanted to give you something. To make it worth it.” He reached out, took her glass from her hand, and set it aside. His hands came up to frame her face. “That was the most exposed I’ve ever felt. And it wasn’t because of them.” He nodded toward the window, toward the world beyond. “It was because of you. I was playing for you. Everyone saw it.”
She leaned into his touch. “What happens tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper as he kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth, “the headlines will call you my girlfriend. They’ll dig into your life. They’ll find your old blog, your photo from university, your father’s bakery in Edinburgh. It will be a mess.”
She felt the truth of it, cold and sharp. “And then?”
“And then,” he said, his lips finally finding hers in a kiss that tasted of relief and a terrible, wonderful inevitability, “we find out what comes after the mess.”