Chapter 1: The Stained Dress
The bass was a physical thing, a thrumming pulse deep in her chest that vibrated through the soles of her feet. Or maybe that was just the ache. Juda leaned against a velvet rope, a temporary oasis in the sea of heaving, celebrating bodies. Her smile, the one she’d worn for three straight hours of photos, dancing, and accepting sloshed champagne toasts, felt brittle at the edges.
Dortmund had done it. The season was theirs, a hard-fought, gritty triumph that tasted of sweat and grass and now, cheap liquor. The entire squad had descended upon the city’s most exclusive club, a blur of sequins, tailored suits, and euphoric shouts lost to the deafening synth line. She’d been in the thick of it, laughing, letting the adrenaline of the win carry her through. But adrenaline had a half-life, and hers had expired about twenty minutes ago, replaced by a profound, screaming fatigue in her calves. The scarlet silk of her dress was stunning, a gift from one of the luxury brands that fought for her endorsement, but the matching stilettos were instruments of torture.
A glance at her diamond-encrusted watch confirmed it was past midnight. Time moved weirdly in places like this, suspended in strobe light and sweat.
She pushed off the rope, aiming for the shadowy perimeter where the waitstaff scurried with bottles. Every step was a calculated maneuver, a dodging of swinging elbows and spinning bodies. She was the world’s best attacking midfielder; she could navigate a packed press. This was just a different kind of field, with drunker opponents.
A hand closed around her wrist. Not a tap, not a brush. A grip.
“Hey, champion! Where you rushing off to?”
The man was unfamiliar, his grin too wide, eyes glazed with triumph that wasn’t his to claim. His cologne was sharp and chemical, cutting through the smell of sweat and perfume. He tugged, trying to spin her into him.
Juda’s body reacted before her mind could formulate polite refusal. She planted her feet, the movement pure core strength, and yanked her arm back with a sharp, twisting motion he wasn’t expecting. It was the same move she used to shield the ball from a brutish tackle.
“I’m off,” she said, her voice flat, cutting through the music. The professional smile was gone.
He stumbled, surprised by her resistance. The drink in his other hand—something dark and viscous—tipped. It wasn’t a slow-motion spill. It was a sudden, deliberate-looking splash that hit the bodice of her scarlet dress and cascaded down in a cold, shocking wave. The silk went dark, plastered to her skin.
“Shit! Accident, sorry!” he yelled, the apology loud and hollow, his eyes skittering away from hers. He didn’t mean it.
For a second, she just stood there, the cold spreading, the sticky feeling triggering a wave of cold nausea. This dress. This night. The violation was small, stupid, but it felt like a crack in the pristine glass of the evening. The camera-ready champion, soaked in someone’s rejected rum and coke.
Then a wall of black wool was between her and the man. She didn’t see Erling arrive; he was just there, his broad back blocking the strobing lights, the noise, the guy’s smirking face. He didn’t speak to the man. He just looked at him. Erling’s usual playful intensity had hardened into something silent and utterly still. It was the look he got right before he demolished a defensive line. The guy’s grin died. He mumbled something and melted back into the crowd, forgotten instantly.
Erling turned. His face, all sharp Nordic angles, softened. He didn’t ask if she was okay. He just shrugged out of his tailored black jacket and draped it over her shoulders. The weight was immediate, anchoring. It smelled like him—clean, expensive soap, and the faint, crisp scent of the night air outside.
“This is a defensive disaster,” he said, his voice low enough that she had to lean in to hear it.
A laugh bubbled up, half-hysterical relief. “My marking was off. Lost my man.”
He guided her off the floor, a hand at the small of her back, not gripping, just present. They found a secluded booth in an alcove, the sounds muffled to a distant throb. She collapsed onto the plush seat, immediately reaching down to wrestle with the slender straps of her heels. A groan of pure relief escaped her as she freed her feet, tucking them beneath her on the seat. The ruined dress was hidden under the expanse of his jacket.
Erling slid in opposite her, a bottle of water appearing in his hand from a passing waiter. He passed it to her.
“Brand deal violation?” he asked, nodding at the dress now covered by his jacket.
“Total violation. They’ll sue me for emotional damages.” She took a long drink, the water grounding her. “Thanks. For the jacket. And the… intervention.”
He shrugged, but his eyes were tracking her face, reading the frustration behind the joke. “He was out of position. Easy tackle.”
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the kind only possible with someone who knew every version of you—the girl covered in mud at fourteen, the athlete lifting a trophy, the woman trying not to let a ruined dress ruin her night.
“Your feet are going to be on the injury report tomorrow,” he said, a grin tugging at his mouth.
“Worth it. Looked good for the cameras until the drink fountain incident.”
“You always look good for the cameras.” He said it casually, a statement of fact, but it hung there between them. He picked at the label of his own water bottle. “They are saying maybe Ballon d’Or. For you. Not just the women’s. For it.”
She met his gaze. The noise of the club faded further. “They say that every time I score a hat-trick against a men’s side. It’s noise.”
“It is not noise,” he said, and then he switched, the words becoming softer, rounder, a language for just them. “Det er sannhet. Du er den beste jeg noen gang har sett.” It is truth. You are the best I have ever seen.
Her cheeks warmed. She understood enough. She always made a point to understand. “Flattery won’t get you my dessert later.”
“I do not want your dessert. I want you to hear it.”
Before she could fashion a reply, Marco, one of the team managers, appeared at the booth’s entrance. “Cars are here. You two are in the black Mercedes. Everyone else is sorted.”
He disappeared. The spell, fragile and new, shifted but didn’t break. Erling stood, extending a hand to help her up. She slid her feet back into the torture devices, wincing, and kept his jacket tight around her.
They walked through the club’s back exit, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. It was clean. Quiet. The pulsing beat was just a dull echo through the walls now. The black car idled by the curb, a refuge.
He opened the door for her. She slid across the smooth leather seat, the jacket pooling around her. He followed, settling in beside her, his large frame making the spacious interior feel suddenly intimate. The door thudded shut, sealing them in a bubble of quiet. The driver’s partition was already up, giving them privacy.
The car pulled away from the curb, leaving the garish lights and the pounding music behind. The city lights streamed by the windows, painting stripes of gold and white across his profile. She hugged the jacket closer.
The night, the victory, the spilled drink, the booth—it all condensed into this moving, silent space. The unspoken thing, the years of it, hummed between them, louder now than the club’s bass had ever been. The car carried them forward, into the dark, towards whatever came next.
The car carried them forward, into the dark, towards whatever came next.
The quiet was a living thing, thick and humming. Juda felt Erling’s gaze before she turned to meet it. A slow, familiar grin spread across his face.
“That guy,” Erling began, his voice a low rumble in the quiet cabin. “The one with the drink. He was your third attempt, ja?”
“My third attempt at what?”
“At a dance partner. I saw the other two. One looked like he was trying to start a mosh pit. The other just looked confused, like he’d never seen a woman move her hips before.”
She kicked his shin lightly with her bare foot. “I was being polite. And for your information, Mr. Observer, I saw you with that blonde in the silver dress. Looked like a very… focused conversation.”
He caught her foot, his hand warm around her ankle, and didn’t let go. “She was asking about my rehab protocol for a hamstring strain. Very clinical.”
“Is that what they’re calling it now?” she shot back, trying to tug her foot free. His grip was firm, gentle.
“Jealous, Bellingham?”
“Of your hamstring protocol? Desperately.” She used her other foot to nudge his knee. “Let go, you ogre.”
“Make me.”
It was a challenge from a thousand training sessions, a hundred locker-room scuffles. She twisted, trying to wrench free, and he pulled, throwing her off balance. She half-tumbled from the seat with a yelp, landing in the spacious footwell with a soft thud, her back against the opposite door. She lay there, sprawled and laughing up at the dim roof lights, his jacket tangled around her.
Erling loomed over the seat, looking down at her, his smile softening. The playful light in his eyes deepened into something else, something quieter. He reached down, his hand not gripping, but offering. She took it, expecting him to haul her up.
Instead, he pulled her toward him, just enough so her shoulders cleared the footwell, her head near his knees. The noise of the city was a distant whisper.
“I wished I could have danced with you,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost lost in the hum of the tires.
Her breath caught. She looked up at him, at the sharp line of his jaw, the unexpected vulnerability in the set of his mouth. A giggle escaped her, a nervous, happy sound. “I wanted to dance with you, too.”
“If you wanted a dance so bad,” he whispered, his grin returning, “you could have just said that.”
She swatted at his thigh from her position on the floor. “Shut up.”
He moved then, sliding off the seat to join her in the confined space. He braced one hand on the car door above her head, his body hovering over hers, blocking out everything else. The car felt suddenly, intensely small. His other hand came down to cradle the side of her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. The air between them crackled.
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a rough whisper as he switched, the old words falling like stones into a still pond. “Eg ser berre deg. Alltid.” I only see you. Always.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She didn’t think. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down the final few inches until their noses brushed, until she could feel the warmth of his breath. Another giggle, soft and shaky, escaped her lips.
Then, in a surge of sudden, overwhelming awareness of where they were—in a moving car, on the floor, a breath away from crossing a line there was no coming back from—she pushed against his chest.
He let her go instantly, moving back to sit against the seat with a soft, understanding exhale. She scrambled to sit upright on the plush carpet, pulling his jacket tight around her shoulders like a shield. Outside, the blurred lights of the city slowed and solidified into the distinct red glow of a traffic signal. They were at a full stop.
Erling ran a hand through his hair, a low, breathy laugh escaping him. He was looking out the window, a slight, dazed smile on his face.
Distracted by the sudden stillness, by the hammering in her own chest, Juda saw the glowing sign of an all-night corner shop across the street. Without a word, driven by a need for air, for space, for a moment to let the world solidify again, she reached for the door handle.
The click was loud in the silence. The door swung open, and the cool night air rushed in.
“Juda—” Erling’s laugh cut off.
She was already out, her bare feet hitting the cool, gritty pavement. She took two steps, the city noise enveloping her.
A second car door thudded shut behind her. He was there, his presence immediate at her back, having moved with that shocking, predatory speed he reserved for the pitch.
She didn’t turn. She just stood on the sidewalk, hugging herself under the neon glow, the ruined silk of her dress clinging to her legs. The traffic light cycled to green. Their idling car, door still open, began a soft, impatient honking from the driver.
They ignored it. The world was just this patch of concrete, the hum of the city, and the space between them, which felt both infinitely wide and paper-thin.
The world was just this patch of concrete, the hum of the city, and the space between them, which felt both infinitely wide and paper-thin.
Another insistent honk.
Juda glanced back at the idling Mercedes, then at Erling’s face, all sharp planes and unasked questions under the neon. A wild, reckless energy crackled up her spine. It was the same feeling she got just before she attempted a shot from an impossible angle.
“Run,” she said.
It wasn’t a question. She took off, the cold pavement a shock against her bare feet, his heavy jacket flapping around her like wings. She heard his startled grunt, then the pounding of his footsteps behind her as he caught up easily. They didn’t look back. They darted down the first narrow gap between buildings, an alleyway smelling of damp brick and overturned bins, their laughter echoing off the close walls.
They spilled out onto a brighter street, melding seamlessly into a late-night crowd leaving a bustling tapas bar. For a few blocks, they were just two more faces, their breathing slowing to a walk, shoulders brushing. The crowd thinned, and the city opened into a quiet, tree-lined square—a park, dark and deserted save for the glow of old-fashioned lampposts.
She stopped abruptly in the center of a path, under the halo of one such lamp. He was right behind her, and he collided into her back, his hands flying to her shoulders to steady them both.
“Sorry—“
She turned in his grasp, facing him. His hands stayed on her shoulders. Her own came up, one finding his waist, the other clasping his hand. She took a deliberate step back, then to the side.
He looked down, confused. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing,” she said, and led him into a slow, box-step waltz. There was no music, only the distant city sounds and the crunch of gravel under their feet. He resisted for half a beat, his body tuned for explosive power, not this measured grace. Then he surrendered, letting her guide him, falling into the rhythm she set.
His grip on her hand tightened. His other hand slid from her shoulder to the small of her back, under the jacket, pressing her closer. Their earlier playfulness was gone, replaced by a heavy, focused quiet. They moved in the silent park, a perfect, private orbit. The only sound was their synchronized breath.
After a long moment, he broke the pattern. With a fluid strength that made her gasp, he dipped her backward, low and deep, her braids brushing the ground. She stared up at him, upside down, the world nothing but his face and the starless sky. He held her there, suspended.
Then he pulled her up. As soon as she was steady, she slipped her hand inside his jacket, her fingers deftly finding the smooth, cool metal of the hip flask tucked in his inner pocket. She pulled it free, a triumphant glint in her eye, and took off again, sprinting toward the park’s gate.
“Hey!” His shout was half-laugh, half-protest.
This time, she had a destination. She led him on a looping chase through quieter streets, her bare feet now numb to the cold, until the towering facade of their team hotel rose before them. She bypassed the glowing main entrance, heading for the unmarked service door at the back, held slightly ajar by a cleaning cart. They slipped inside, into the sterile, fluorescent-lit silence of a service corridor, the thunder of their hearts loud in the hushed space.
They took the staff stairs, their footsteps soft on the concrete, not stopping until they reached her floor. She fumbled with her key card at her door, threw a grinning look over her shoulder at him where he waited a few paces down the hall, and slid inside.
Alone. The quiet of the suite was overwhelming. She leaned against the door, the adrenaline finally leaching away, leaving her trembling. The dried dress was stiff and foul against her skin. With quick, impatient movements, she shimmied out of it, letting the ruined scarlet silk pool on the floor. She went to the closet, grabbed the first soft thing her hand touched—a grey shirt tossed over a chair.
She pulled it on. It swallowed her, the fabric soft and worn. It wasn’t until she looked down, padding barefoot into the living area of the suite, that she saw the large, bold number 9 on the back, and the name HAALAND across the shoulders. A laugh, raw and quiet, escaped her. Her little brother’s teasing gift. So you can always have him close.
She sank down to the floor, her back against the front of the plush sofa. The flask was cool in her hand. She unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. The liquor was smooth, smoky, and it burned a warm path down her throat, settling the shakes.
The door clicked open.
She hadn’t heard the knock. He must have used his own key—they had each other’s, a practical thing for years, for forgotten boots or playbooks.
Erling stopped just inside, the door swinging shut behind him. His eyes found her instantly in the dim light of the single lamp she’d turned on.
She was curled on the carpet, knees drawn up. His massive jacket was gone, discarded somewhere. All she wore was his jersey, the fabric draping over one bare shoulder. The neckline was so wide it slipped down her arm. In her hands, like a confessed secret, was his flask.
She took another sip, meeting his gaze across the room. She didn’t speak. She didn’t move to cover up.
He stood frozen, his eyes tracking from the haaland on her back, to the slope of her exposed shoulder, to the flask at her lips. All the easy confidence, the predatory focus, was stripped away. He just stared, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deep rhythm. The air in the room changed, growing denser, charged with everything they had not done in the car, and everything the jersey on her skin now screamed into the silence.