dee

His lips parted slightly, his hand tightening on your thigh just a fraction. “Uh—”

Before he could say anything else, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his neck.

The effect was immediate.

Oscar inhaled sharply, his entire body tensing beneath you. His grip on your leg tightened as his free hand instinctively shot to your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt. “Y/N—”

“Mhm?” You hummed against his skin, letting your lips trail lower, feeling the way his pulse quickened beneath your mouth.

His breath hitched. “We are in a parking lot.”

You let your teeth scrape lightly over his pulse point before pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there. “And?”

Oscar groaned, his fingers digging into your waist as if that would stop you. “And—you—fuck—” His head tilted slightly, giving you more access even as he tried to resist.

You grinned. “You were saying?”

His response was cut off by a sharp inhale as you sucked lightly at his throat, your tongue flicking over the warm skin before biting down just enough to make him jolt. His other hand abandoned the wheel entirely, wrapping around your thigh as he instinctively pulled you closer.

“Jesus—” he muttered, voice strained. His grip was firm now, his hands no longer hesitant as they roamed over your waist, your thighs, like he needed something to hold onto.

You pressed a final, lingering kiss just below his jaw, grinning against his skin. “I love how easy you are to mess with.”

Oscar exhaled shakily, his grip on you tightening. “I hate you.”

You didn’t even get a chance to respond before—

Thud.

The car jolted forward.

The two of you froze.

Oscar’s hands flew to the wheel, his eyes going wide as his head snapped up. “Oh—oh my god—”

Your stomach dropped as you turned your head just in time to see a very unfortunate tree now very much in front of the car.

Silence.

Your jaw dropped. Then you looked at Oscar, whose face was rapidly shifting from panic to pure, unfiltered mortification.

And then—

You lost it.

You clapped a hand over your mouth, trying and failing to stifle your laughter. “Oh my god—” you gasped, shaking with laughter as you leaned back against your seat. “Did you—did you just—” You could barely breathe, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Did you just get so flustered you hit the gas?”

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I—I wasn’t flustered—”

You threw your head back, cackling. “Babe, you just ran into a tree because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar groaned louder, slumping against the seat. “I hate you.”

“You love me,” you corrected smugly, wiping at your eyes. Then, just to be cruel, you leaned in again, brushing your lips over the still-warm mark you’d left on his neck.

Oscar snapped.

His hands flew to your waist as he abruptly yanked you into his lap, your knees hitting either side of his thighs. “No. Absolutely not.”

You grinned, settling comfortably against him. “Aw, baby, are you scared I’ll make you crash again?”

His hands tightened on your hips, his expression a mix of exasperation and something darker, something you weren’t used to seeing from him. His fingers dug into your sides, his lips parting slightly as he met your gaze.

“You’re insufferable,” he muttered, but his hands were saying something entirely different as they trailed up your sides, over your ribs, pressing into your back like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, running your fingers through his messy hair before whispering against his lips—

“And yet, you can’t keep your hands off me.”

Oscar groaned again, but this time, he didn’t argue.

Oscar’s hands were everywhere. His grip on your waist was firm, grounding, but his fingers weren’t still—they kneaded at your sides, then trailed up your back, pressing into your spine before slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt, just enough to make you shiver.

His eyes were dark, his pupils blown wide as he stared up at you, his chest rising and falling unevenly. You had him exactly where you wanted him, and he knew it.

You tilted your head, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “You okay, baby?”

Oscar exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip on you tightening. “You almost killed me and my car, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”

You grinned, shifting slightly in his lap just to see him react. His hands flew to your hips again, holding you still as his jaw clenched. “I didn’t do anything,” you teased, your breath ghosting over his lips. “You were the one who hit the gas.”

Oscar groaned, his head falling back against the seat for a moment before he looked at you again, eyes flickering between your lips and the smug expression on your face. “I swear you do this on purpose.”

You pretended to think for a second. “Do what?”

His fingers flexed on your hips before suddenly dragging you forward, closing the small space between you. His nose brushed against yours, his voice lower, rougher. “Drive me insane.”

Your breath caught for half a second before you recovered, pressing your palms against his chest, feeling the way his heart hammered beneath your fingertips. “You love it,” you whispered.

Oscar exhaled shakily, his hands sliding up your back again, pulling you closer until your foreheads nearly touched. “I hate how much I do.”

Your heart flipped, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you let your fingers trail lower, playing with the hem of his hoodie. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

For a second, you thought he might break, that he might actually kiss you, that he might completely lose himself in you the way you wanted him to. But then—

A loud knock on the driver’s side window made both of you jump.

Oscar jerked so hard that his knee hit the steering wheel, his hands flying off your waist as he nearly knocked you off his lap in sheer panic.

Your head snapped toward the window, your heart hammering. A cop.

Well. Shit.

Oscar scrambled to roll down the window, his voice cracking. “Uh—hi, officer.”

The cop—a tired-looking man with a badge and a very unimpressed expression—peered into the car. Then, at the tree. Then, back at you two.

Oscar swallowed.

The cop raised an eyebrow. “You good, son?”

Oscar let out a nervous laugh. “Uh. Yeah. Just. Um. Just a little parking mishap.”

The officer looked at you, then at Oscar’s still-flushed face, then at your position half in his lap. His expression didn’t change. “Right.”

You bit back a laugh, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could hold it.

The officer sighed. “Try not to run over any more trees, alright?”

Oscar nodded so fast that you had to hide your face against his shoulder to keep from wheezing. “Yes, sir. Definitely. No more trees.”

The cop gave you one last knowing look before turning and walking back toward his car.

The second he was gone, you lost it.

Oscar groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “I am never recovering from this.”

You gasped for air between giggles. “Oscar. You crashed your car because I kissed your neck.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath before tilting his head back to glare at you. “I swear, if you bring this up to anyone—”

You grinned, leaning in again, pressing a kiss just below his ear. “What? You gonna lose control again?”

Oscar groaned. “I hate you.”

You can't stop staring at his neck. It's become a problem. A fixation. An itch under your skin every time you see him on-screen, his hand lazily dragging across his throat as he thinks through an answer. The edge of his fireproofs dipping just enough to show skin. The way he stretches after a session, collar tugged down, throat glistening with sweat.

He's perfect. But that neck? That neck is filthy. And he doesn't even know it.

Not yet. You wait until he's lying on the hotel bed in nothing but his boxers and a McLaren shirt, scrolling aimlessly on his phone, hair still damp from the shower. Clean. Warm. Unbothered.

He doesn't look up when you straddle him. "What are you-"

Your mouth finds his throat instantly. A long, slow drag of your tongue against the side of his neck before you sink your teeth in and bite.

He gasps. "Fuck- babe, I-"

You ignore him. Suck hard. Press your lips down until the skin is flushed and bruising.

He twitches under you. "Media day's tomorrow," he pants. "They're gonna see-"

"Exactly," you whisper.

You kiss lower. Then suck again. Harder this time.

He whines. "Please, not where the cameras—"

"Oh, you mean right here?" You bite just above the collarbone, the spot you know peeks out when his fireproofs shift during interviews.

He arches up into your mouth like he doesn't even mean to. "Baby," he moans, "they're gonna see."

You lick over the fresh mark. Smirk against his skin. "Good."

You leave hickeys all down his throat. Big, dark ones. Some still sticky with spit. Others purple and spreading fast. By the time you're done, his chest is rising and falling like he just ran a lap. His neck looks like it's been mauled. Your lipstick is smudged on his jaw. And he's hard, so fucking hard, under you.

"I can't go out like this," he groans. "Everyone's gonna know."

You tilt his chin up. Look him straight in the eye. "That's the point."

He swallows hard. "You're evil."

You kiss him sweetly on the lips. "I'm yours."

He groans again. Then pulls you back down. 

The next morning is chaos.

You watch from the corner of the paddock as Oscar walks into media with his hoodie tugged up as high as it'll go. He's trying to hide them, the bruises, the bite marks, the proof that someone got a little too greedy the night before.

But it's no use. A little tilt of his head and you can see the red marks spreading up the side of his neck like blooming flowers. A cameraman zooms in. A PR girl stifles a laugh.

George notices first. Snorts. Elbows Lando. "Jesus, mate. You get attacked by a vacuum?"

Oscar glares at them, pulling the collar up again. "Shut up."

Charles walks past, glancing once, then twice. Smirks. "You okay, Oscar? You look... possessed."

He doesn't answer.

Max catches on mid-interview. Stares at the marks. Raises a brow. "Bit much for a Thursday," he mutters.

Oscar mutters something back that sounds like she's insane, but he's blushing like he liked it.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling her fully into consciousness. Seventeen missed calls from her half-brother Jamari, three from a number she doesn't recognize, and a text from her teammate Nneka back in LA: Saw the highlights from your game. You looked good out there. Miss you already.

The game. Right. Her debut with Real Madrid Baloncesto. Twenty-four points, ten rebounds, eight assists, and a win that felt more satisfying than any victory she'd had with the Sparks in months. For two hours, she'd remembered why she fell in love with basketball in the first place.

She ignores Jamari's calls—whatever he wants, it's probably money she doesn't have to spare—and opens Instagram instead. The notifications are already piling up.

Her mentions are flooded with posts from last night's game, but what catches her attention are the photos of three very familiar faces sitting courtside. Real Madrid footballers, the captions say. Her teammates had mentioned they were there, but seeing the actual photos makes it real.

Real Madrid posted a photo of the three players with the caption:

liked by baloncestofemenino, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 305k others

realmadrid: Supporting our baloncestofemenino family 🏀⚪ tagged; judebellingham, camavinga, aurelientchm

The comments are predictably thirsty:

madridista_4ever: JUDE LOOKED SO GOOD LAST NIGHT 😍

football_wag_dreams: Why is Camavinga so fine though??? The way he was watching the game 🥵

tchouameni_wife: AURÉLIEN IN THOSE PANTS >>> my man was LOOKING GOODT

basketball_babe23: Who's the tall girl in the leather pants though? She's gorgeous

⤷ wnba_stan: basketball_babe23 That's Jiana Jackson from the LA Sparks! She's playing for Madrid this season

thirst_trap_central: The way all three of them were watching her play 👀 I see y'all

Jiana rolls her eyes at the comments but finds herself curious despite herself. She clicks on Aurélien's tagged profile—aurelientchm—and immediately regrets it.

His feed is a mix of training photos, inspirational quotes, and lifestyle shots that scream "professional athlete with too much money and time." There's a shirtless gym selfie from two days ago with the caption "The Lab 🔬 #NeverSettle" that makes her pause longer than she'd like to admit. His body is ridiculous—all defined muscle and smooth dark skin that she definitely shouldn't be noticing.

She scrolls further and stops at a photo that makes her heart skip. It's from this past summer, taken in what's clearly Los Angeles based on the palm trees in the background. He's wearing a LA Sparks jersey—her team's jersey—and throwing up the chill sign with his friends. The caption reads: LA vibes with the crew. Respect to all the athletes grinding 💪🏾

The photo does something to her that she doesn't want to acknowledge. There's something sexy about the casual way he's posed, the genuine smile on his face, the fact that he was repping her team months before she even knew he existed.

"No," she says out loud to her empty apartment. "Absolutely not."

She locks her phone and tosses it aside. She's here to work, to focus on basketball, to figure out her life without distractions. The last thing she needs is to develop some schoolgirl crush on a footballer who probably has women throwing themselves at him daily.

Men are assholes anyway. Every single one she's ever known has either wanted something from her, tried to use her, or worse. The familiar weight of old trauma sits heavy in her chest, and she pushes it down like she always does. Some things are better left buried.

Besides, she has a free day ahead of her, and Madrid is waiting to be explored.

In the bathroom, she wrestles with her lace front wig, trying to make it look less obvious that it's a wig. The Spanish humidity is already making the edges lift, and she makes a mental note to find someone who can do Black hair in this city. For now, she pulls it back into a high bun and carefully lays her edges with the small brush she never travels without.

The shower helps clear her head, and by the time she's dressed in a simple black tank top, denim shorts, and her favorite Adidas Sambas, she feels more like herself. She grabs her black Telfar bag—a splurge from her first endorsement check that she'll never regret—and heads out into the Madrid heat.

October in Spain feels exactly like October in LA, which is to say it doesn't feel like October at all. The sun is already beating down at ten in the morning, and she finds herself grateful for the familiar warmth on her skin. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend she's walking down Melrose instead of through the narrow streets of Malasaña.

The metro system is easier to navigate than she expected, though she gets plenty of stares on the train. Being 6'2" tends to attract attention anywhere, but in a country where the average woman is significantly shorter, she might as well be wearing a neon sign. A group of teenage girls whisper and point, and she catches enough Spanish to know they're commenting on her height.

"¿Jugadora de baloncesto?" one of them asks her friend.

"Tiene que ser. Es muy alta."

Jiana keeps her earbuds in and her expression neutral. This part never gets easier—being a spectacle wherever she goes, people assuming things about her because of her size. At least they're not recognizing her face, which means she can explore in relative peace.

She's taking photos of the Puerta del Sol when her phone rings. Carmen's name flashes on the screen.

"Hola, Jiana," Carmen's warm voice comes through. "¿Cómo estás? How are you feeling after last night?"

"Good," Jiana says, dodging a group of tourists taking selfies. "Sore, but good. Just exploring the city a bit."

"That's wonderful. Where are you right now?"

Jiana looks around at the bustling square. "Puerta del Sol, I think? There's a big statue of a bear."

"Perfect. I'm going to come pick you up."

"Why?" Jiana's defenses immediately go up. "I'm fine on my own. Just sightseeing."

"I know, and I'm glad you're getting out," Carmen says patiently. "But I want to take you somewhere special today. To meet the rest of the Real Madrid family."

"The rest of the—what do you mean?"

"You'll see. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Look for the black Mercedes."

Before Jiana can protest, Carmen hangs up, leaving her standing in the middle of one of Madrid's busiest squares feeling confused and slightly annoyed. She doesn't like surprises, especially ones that involve meeting new people. But Carmen has been nothing but kind since she arrived, so she supposes she can trust her for one afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later, she's sliding into the passenger seat of Carmen's familiar Mercedes, grateful for the air conditioning.

"You look lovely," Carmen says, pulling away from the curb. "Very... how do you say... effortless?"

"Thanks," Jiana mutters, still not sure where they're going. "So what's this about meeting the Real Madrid family?"

Carmen's smile is mysterious. "You'll see."

The drive takes them through parts of Madrid that Jiana hasn't seen yet—wider streets, modern buildings, areas that scream money and prestige. When they finally pull through security gates and into a sprawling complex that looks like something out of a sports movie, Jiana understands.

"The men's training facility," Carmen explains, parking near a building that's all glass and steel and Real Madrid logos. "I thought you should see where the other half of the family works."

"I don't really know anything about soccer," Jiana admits as they walk toward the entrance. "Like, at all. I know Messi and Ronaldo, obviously, but that's about it."

Carmen looks at her with mock horror. "Fútbol," she corrects dramatically. "In Spain, we call it fútbol. And you absolutely must come to a match while you're here. The atmosphere at the Bernabéu is unlike anything else in the world."

Jiana just nods politely, though privately she thinks watching a bunch of men kick a ball around for ninety minutes sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry.

Their tour guide is a young man named Miguel who speaks perfect English and clearly loves his job. He walks them through a facility that makes even Madrid Baloncesto's impressive setup look modest. The trophy room alone is overwhelming—cabinet after cabinet of silverware spanning decades.

"Real Madrid is the most successful club in the history of football," Miguel explains proudly. "Fifteen Champions League titles, thirty-six La Liga championships, twenty Copa del Rey victories..."

The numbers blur together as Jiana tries to look interested. Miguel points out photos and jerseys of legendary players—names she's never heard but that clearly mean everything to him.

"And of course, our current squad is exceptional," Miguel continues as they walk down a hallway lined with current player photos. "Jude Bellingham, our young English star. Kylian Mbappé, the French sensation who joined us this season. Aurélien Tchouaméni, another brilliant French midfielder..."

Jiana's attention snaps back at the familiar name, and she finds herself looking at a professional photo of the man whose Instagram she was stalking this morning. In his Real Madrid jersey, all serious expression and focused eyes, he looks every inch the elite athlete.

"They're all incredibly talented," Miguel goes on, apparently not noticing her sudden interest. "You should really come to a match. I think you'd enjoy it more than you expect."

"Maybe," Jiana says noncommittally, though she's still looking at Aurélien's photo.

Miguel leads them through more hallways, past meeting rooms and offices, until they reach a set of glass doors that open onto the training pitches. The Spanish sun is brutal out here, and Jiana immediately understands why several of the players practicing have stripped off their shirts.

And wow. Professional footballers, it turns out, are very easy on the eyes.

She finds herself appreciating the view more than she'd care to admit—all that melanin and muscle working under the Spanish sun. As a tall woman, she's always struggled with dating. Most men are either intimidated by her height or fetishize it, and finding someone who can literally look her in the eye is rare. But out here on this training pitch are men who are not only tall enough but clearly built like the elite athletes they are.

Not that she's interested in dating anyone. She's not. She's here to work.

"Mister Ancelotti," Miguel calls out in accented English, waving to an older man in coaching gear. "Come meet our new basketball player."

The legendary coach approaches with a warm smile, and Carmen immediately launches into rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow. She catches her name and something about basketball, but the rest is lost on her.

"He says it's wonderful to have you here," Carmen translates. "And that he heard you played beautifully last night. He's looking forward to watching more of your games."

"Gracias," Jiana says, one of the few Spanish words she's confident about. Ancelotti beams and says something else that makes Carmen laugh.

"He says you're very tall, and that's good for basketball," Carmen translates with obvious amusement.

Before Jiana can respond, a group of players jogs over, clearly curious about the visitor. Miguel immediately launches into introductions.

"Jude Bellingham," he says, gesturing to a young man who's somehow even prettier in person than in photos. He's got the kind of face that belongs in magazines, all sharp jawlines and bright eyes, and when he grins, Jiana understands why teenage girls worldwide lose their minds over him.

"Alright," Jude says in an accent she immediately recognizes as British. "You're the basketball player, yeah? Saw your game last night. You're proper class."

"Thanks," Jiana says simply.

"Eduardo Camavinga," Miguel continues, indicating a slightly older player whose smile is infectious. He's beautiful in a completely different way from Jude—more mature, with micro dreads and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who he is.

"Enchantée," Camavinga says with a French accent, taking her hand briefly. "Welcome to Madrid."

"And—" Miguel starts, but is interrupted by another player jogging over, and Jiana's breath catches in her throat.

Because Aurélien Tchouaméni in person, shirtless and slightly sweaty from training, is apparently her kryptonite.

He's taller than she remembered—maybe 6'3" or 6'4"—with the kind of build that comes from years of professional athletics. His dark skin gleams with perspiration, and there's something about the way he moves that suggests power held in check. When he stops in front of their group, she has to actively work to not let her eyes wander down his chest.

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," Miguel says unnecessarily, because Jiana very much knows who he is.

"We've actually met," Aurélien says, his accent wrapping around the English words in a way that causes shivers down her spine. "Briefly, in the parking garage. Welcome to Madrid, Jiana."

"Thanks," she says, proud of how level her voice sounds.

"You were brilliant last night," Jude jumps in enthusiastically. "That three-pointer in the fourth quarter was mental. Proper clutch."

"The footwork on your fadeaway was beautiful," Camavinga adds. "Very technical."

They're both talking to her like they actually know basketball, which surprises her. Most footballers she's encountered barely acknowledge that women's sports exist.

"You really watch basketball?" she asks, genuine curiosity overriding her usual guard.

"Course," Jude grins. "Love the game."

"Cool," she says simply.

The conversation continues around her—Jude asking about the differences between American and European basketball, Camavinga wondering if she's adjusting well to Madrid—but Jiana finds herself giving mostly one or two-word answers. It's her default mode with new people, especially men. Keep the walls up, don't give them anything to work with, don't let them think they have an opening.

But she's very aware of Aurélien standing there, still shirtless, still looking at her with those dark eyes that seem to see more than she's comfortable with. Every time he speaks, his voice does something to her that she doesn't like, and she finds herself looking everywhere except directly at him.

This is exactly what she was afraid of. Distraction. Complication. The kind of mess that always seems to follow her when she's trying to focus on basketball.

She came to Madrid to get her life together, not to develop some ridiculous attraction to a footballer who probably has a different woman in his bed every night.

No matter how good he looks without a shirt on.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"So you actually follow women's basketball?" Jiana asks again, still not quite believing it. Most guys her age either don't know the WNBA exists or think it's some kind of joke.

"Religiously," Aurélien says, and there's something in his voice that makes her believe him. "Started watching during the bubble season. Got hooked after that."

"The bubble was crazy," she admits, letting her guard down just slightly. "Playing without fans was weird as hell, but the level of play was insane. Everyone was so locked in."

"Your performance against Seattle in the semifinals," Aurélien says, his eyes lighting up. "That fourth quarter was crazy. Twenty-one points in twelve minutes."

Jiana blinks. She's used to people knowing her basic stats, but that's specific. That's someone who actually watches games, not just highlights.

"You really do watch," she says, and for the first time since arriving in Madrid, she sounds genuinely impressed.

Before Aurélien can respond, another voice cuts through their conversation.

"What's all this?"

They turn to see another player jogging over, and Jiana immediately recognizes him even though she knows nothing about football. Kylian Mbappé is the kind of famous that transcends sports—the kind of face that shows up on billboards and magazine covers worldwide.

He's smaller than she expected but moves with the fluid grace of someone who's spent their entire life perfecting their craft. When he smiles, it's the kind of expression that's launched a thousand endorsement deals.

"Kylian," Miguel says quickly, "this is Jiana Jackson, the American basketball player who's training with our women's team."

"Ah," Kylian says with a French accent. "The famous Jiana Jackson. I saw some highlights from last night. Very impressive."

"Thanks," Jiana says simply, because even she knows who Kylian Mbappé is.

"You should try football while you're here," Miguel suggests enthusiastically. "Would you like to practice? Just kick the ball around a bit?"

Jiana's face immediately goes blank with terror. "I don't play soccer."

The collective groan from all four footballers is immediate and dramatic.

"Football," they all say in unison, with varying degrees of exasperation.

Jude throws his hands up. "How many times, mate? It's football."

"Soccer is what Americans call it when they're being wrong," Camavinga adds with a grin.

"The disrespect," Kylian says, shaking his head sadly.

Aurélien just laughs, not joining in the mock outrage, and something about that makes Jiana look at him differently.

"Come on," he says, stepping closer to her. "I'll show you. It's not that hard."

"Ooh, he'll show her," Jude immediately starts teasing, making exaggerated kissing noises.

"Aurélien's got game," Camavinga joins in, grinning widely.

"Look at him being all smooth," Jude adds, puckering his lips mockingly.

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly, but he ignores his teammates completely, keeping his attention on Jiana. "Ignore them. They're idiots."

Jiana looks confused as hell by the teasing, and Kylian looks equally lost by the banter flying around them.

"What are they even talking about?" she mutters.

"Nothing important," Aurélien says firmly, shooting his teammates a look that clearly says 'shut up.' "Just... come on. I'll show you some basics."

Something in his voice—patient, not mocking—makes her nod reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm probably gonna be trash at this."

"Everyone's trash at first," he says, leading her toward the center of the pitch in front of one of the goals. "That's how learning works."

The other players follow, clearly entertained by the prospect of watching an elite basketball player attempt football. Miguel produces a ball from somewhere, and suddenly Jiana finds herself standing on a football pitch with five men staring at her expectantly.

"Okay," Aurélien says, positioning the ball at his feet. "Football is all about control and precision. Watch."

He demonstrates a simple pass, sending the ball exactly where he wants it with what looks like minimal effort. The movement is so fluid, so natural, that it takes Jiana a moment to appreciate the technical skill behind it.

"That looked easy," she says.

"It is easy," he grins. "When you've been doing it for sixteen years."

"Damn," she says, watching as he effortlessly juggles the ball with his feet. "How long you been playing... football?" She says the word carefully, like she's testing out a foreign language.

Aurélien's laugh is warm and genuine. "Since I was eight. Basically my whole life."

"That's wild," Jiana says. "How's that even work here? Like, did you play for your school or something?"

"Not really," Aurélien explains, still casually controlling the ball while he talks. "I went to a youth academy in Bordeaux when I was eleven. Football was the main thing, school came second. Though my parents made sure I kept my grades up."

"Your parents were cool with that?" Jiana asks, genuinely curious. "My grandma would've lost her shit if I'd told her I wanted to skip school for sports."

"My parents are African," Aurélien says with a grin. "Education is everything to them. They made sure I understood that football could end at any time, so I needed backup plans. Made me get good marks, go to university, all that."

"Wait, what?" Jiana's eyes widen. "You went to college? Like, actual college?"

"Université," Aurélien nods. "Did my degree while playing professionally."

"In what?"

"Accounting and finance."

Jiana stares at him like he's grown a second head. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not," he laughs. "Why is that so surprising?"

"Because..." She gestures vaguely at him, at the football pitch, at the entire situation. "You're like, a superstar athlete. Most of us can barely handle practice and games, let alone actual school."

"It wasn't easy," Aurélien admits. "But my parents weren't hearing any excuses. Plus, it's good to have something to fall back on."

Jiana makes a self-deprecating sound. "Man, I dropped out of USC after my sophomore year to go pro. Should've been smart like you and actually finished."

"You could still do it," Aurélien says, and his tone is completely serious. "It's never too late for education."

Jiana shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe. Right now I'm just trying to figure out basketball, you know?"

"Fair enough," he says. "But the offer stands. If you ever want help with university applications or anything, I know people."

There's something about the casual way he offers help—not condescending, not trying to fix her, just genuinely supportive—that makes something warm settle in Jiana's chest. She's not used to men offering assistance without expecting something in return.

"Thanks," she says quietly, and means it.

"Right," Aurélien says, clearly sensing the shift in mood and moving back to safer territory. "Ready to try this?"

He places the ball at her feet, and immediately Jiana understands why she stuck to basketball. The ball feels foreign under her feet, completely different from the weight and bounce she's used to.

"Just try to pass it back to me," Aurélien says, backing up a few yards. "Don't overthink it."

Jiana approaches the ball the way she'd approach any athletic challenge—with determination and zero fear of looking stupid. She swings her leg and immediately sends the ball flying way over Aurélien's head.

"Shit," she mutters as Jude jogs off to retrieve it.

"Too much power," Aurélien says, not mockingly. "Try again, but softer. It's more about placement than strength."

Jude rolls the ball back, and Jiana tries again. This time she barely makes contact, and the ball dribbles pathetically a few feet in front of her.

"This is harder than it looks," she admits.

"Everything is," Aurélien says. "I probably couldn't make a solid free throw to save my life."

"Free throws are mental," Jiana says, grateful for the change of subject. "Like, ninety percent psychological. The physical part is easy once you get the mechanics down."

"See? Every sport has its moments," Aurélien says. "Try one more time. Just focus on hitting the ball."

This time, Jiana manages a decent pass that reaches Aurélien's feet. It's not pretty, but it's functional.

"There you go," he says, grinning. "You're getting it."

"That was trash and you know it," Jiana says, but she's almost smiling.

"Everything's trash until it isn't," Camavinga chimes in. "I couldn't juggle the ball five times when I started. Now look."

He proceeds to demonstrate about fifty different ways to control the ball, showing off in the way that only elite athletes can.

"Show off," Jude mutters good-naturedly.

"Says the man who spends twenty minutes on his hair every morning," Camavinga shoots back.

"My hair is a work of art," Jude says with mock seriousness. "It requires proper attention."

"You're all ridiculous," Kylian observes, but he's grinning.

Jiana finds herself almost relaxing as she listens to their banter. It reminds her of being around her teammates—the easy camaraderie that comes from spending too much time together, the way athletes can shift from intense competition to playful teasing in seconds.

"You want to try shooting?" Aurélien asks. "At the goal?"

"I'm gonna miss by like ten feet," Jiana warns.

"Probably," he agrees cheerfully. "But that's how you learn."

He sets up the ball about twenty yards from the goal, and Jiana stares at the target like it's personally offended her.

"Just hit it clean and aim for the corners," Aurélien advises. "The goalkeeper can't save what they can't reach."

"There's no goalkeeper," Jiana points out.

"Pretend there is. Aim like someone's trying to stop you."

Jiana takes a deep breath and approaches the ball. This time, she makes solid contact, and the ball flies toward the goal in something resembling the right direction. It goes wide, but not embarrassingly so.

"Better," Aurélien says. "You're getting the hang of it."

"I'm really not," Jiana says, but there's something satisfying about making contact with the ball properly. "This shit is hard."

"Language," Miguel says automatically, then immediately looks embarrassed. "Sorry, I forget you're American. Different standards."

"Nah, you're good," Jiana says. "My grandmother would've smacked me for cussing in front of adults too."

The mention of her grandmother brings with it the familiar ache of loss, and she immediately regrets bringing it up. Aurélien must notice the shift in her expression because his voice becomes gentler.

"Want to try one more?" he asks.

This time, when she lines up for the shot, Aurélien steps up beside her.

"Here," he says, "let me show you the technique."

He demonstrates the motion slowly—the approach, the plant foot, the follow-through. When he strikes the ball, it rockets into the top corner of the net with a satisfying thud.

"Show off," Camavinga calls out.

"It's not showing off if it's just technique," Aurélien calls back, but he's grinning.

"Try to copy that one," he tells Jiana. "Don't worry about power, just focus on hitting it cleanly."

Jiana attempts to replicate what she saw, and while her shot doesn't have nearly the same power or accuracy, it at least goes in the general direction of the goal.

"Progress," Aurélien says approvingly.

"Barely," Jiana mutters, but she's secretly pleased with the improvement.

"You know what?" Jude says, jogging over. "For someone who's never played football before, that's not terrible."

"Damning with faint praise," Jiana says dryly.

"I'm being serious," Jude insists. "Most people can't even make contact with the ball their first time. You've got good coordination."

"I'm a professional athlete," Jiana points out. "I'd hope I have decent coordination."

"Different sport, different skills," Kylian says. "The fact that you can adapt this quickly says something."

"It says I'm not completely hopeless," Jiana says. "That's about it."

"Give yourself more credit," Aurélien says quietly. "You're being way too hard on yourself."

There's something in his tone that makes Jiana look at him more carefully. Most people, when they try to build her up, sound like they're reciting from a self-help book. But Aurélien sounds like he actually means it.

"Thanks," she says, and is surprised by how genuine she sounds.

"Right," Miguel says, checking his watch. "I think that's enough football education for one day. We should let these gentlemen get back to their training."

"Wait," Jude says, "you should come to our match this weekend. Against Celta Vigo. You'd get to see what real football looks like."

"I don't really know anything about the rules," Jiana admits.

"Doesn't matter," Camavinga says. "The atmosphere is incredible even if you don't understand what's happening."

Jiana feels the familiar urge to make excuses, to politely decline, to maintain the distance she's comfortable with. But something about the genuine enthusiasm in their voices makes her hesitate.

"I don't know," she says finally. "Maybe."

"That's not a no," Jude says triumphantly. "We'll take it."

"Don't pressure her," Aurélien says, shooting his teammates a warning look. "She's got her own things to focus on."

"I'm not pressuring," Jude protests. "Just extending a friendly invitation to experience the beautiful game."

"The beautiful game," Jiana repeats skeptically. "Y'all really call it that?"

"Some people do," Aurélien says. "Usually the pretentious ones."

"Oi," Jude says in mock offense. "I'm not pretentious."

"You spent fifteen minutes yesterday explaining why your hair gel is superior to everyone else's," Camavinga points out.

"That's not pretentious, that's educational," Jude defends. "You need to learn about proper hair care."

"My hair is fine," Kylian says, running a hand through his cropped cut.

"Basic," Jude says dismissively. "No creativity."

Jiana finds herself genuinely amused by their dynamic. It's the kind of easy friendship she's always envied but never quite managed to find for herself. Even with her teammates, there's always been a distance, a sense that she's holding something back.

"Anyway," Miguel says, clearly trying to regain control of the situation, "we should probably head back. Jiana, thank you for visiting. I hope you'll consider coming to a match."

"Maybe," Jiana says again, which seems to satisfy everyone.

As they start walking back toward the building, Aurélien falls into step beside her.

"Thanks for trying," he says quietly. "I know that probably wasn't your idea of fun."

"It wasn't terrible," Jiana admits. "Your friends are... energetic."

"That's one word for it," Aurélien says with a grin. "They mean well, though. They're good people."

"Yeah," Jiana says, and is surprised to find she means it. "They seem like it."

"The offer about university still stands," Aurélien says as they reach the building. "If you ever want to talk about it. No pressure."

"Why?" Jiana asks, the question slipping out before she can stop it. "Why would you care about my education?"

Aurélien pauses, considering his answer carefully. "Because you're smart," he says finally. "And talent like yours should have every opportunity available."

It's such a simple statement, delivered without any apparent agenda, that Jiana doesn't know how to respond. She's used to people wanting things from her—money, connections, reflected fame. But Aurélien seems to genuinely want nothing more than to see her succeed.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

"No problem," he says. "And Jiana? If you do decide to come to the match this weekend, let Carmen know. She can arrange everything."

"I'll think about it," Jiana says, and for the first time, she actually means it.

As Carmen drives her back to her apartment, Jiana finds herself thinking about the afternoon in ways she hadn't expected. She'd gone in expecting to be bored, to endure another obligation in her increasingly complicated life in Madrid.

Instead, she'd met people who seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her as a person rather than just as a basketball player. She'd tried something new and failed spectacularly without anyone making her feel stupid about it. And she'd had conversations that didn't feel like work.

It's been a long time since she's experienced that kind of ease with new people, especially men. Her default mode is suspicion and distance, walls built from years of disappointment and worse. But something about the way Aurélien had looked at her—like she was worth knowing, worth supporting—had made those walls feel less necessary.

Which is exactly why she needs to be careful.

Jiana has learned the hard way that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is. And Aurélien, with his easy smile and genuine interest and complete lack of apparent agenda, seems far too good to be true.

As soon as Carmen's Mercedes disappears through the security gates, Jude and Cama are on him like vultures.

"Bruv," Jude says, grinning so wide it looks painful. "That was the most obvious thing I've ever seen in my life."

"What?" Aurélien asks, though he knows exactly what Jude's talking about. He bends down to tie his boots, hoping to avoid the inevitable interrogation.

"Don't play dumb," Cama laughs, bouncing a football off his knee. "You were gone for her. Standing all close, being all patient teacher man."

"I was just being helpful," Aurélien says, straightening up. "She's new here, doesn't know anyone."

"Helpful," Jude repeats, making exaggerated air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Kylian jogs over, still looking confused. "What are you all talking about? What did I miss?"

"Our boy Aurélien," Jude says, throwing an arm around Kylian's shoulders, "is proper smitten with the basketball girl."

"Smitten?" Kylian's English is perfect, but sometimes British slang still trips him up.

"He wants to..." Jude makes a series of crude hand gestures that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Christ, Jude," Aurélien rolls his eyes. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" Cama asks, genuinely curious. "Because you were acting different, bro. Like, really different."

Aurélien runs a hand through his hair, that unconscious lip-licking thing happening as he tries to figure out how to explain something he doesn't really understand himself.

"I don't know," he admits finally. "She's... interesting. Smart. Talented. I like being around her."

"You like being around her," Jude repeats slowly. "Mate, you were practically drooling when she tried to kick the ball."

"I was not—"

"You were," Kylian interrupts. "Even I noticed."

"See?" Cama says triumphantly. "Even Kyky saw it."

"Don't call me Kyky," Kylian says automatically, but he's still grinning.

"Point is," Jude continues, "you need to make a move. Ask her out, slide into her DMs, something."

"Nah," Aurélien shakes his head. "She just got here. She's trying to focus on basketball, settle into a new country. Last thing she needs is some footballer trying to get with her."

"But what if someone else swoops in?" Jude asks. "What if some other guy sees how beautiful she is and makes his move first? You'll feel dumb as fuck then, won't you?"

The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in Aurélien's chest, but he pushes it down. "Then good for him, I guess."

"Maybe she doesn't like you like that anyway," Cama says thoughtfully, then immediately regrets it when all three of his friends turn to stare at him accusingly.

"What?" he asks defensively. "I mean... does she like men?"

The collective groan from Jude, Aurélien, and Kylian is immediate and dramatic.

"Bruv," Jude says, throwing his hands up. "Just because she's not throwing herself at us doesn't mean she's gay."

"Some women have standards," Aurélien adds dryly.

"Clearly not if she was staring at you," Kylian says, which makes everyone pause.

"What do you mean?" Aurélien asks, suddenly very interested.

"She was staring," Kylian says matter-of-factly. "At your chest, your abs. Very obvious about it too, even though she was trying to be subtle."

"She was?" Aurélien's voice comes out slightly higher than normal.

"Aurél," Kylian laughs. "She could barely look you in the face when you weren't wearing a shirt. Trust me, the attraction is mutual."

Aurélien feels something warm spread through his chest at the confirmation of what he'd hoped but hadn't been sure about.

"That doesn't mean anything," he says, but he's fighting a grin.

"It means she's not blind," Cama says. "Which is a good start."

"What's her story anyway?" Kylian asks. "How did she grow up?"

"I don't know much," Aurélien admits. "She was raised by her grandmother, but that's about all I know."

"You sure you want to get involved with that?" Kylian asks carefully. "Maybe she has baggage?"

"We all have baggage," Aurélien says simply. "That's life."

"True," Kylian nods. "Just... be careful, yeah? Americans can be complicated."

"Says the guy who's never dated an American," Jude points out.

"I'm just saying," Kylian defends. "Different culture, different expectations."

"She's not some alien species," Aurélien says. "She's just a person."

"A very tall, very beautiful person," Cama adds helpfully.

"Who was definitely checking you out," Jude says with a grin.

"Alright, enough," Aurélien says, but he's smiling now. "Let's finish training before Ancelotti comes looking for us."

The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and scrimmaging, but Aurélien's mind keeps drifting to Jiana—the way she'd looked when she was concentrating on the ball, the genuine curiosity in her voice when she'd asked about his education, the brief moment when her walls had seemed to come down.

After they shower and change, there's the usual crowd of fans waiting outside the facility. Aurélien signs jerseys and takes selfies, switching easily between Spanish and French depending on who's asking. A little girl hands him a drawing she made of him scoring a goal, and he makes sure to give her extra attention, knowing how much these moments mean.

"Gracias, Aurélien!" she calls as her parents lead her away, clutching the signed drawing.

"De nada, pequeña," he calls back, waving.

The black matte Lamborghini Urus is waiting in the players' parking area, and Aurélien slides behind the wheel with a sense of relief. As much as he loves the fans, there's something to be said for the quiet luxury of his car.

The drive to his villa in La Moraleja is peaceful, the Madrid traffic surprisingly light for this time of day. He's got the windows down, letting the October heat flow through the car, and for a moment he almost feels normal—just a guy driving home from work, not a professional footballer whose every move gets photographed and analyzed.

Ocho is waiting at the door when he gets home, tail wagging frantically as if Aurélien's been gone for weeks instead of hours. The Belgian Malinois follows him through the house, clearly hoping for attention and possibly treats.

"Salut, mon grand," Aurélien says, scratching behind Ocho's ears. "You missed me, eh?"

Ocho responds by trying to climb into Aurélien's lap, all sixty pounds of muscle and enthusiasm.

"You're too big for this," Aurélien laughs, but he doesn't push the dog away. There's something comforting about Ocho's unconditional affection, the way the dog doesn't care about goals or contracts or media obligations.

His phone buzzes, and when he checks it, his heart nearly stops.

jianajackson is now following you.

"Merde," he breathes, staring at the notification like it might disappear. This is huge. This is—

His phone buzzes again.

You have a new message request from jianajackson.

Aurélien's hands are actually shaking as he opens Instagram. The message is simple: Thanks for today. The football lesson was actually kind of fun.

He stares at the screen for a long moment, his mind racing. Usually, he's the first one in girls' likes, sliding into DMs without a second thought. But Jiana is different. Everything about her suggests she values subtlety, thoughtfulness. The last thing he wants to do is come across as another athlete trying to add her to his roster.

But she messaged him first. That has to mean something, right?

He types and deletes about fifteen different responses before settling on something simple: Glad you enjoyed it. You're a natural. Well, maybe with more practice 😄

He hits send before he can overthink it, then immediately starts second-guessing himself. Too casual? Not casual enough? Should he have used a different emoji?

Twenty minutes pass with no response. Then an hour. Then two.

By the time he's finished dinner, he's convinced himself that he's blown it somehow. That he read the situation wrong, that she was just being polite, that he's an idiot for thinking—

His phone buzzes.

Jiana: Definitely need more practice. Thanks for being patient with the disaster that was my footwork

Aurélien grins at his phone like an idiot. She's got a sense of humor about herself, which somehow makes her even more attractive.

Aurélien: Everyone starts somewhere. Even Ronaldinho probably couldn't kick a ball straight when he was learning

Jiana: Comparing me to Ronaldinho is a stretch but I appreciate the confidence

Aurélien: Have to start with the mindset. Visualization is half the battle

Another long pause. Aurélien tries to focus on the football match playing on his TV, but his attention keeps drifting to his phone.

Jiana: You sound like my old coach. He was always talking about mental preparation and stuff

Aurélien: Smart coach. The psychological side of sports is underrated

Jiana: True. Mental game is everything in basketball

The conversation flows more easily after that, touching on sports psychology, the differences between individual and team sports, the pressure of performing in front of crowds. Jiana's responses come faster now, and Aurélien finds himself genuinely enjoying the exchange.

Aurélien: Speaking of crowds, you should come to our match this weekend. Against Celta Vigo. Would love to show you what real football looks like 😉

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times. Aurélien holds his breath.

Jiana: I don't think I’ll understand it

Aurélien: Doesn't matter. The atmosphere is wild. Good energy and someone would always explain things to you.

Another long pause.

Jiana: Maybe. When is it?

Aurélien: Saturday, 7pm. I can arrange everything through Carmen

Jiana: ...

Jiana: Okay. Yeah. I'll come

Aurélien actually pumps his fist in the air, startling Ocho who's been dozing next to him on the couch.

Aurélien: You'll love it, I promise

Jiana: We'll see. I reserve the right to be bored out of my mind

Aurélien: Fair enough. But I think you'll be surprised

Jiana: Maybe. Anyway, I should probably get some sleep. Still adjusting to the time change

Aurélien: Of course. Sleep well, Jiana. Looking forward to Saturday

Jiana: Me too. Good night

Aurélien stares at the screen long after the conversation ends, that stupid grin still plastered across his face. She's coming to the match. She wants to see him play.

It's not a date, he reminds himself. It's just... a friendly invitation to experience Spanish football culture. Nothing more.

But as he gets ready for bed, he finds himself already planning what he'll wear to warm-ups, wondering if he should let her sit in the family section or the VIP box, and hoping he'll score a goal with her watching.

For the first time in years, Aurélien is genuinely excited about someone getting to see him play. And that feels like the beginning of something that could be either wonderful or terrifying.

Probably both.

Jiana stares at her closet like it's personally offended her, hangers pushed back and forth with increasing frustration. She can put together a pregame fit with her eyes closed—something that photographs well for the inevitable social media posts, makes a statement without trying too hard. But what the hell do you wear to a football match in Spain?

She's been standing here for thirty minutes in nothing but her underwear and a tank top, trying on and discarding different combinations. The denim jacket looks too try-hard. The sundress feels too formal. Everything either screams "I'm trying to impress you" or "I have no idea what I'm doing," both of which are unfortunately accurate.

Finally, she settles on a white ribbed crop top that shows just a hint of her belly piercing—casual but flattering—and a light blue denim skirt that hits mid-thigh without being inappropriate. Her white Nike Dunk Lows are comfortable and versatile, and she grabs her blue Diesel shoulder bag, the one she splurged on during a good mood shopping trip in Beverly Hills last spring.

She checks herself in the full-length mirror one more time, adjusting the waistband of her skirt and making sure her edges are still laid properly. The October Madrid heat means she doesn't need a jacket, which is a relief because it's one less thing to stress about.

"Good enough," she mutters to her reflection, though her stomach is doing weird flips that have nothing to do with what she's wearing and everything to do with seeing Aurélien play in front of 80,000 people.

The Santiago Bernabéu is even more intimidating than she expected, and she's played in some impressive arenas. The sheer size of it is overwhelming—she's heard it described as a cathedral of football, and now she understands why. Carmen had arranged for a driver to take her, explaining that Aurélien had specifically requested she sit in his family box rather than the general VIP area.

"It's more private," Carmen had said with a knowing smile. "Less overwhelming for your first match."

The family box is intimate but luxurious, with pristine white leather seats, a perfect view of the pitch, and enough space for maybe eight people. Tonight, she's the only one here, which makes her feel both special and completely out of place. There's a small refrigerator stocked with water and soft drinks, and someone has left a Real Madrid scarf on her seat—a thoughtful touch that she suspects came from Aurélien.

The atmosphere builds gradually as the stadium fills. Jiana has experienced loud crowds before—the WNBA Finals, March Madness, even some college football games when she was at USC. But this is different. The noise from 80,000 people isn't just audible; it's physical, a wall of sound that seems to vibrate in her chest and make her teeth ache.

When the Real Madrid players emerge from the tunnel for warm-ups, the roar is absolutely deafening. She instinctively covers her ears, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of human voices united in purpose.

She spots Aurélien immediately—number 14, moving with that same controlled confidence she'd noticed at training but somehow amplified by the magnitude of the stage. Even from this distance, she can see the focus in his movements as he goes through his preparation routine, the way he seems to inhabit his body completely, every gesture purposeful and precise.

The Real Madrid warm-up kit is sleek—all black with subtle royal blue accents—and it fits him perfectly, highlighting the athletic build she's definitely not supposed to be noticing but absolutely is. When he runs, there's something almost predatory about his stride, like energy contained and waiting to be unleashed.

The game itself is confusing as hell. She tries to follow what's happening, but the constant movement and lack of obvious scoring opportunities make it difficult to understand when something significant is occurring. In basketball, she can read the flow of a game instinctively—the momentum shifts, the crucial possessions, the moments when everything hangs in the balance. Here, she's lost, dependent on the crowd's reactions to tell her what matters.

What she can focus on is Aurélien. The way he commands the midfield like a conductor leading an orchestra, always seeming to be in the right place at the right time. There's something almost balletic about how he moves—powerful but graceful, controlled but dynamic. He covers an incredible amount of ground, appearing wherever the ball needs him to be.

And then there are the little things that she probably shouldn't be noticing but absolutely is. The way he sticks his tongue out slightly when he's concentrating on a particularly difficult pass, a habit that reminds her of Michael Jordan. How he wipes his sweaty face with the bottom of his jersey during breaks in play, revealing glimpses of defined abs that make her mouth go dry. The casual way he pours water over his head, letting it run down his face and neck in a way that should be purely functional but somehow seems intensely sensual.

There's one moment in the second half when he spits on the pitch after a particularly physical challenge, and it should be disgusting—she's always found men's casual bodily functions gross—but instead it strikes her as very masculine.

Jiana, who's trauma-locked most of the "normal" things girls her age experience like casual hookups and situationships, finds herself actually getting turned on watching him play. The realization is both thrilling and terrifying, like discovering a part of herself she'd assumed was permanently broken.

Dr. Porter would be so proud, she thinks wryly, remembering her last therapy session before leaving LA. Finally feeling normal human attraction. Only took ten years and moving to another continent.

Real Madrid wins 3-1, with goals from Jude, Kylian, and a late strike from Vinícius that seals the victory. Aurélien doesn't score, but she watches him celebrate his teammates' goals with genuine joy, throwing his arms around them and shouting with the kind of unfiltered happiness that reminds her why she fell in love with team sports in the first place. There's something beautiful about grown men allowing themselves to be that openly emotional, that vulnerable in their excitement.

The celebration in the stadium is intense, a wall of sound and movement that feels almost religious in its fervor. Fans are crying, hugging strangers, singing songs she doesn't understand but somehow feels in her bones. For a moment, she gets it—the passion, the devotion, the way sports can unite complete strangers in shared joy.

After the match, Carmen appears to escort her down to the players' area, navigating through corridors lined with photographs of Real Madrid legends. The hallway outside the locker room is crowded with family members, friends, and—unsurprisingly—a collection of women who are clearly hoping to catch a player's attention.

Groupies are the same everywhere, Jiana thinks, watching girls in barely-there dresses and full makeup position themselves strategically near the locker room doors. Most of them are stunning in that Instagram-perfect way—flawless makeup, designer outfits, the kind of effortless beauty that comes from having unlimited time and money to invest in appearance.

Whether it's NBA players or footballers, the Joes never change.

Players start emerging from the locker room fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in team-issued tracksuits. Jude appears first, his hair still perfectly styled despite having just played ninety minutes of professional football, immediately surrounded by what appears to be an entire extended family. His smile is genuinely warm as he hugs an older woman who's clearly his mother, and something about the interaction makes Jiana smile.

Camavinga follows, then Kylian, each drawing their own crowd of admirers and family members. The energy is festive, celebratory, full of the kind of joy that comes from shared victory.

When Aurélien finally emerges, Jiana's breath catches slightly. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and the Real Madrid tracksuit fits him like it was custom-made. The navy blue and white color scheme highlights his dark skin beautifully, and there's something about the way he moves—loose-limbed and relaxed now that the pressure of performance is over—that makes her stomach do those weird flips again.

He scans the crowd until his eyes find hers, and his entire face lights up with a smile that makes her feel like she's the only person in the room.

"Hey," he says, making his way over to her through the crowd. Up close, she can see the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders are finally allowed to relax now that the match is over. "You stayed."

"Good game," she says, trying to sound casual even though her heart is doing something irregular in her chest. "I mean, I have no idea what happened half the time, but you guys won, so that's good, right?"

Aurélien laughs, that warm sound she's beginning to associate with genuine happiness. "It was a bit chaotic. Not our cleanest performance, but three points is three points."

There's something in his voice—a slight hoarseness from ninety minutes of shouting instructions to teammates—that she finds unexpectedly attractive. Everything about him right now speaks of physical exertion, of a body pushed to its limits and emerging victorious.

They stare at each other for a moment, eye to eye thanks to their similar heights, and Jiana finds herself caught in the intensity of his gaze. There's something almost electric about being able to look directly into someone's eyes without heels, without having to crane her neck or look down. Most of the men she's known have been intimidated by her height, but Aurélien seems to appreciate it, like he's finally found someone who exists in the same physical space he does.

She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, suddenly feeling awkward under his attention. "I should probably head out," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the crowd. "Let you celebrate with your teammates and stuff."

"Are you hungry?" Aurélien asks quickly, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he doesn't keep her talking. "We could grab something to eat. I know this place—"

"I'm not really—" Jiana starts, but her stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough to be heard over the hallway chatter.

Aurélien's grin is absolutely wicked, transforming his face from exhausted athlete to mischievous boy in the span of a second. "Liar."

Before she can respond, he wraps his arm around her shoulders in a casual, friendly gesture that's probably meant to be comforting. "Come on, let's get some tacos. I know this place that—"

Jiana immediately tenses and shrugs his arm off, stepping away quickly enough that she almost stumbles. The reaction is automatic, born from years of not wanting to be touched without explicit permission, of learning that casual physical contact usually leads to expectations she's not prepared to meet.

"Sorry," Aurélien says immediately, his hands going up in a gesture of surrender. His voice is soft, concerned, and there's no hint of offense or confusion—just immediate understanding that he's crossed a boundary. "I didn't mean to—"

"No touching," Jiana says, her voice sharper than she intends. The words come out harsh, defensive, but she can't take them back. "I just... don't like being touched."

"Of course," Aurélien says gently, and there's no judgment in his voice, no probing questions about why or what happened to make her this way. Just simple acceptance. "I won't do that again. My bad."

The apology is so straightforward, so free of the ego she's used to encountering when men are corrected, that it catches her off guard. Most guys would press for an explanation, or worse, take it as a personal challenge. But Aurélien just nods and adjusts his behavior immediately.

They walk out into the cool Madrid night, and almost immediately fans spot Aurélien. Word travels fast through the crowd of people still milling around the stadium, and within minutes there's a small group of supporters approaching with jerseys, phones, and requests for photos.

Aurélien stops without being asked, always patient and gracious even though he's clearly tired from ninety minutes of intense physical activity. He signs autographs with a silver Sharpie someone hands him, poses for selfies, and answers questions in rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow but clearly means the world to the people asking.

She watches him interact with supporters, noting details she probably shouldn't be cataloging. How his tracksuit fits him perfectly, tailored in a way that suggests Real Madrid spares no expense on their players' appearance. The way he carries himself with a certain aura that's both confident and approachable—star quality, her grandmother would have called it. His white Nike high-tops are pristine and his crew socks show just above the shoes in a style that's distinctly American.

"Your style is very American," she tells him once he's finished with the fans and they're walking toward the parking garage.

"I like American culture," he says simply, glancing at her with something that might be shyness. "Music, fashion, sports. Always have."

"Since when?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Since I was a kid, really. My uncle lived in New York for a few years when I was growing up. He'd send me things—jerseys, shoes, music. I guess it stuck."

He leads her to his car, and when she sees the matte black Lamborghini Urus waiting in the players' section, Jiana lets out an appreciative whistle.

"You like it?" Aurélien asks, and his expression is almost boyish in its excitement, like a kid showing off a favorite toy.

"It's a nice car," she says, deliberately monotone because she doesn't want to feed his ego too much.

"Just nice?" He's clearly fishing for a better reaction, and his grin suggests he knows exactly what he's doing.

"I fuck with it," she admits.

Aurélien moves to open the passenger door for her, and Jiana looks confused by the gesture. In her experience, men her age don't do things like open car doors—chivalry died somewhere around the time of dating apps and hookup culture.

"Maman raised me right," he explains with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"So you're a gentleman?" she teases, though there's wariness underneath the humor. Men who present themselves as gentlemen often have the most to hide.

"Of course, Ji," he says, smiling widely enough to show perfect teeth. "Always."

There's something in the way he says it—sincere but with just a hint of suggestion—that makes her stomach flutter. But Jiana's default mode is mistrust, so she pushes the feeling down and slides into the passenger seat.

The interior of the Urus is exactly what she'd expect from an expensive car—all black leather and brushed aluminum, with a sound system that could probably be heard from space. It smells like cologne and leather conditioner, distinctly masculine but not overwhelming.

He closes her door and jogs around to the driver's side, sliding in with the kind of athletic grace that suggests he's comfortable in his body in a way most people never achieve. Jiana sits stiffly, clearly uncomfortable in the intimate space of the car, hyperaware of his presence beside her.

"Buckle up, please," Aurélien says gently, fastening his own seatbelt before starting the engine.

He drives the way she imagines most men his age drives—one hand on the wheel, completely relaxed, like the machine is an extension of himself. It's casual and confident and somehow intensely attractive.

"So what did you think of the Bernabéu?" he asks, glancing at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"It's huge," Jiana says, which feels like an understatement. "The noise was insane. I could barely hear myself think."

"That's the best part," Aurélien grins, downshifting smoothly as they approach a red light. "The atmosphere. Nothing like it in the world. Did you hear them singing during the match?"

"I heard something," she admits. "Couldn't understand what they were saying, but it sounded beautiful."

"'Hala Madrid y nada más,'" he says, his pronunciation perfect. "'Come on Madrid and nothing more.' It's our anthem. Been singing it for decades."

There's pride in his voice when he talks about the club, the kind of deep affection that comes from being part of something bigger than yourself. Jiana recognizes it because she feels the same way about basketball.

"What kind of food do you like?" he asks after a moment, changing lanes with smooth precision.

Jiana shrugs, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her tastes. "I'm pretty basic. Love McDonald's."

Aurélien laughs out loud at that, a sound of genuine amusement rather than mockery. "I'm not taking you to McDonald's."

"You don't have to spend money on me," she says quickly, that familiar panic rising in her chest. In her experience, when men spend money on her, they expect something in return. "I'm a simple girl. Nothing wrong with Mickey D's."

"I can't do that to you," he says, shaking his head with mock horror. "We can go somewhere lowkey, though. A place I go to all the time when I want good food without the fuss."

"What, like NOBU?" she teases, thinking of the expensive sushi chain that NBA players are always posting about on Instagram.

"If you want," Aurélien says seriously, missing the sarcasm entirely. "I love the one in Malibu. The view is incredible."

Jiana laughs self-deprecatingly, the sound coming out harsher than she intends. "I've never been to NOBU. That's like, rich people food."

Aurélien actually gasps, taking his eyes off the road long enough to stare at her in what appears to be genuine shock. "What do you mean? You're in LA! The Malibu one is beautiful, and the one in West Hollywood is incredible too. Now we have to go."

"Please don't," Jiana says, panic creeping into her voice at the thought of him spending hundreds of dollars on dinner for her.

Aurélien goes quiet for a moment, clearly sensing her discomfort but not understanding its source. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully hopeful.

"Another time?" he asks. "When you're more comfortable with the idea?"

Jiana stares at him while he's stopped at a red light, the Madrid streetlights casting shadows across his face. He's looking at her with an expression she can't quite read—hopeful but patient, interested but not pushy.

"Next time?" she asks, the words coming out smaller than she intended.

"Yeah," he says, his smile returning as the light turns green. "Maybe we could make it a celebration dinner. If you win your next game, we go to NOBU."

The words hit Jiana like a physical blow. Her breathing becomes shallow, her heart rate picking up as the implications sink in. He's talking about future plans, about seeing her again, about celebrating her achievements. It's the kind of thing normal people do, the kind of casual relationship building that she's never learned how to navigate.

"Like a date?" The words tumble out before she can stop them, her mouth moving faster than her brain, anxiety making her voice tight and breathless.

Aurélien stutters for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the direct question. He glances at her shocked expression, taking in her wide eyes and rapid breathing.

"You want to go out with me?" he asks carefully, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Don't mind me," Jiana says quickly, backtracking as fast as she can. "Just a dumb question. I don't know why I said that."

"We can go on a date if you want," Aurélien says after a moment, his voice careful and measured. "That's... cool with me."

"I can't—I don't—I've never—" Jiana starts making excuses, the words tumbling over each other in her haste to explain why it's impossible, why he wouldn't want to, why she's not the kind of girl who goes on dates. "Never been on one before," she admits finally, her voice so low she hopes he won't hear.

But he does hear, and he goes quiet, streetlights passing over his face as he drives. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and she can see him processing this information, trying to figure out how to respond.

"We can do whatever you want, Ji," he says finally, his voice gentle and free of judgment. "Date, no date, just hanging out as friends... whatever makes you comfortable."

Jiana is stunned by the sincerity in his voice, by the way he's managed to take the pressure off without making her feel pathetic for her inexperience. She straightens in her seat slightly, then quickly changes the subject before he can ask any follow-up questions.

"So this place has tacos?"

The taco place is exactly what Aurélien promised—lowkey and authentic, the kind of hole-in-the-wall spot that locals love but tourists never find. It's called "Tacos El Primo" and it's tucked between a barbershop and a laundromat in a neighborhood that's clearly not designed for people like them.

The owner, a middle-aged Mexican man named Carlos, clearly knows Aurélien well. They exchange rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow, but Carlos's face lights up when he sees her, and he insists on bringing them extra portions of everything.

They sit at a small table in the back corner, away from the handful of other customers, and Jiana loads her tacos with enough hot sauce to make Aurélien's eyes water just watching.

"You're gonna regret that," he warns, taking a more conservative approach to the salsa selection.

"I like spicy food," she says, taking a huge bite that proves her point. The heat is immediate and intense, but she doesn't even flinch.

"Respect," Aurélien says, clearly impressed. "Most people can't handle Carlos's hot sauce."

They talk easily about Madrid—what she's seen so far, what she thinks of the city compared to LA, Aurélien's favorite places to visit when he wants to escape the football world. He tells her about hidden restaurants in the historic center, about parks where he likes to walk Ocho, about bookstores and art galleries that most tourists never discover.

"You read?" Jiana asks, surprised.

"All the time," he says. "Mostly non-fiction. Business books, biographies, some philosophy. Helps me think about life beyond football."

It's another layer to him that she hadn't expected. Most athletes she knows live entirely in the present, focused only on their sport and the lifestyle it provides. But Aurélien seems to think about the future, about who he wants to be when his playing career ends.

He tells her about his villa in La Moraleja, describing it in a way that makes it sound comfortable rather than ostentatious. About Uncle Bertrand, who helps manage the household and keeps him grounded when the pressures of professional football threaten to overwhelm him.

"You live with your uncle?" Jiana teases, grinning around a bite of taco.

"My uncle lives with me," Aurélien corrects with mock offense. "Very different situation. I own the house."

"Sure it is," she laughs.

"He's in Bordeaux right now anyway," Aurélien says. "Visiting family, checking on some business interests. Comes back next week."

He shows her pictures of Ocho on his phone, and Jiana finds herself genuinely smiling at the photos of the massive dog trying to fit into inappropriate spaces—curled up in a chair clearly meant for humans, attempting to hide behind a plant that's half his size.

"He thinks he's still a puppy," Aurélien explains, scrolling through what appears to be hundreds of dog photos. "Sixty pounds of muscle trying to sit in my lap like he weighs ten pounds."

"That's actually really cute," Jiana says, and means it. There's something endearing about a successful professional athlete being completely devoted to his dog.

"He'd love you," Aurélien says without thinking, then seems to realize how that sounds. "I mean, he loves everyone. Very friendly dog."

The conversation flows easier than she expected, without the awkward pauses or forced topics she's used to. Aurélien seems genuinely interested in what she has to say, asking follow-up questions and remembering details from their previous conversations. When she mentions missing certain foods from LA, he makes mental notes. When she talks about adjusting to the different pace of life in Madrid, he offers practical advice without being condescending.

"It's different here," he says. "Less rushed than LA or New York. Takes some getting used to if you're American."

"You've spent time in America?" she asks.

"Some. Training camps, vacation, visiting friends. I love it there. The energy is incredible."

When they're back in the car outside her apartment building, the energy shifts slightly. The evening is winding down, and there's an awareness between them that this has been more than just a casual meal between acquaintances.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the Urus's engine quietly purring, before Aurélien speaks.

"This was fun," he says, his voice soft in the darkness of the car.

"It was," Jiana agrees, surprised by how much she means it. She can't remember the last time she enjoyed someone's company this much without feeling like she needed to perform or maintain a certain image.

Aurélien stares at her for a moment, like he's trying to memorize her face in the dim light from the street lamps. "Do you want to hang out again?"

Jiana's mouth opens, her defenses automatically rising like armor, but Aurélien continues quickly.

"As a friend," he says, his voice gentle and free of pressure. "You look like you could use one."

"How do you know what I need?" Jiana asks, immediately defensive. The words come out sharper than she intends, but she's tired of people thinking they can read her, tired of being seen as a project to fix.

"You're in a new city in a different country, Ji," Aurélien says calmly, his voice steady and reasonable. "Having a friend isn't a bad thing, you know? Doesn't have to be complicated."

"Mmhmm," she says, not quite trusting his motivations but unable to argue with the logic. "I'll think about it," she says finally, which feels like the safest response.

"Good," Aurélien says, his smile visible even in the darkness. "Take all the time you need. Good night, Jiana," he says softly as she reaches for the door handle.

"Good night," she replies, getting out of the car and walking toward her building without looking back, though she can feel his eyes on her until she disappears through the entrance.

Aurélien sits in the car for several minutes after she's gone, smiling like a fool and replaying every moment of the evening in his mind, before finally driving away through the quiet Madrid streets.

Inside her apartment, Jiana closes the door and immediately slides down the wall to the floor, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight. She starts crying and laughing at the same time, overwhelmed by emotions she doesn't know how to process or name.

The evening had been... nice. Better than nice. It had been easy and comfortable and normal in a way she's never experienced with a man. But that's exactly what terrifies her.

Whatever Aurélien thinks he wants with her—friendship, dating, whatever—he won't be interested much longer once he realizes how fucked up she really is. Once he understands the depth of her damage, the extent of her trust issues, the reasons why she's never been on a date at twenty-four years old. The thought makes her cry harder, but there's also relief in it—the familiar territory of expecting disappointment, of knowing that good things don't last.

She wipes her tears away slowly, taking deep breaths the way Grandma Rose had taught her when the panic attacks started after the incident with her mother's dealer.

"Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, baby girl," she can hear her grandmother's voice as clearly as if she were sitting right there beside her on the hardwood floor. "The feelings will pass. They always do. You're stronger than whatever's trying to break you."

The memory of her grandmother's voice—patient, loving, unconditionally supportive—makes her cry harder, but also helps center her. Rose Jackson had been the only person who'd ever loved Jiana without conditions, without expectations, without trying to change her or fix her or make her into something she wasn't.

Jiana sniffles and gets up from the floor, her emotional walls sliding back into place like armor she's worn so long it feels like skin. She heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed and practice tomorrow.

No more thinking about boys. No more Aurélien. No more fantasizing about what it might be like to be normal, to trust someone, to let her guard down long enough to see what might grow in the space between them.

She has basketball to focus on, and that's all that matters. That's all that's ever mattered.

Even if part of her—a part she thought was dead—wishes desperately that things could be different.

The conference room at CAA Sports feels like a fucking courtroom, and Jiana Jackson is pretty sure she's about to get the death penalty. The leather chair beneath her is too stiff, the air conditioning set to arctic blast, and her agent Rob sits across from her looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. Rob Martinez—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, wearing a Tom Ford suit—has that look on his face. The one that means she's about to hear some shit she definitely doesn't want to hear.

Here we go, Jiana thinks, crossing her arms over her chest. The defensive posture is automatic, learned from years of protecting herself in situations where bad news came wrapped in concerned voices and disappointed expressions.

"Jiana," Rob starts, his voice carrying that careful tone she's learned to hate. It's the same voice her social workers used to use, the same one her mother's public defender had perfected. "We need to talk."

"We are talking," she replies, but her stomach is already twisting itself into knots. The wall-to-wall windows of the Beverly Hills office show a perfect view of LA sprawl, palm trees swaying in the October heat, and she finds herself wishing she was anywhere but here. "So talk."

Rob slides a tablet across the polished mahogany table, the glass surface reflecting the recessed lighting overhead. ESPN headlines fill the screen in that familiar red and black font: "Sparks Forward Jiana Jackson Ejected After Technical Foul," "Jackson's Locker Room Altercation Raises Questions," "WNBA's Bad Girl: Has Jiana Jackson Gone Too Far?"

She's seen them all already. Hell, she's lived them all. Each headline represents a moment when her anger got the better of her judgment, when the pain she carries around like a second skin finally broke through the surface. The problem is that the pain never goes away, but the headlines keep multiplying.

"Your reputation is becoming a problem," Rob says bluntly, and Jiana appreciates that he's not trying to sugarcoat it. After four years of working together, he knows she prefers brutal honesty to diplomatic bullshit. "The Sparks management is getting pressure from the league office. They appreciate your talent—you averaged 18.2 points and 8.4 rebounds this season—but talent doesn't mean shit if you're a liability."

Liability. The word sits heavy in the air between them. It's not the first time she's been called that, and it probably won't be the last. From the moment she walked into that first foster home at eight years old, people have been trying to figure out what to do with Jiana Jackson. Too angry for some families, too damaged for others, too much trouble for anyone who wasn't her grandmother.

"I'm not a liability," she snaps, though even she knows it sounds weak. Her voice carries the slight rasp she's had since childhood, a remnant of too many nights spent screaming into pillows to muffle the sound. "I play hard. Sometimes that means getting physical."

"Getting physical is one thing." Rob leans back in his chair, and she can see the exhaustion in his dark brown eyes. He's been fighting for her longer than most people, longer than she probably deserves. "Getting arrested for public intoxication three hours before a playoff game is another."

The memory hits like a physical blow. That night three weeks ago—sitting in a holding cell in downtown LA, still wearing her pregame outfit, watching her teammates on the news talking about how disappointed they were. The shame had been worse than the hangover, worse than the media circus that followed.

She'd been dealing with her half-brother Malik calling again, asking for money she didn't have to spare. "Mom's in the hospital again," he'd said, like that was supposed to make her care. Like twenty years of neglect and abuse could be erased by a medical emergency. "She's asking for you, Ji. She wants to make things right."

But there was no making things right. Not after what that woman had put her through. Not after what she'd allowed to happen.

"It was a mistake," Jiana mutters, picking at the edge of her thumbnail—a nervous habit from childhood that she's never been able to break.

"It was the last straw," Rob corrects, his voice gentler now. "The Sparks are considering a trade. They don't want to—you're one of the most talented players they've ever had—but they will if you don't get your act together."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Los Angeles is the only home she's known since her grandmother died five years ago. Grandma Rose had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else, wearing a homemade shirt with Jiana's number painted in glittery letters.

The thought of starting over somewhere else, with new teammates who'd already heard all the stories about her, makes her throat tight.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, and she hates how small her voice sounds. It reminds her of being fourteen years old, standing in a police station trying to explain why she'd beaten the shit out of three older girls who'd cornered her after school. "They started it," she'd said then, the same way she says it now. But starting it and finishing it are two different things, and Jiana has always been better at the finishing part.

Rob leans forward, his expression softening in that way that makes her think of her grandmother. Sometimes she forgets that Rob isn't just her agent—he actually gives a damn about her wellbeing, which makes him either incredibly stupid or incredibly loyal. Maybe both.

"I want you to take the off-season seriously," he says, pulling out a thick folder from his briefcase. The leather case is buttery soft, probably Italian, and she wonders absently if successful agents learn about expensive accessories in agent school. "Not just training, but working on yourself. Your mindset. Your reputation."

"I train hard every off-season—"

"In LA, where the same temptations and triggers are waiting for you every day," he interrupts, and she knows he's right even though she doesn't want to admit it. "I'm talking about a change of scenery. Complete change."

The Real Madrid logo catches her eye immediately, bold white letters against a royal blue background that somehow manages to look both classic and intimidating. She's not much of a soccer fan, but even she knows what that logo represents—excellence, tradition, winning at the highest level.

"Real Madrid Baloncesto," Rob explains, opening the folder to reveal glossy photos and official-looking documents. "Their women's team. They've extended an invitation for you to train with them during the WNBA off-season. October through March."

Jiana stares at the folder like it might grow teeth and bite her. The photos show a state-of-the-art facility that makes the Sparks' training center look like a high school gym. Players in crisp white and blue uniforms running drills, lifting weights, looking like they actually enjoy being there.

"Spain?" The word comes out strangled. "You want me to go to Spain?"

"I want you to go somewhere you can focus on basketball without distractions," Rob says patiently. "Somewhere you can rebuild your image and work with some of the best coaches in Europe." He slides another photo across the table—the Madrid Baloncesto women's team celebrating a championship, confetti falling around them like snow. "They've produced players who've gone on to dominate in the WNBA. This could be huge for your development."

Development. Another one of those words that follows her around like a lost dog. She's been "developing" her whole life—developing coping mechanisms, developing trust issues, developing a reputation for being too much trouble to handle.

"Or it could be a complete waste of time in a country where I don't speak the language," she says, but she's already studying the photos more carefully. The players look happy, united. Nothing like the tension she'd felt in the Sparks locker room these past few months, where conversations stopped when she walked in and teammates looked at her like she was a bomb that might explode at any moment.

"You'll learn," Rob says simply. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Ji. And it's not just about basketball. Real Madrid has one of the best PR teams in the world. They know how to rehab a public image."

Rehab. Like she's broken and needs fixing. Maybe she is. Maybe that's exactly what she needs—to be thousands of miles away from everything that reminds her of who she used to be, who she's been told she is.

"What about my sponsorships?" The practical question grounds her, pulls her back from the edge of whatever emotional cliff she'd been approaching. Under Armour and MAC Cosmetics aren't huge deals—not like what the NBA guys get—but they pay her bills and then some. More importantly, they represent the first time in her life that someone wanted to pay her for something other than keeping her mouth shut. "They okay with me disappearing to Europe?"

"Already cleared it with both brands." Rob's smile is genuine, the first real one she's seen from him today. "Under Armour is actually excited about the international exposure. They're trying to expand their European market, especially in women's basketball. And MAC..." He grins wider. "They're planning a European campaign launch next year. Having their brand ambassador playing in Madrid could work out perfectly."

He's thought of everything, which means he's been planning this for longer than just today. Probably since her arrest made national news, maybe even before that. The realization should piss her off—the idea that people are making decisions about her life behind her back—but instead she feels something that might be relief. Someone is looking out for her, even when she's too stubborn to look out for herself.

"When would I leave?" she asks, though she's not sure she's actually agreeing to anything yet. Her grandmother always told her to ask questions first and make decisions second, one of the many pieces of advice she's been terrible at following.

"Two weeks. Gives you time to get your affairs in order, maybe visit Rose before you go."

The mention of her grandmother hits different than she expects. Rose Jackson is buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills, a far cry from the South Central neighborhood where she'd raised Jiana after the state took her away from her mother. Every month, Jiana drives there with fresh flowers—sunflowers, because those were Grandma Rose's favorites—and sits by the headstone trying to figure out what the hell she's doing with her life.

"I need to think about it," she says finally, but they both know what her answer will be. Where else is she going to go? Back to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, where the silence is so thick she can taste it? Back to the Sparks, where her teammates tolerate her presence but don't really want her there?

Rob nods, sliding a business card across the table with elegant script that reads "Carmen Ruiz, Player Relations, Real Madrid C.F." "Carmen will be your point of contact in Madrid. She speaks perfect English, knows the city inside and out, and she's dealt with American players before. Think of her as your cultural translator."

"And if I hate it?"

"Then you come home and we figure out plan B." Rob's voice is steady, confident. "But I don't think you'll hate it. I think you'll find exactly what you've been looking for."

What I've been looking for. Jiana almost laughs at that. She's been looking for peace of mind, for a place where her past doesn't follow her around like a shadow, for the feeling of belonging somewhere that she lost when her grandmother died. But those aren't things you can find by changing geography. Those are things you have to build from the inside out, and Jiana's inside has been under construction for so long she's forgotten what the finished product is supposed to look like.

But maybe that's exactly why she needs to go. Maybe being somewhere completely new, where nobody knows her story or her reputation, is exactly the kind of fresh start she's been afraid to want.

"Forty-eight hours," she says, standing up and gathering the folder. "Give me forty-eight hours to decide."

Rob stands too, straightening his tie in a gesture that probably costs him a thousand dollars. "Fair enough. But Jiana?" He waits until she meets his eyes, and for a moment his expression reminds her so much of her grandmother that her chest gets tight. "This isn't just about basketball. This is about giving yourself permission to start over. Clean slate, new environment, new opportunities to be whoever you want to be."

New opportunities. The phrase follows her out of the building and into the parking garage where her Jeep Wrangler sits baking in the October LA heat. The car is one of her few indulgences—matte black with custom rims and tinted windows that let her disappear when she needs to. She sits in the driver's seat for a long moment, air conditioning blasting, staring at the folder Rob insisted she take with her.

Real Madrid. The most successful football club in the world, and apparently their basketball program isn't too shabby either. The photos show facilities that would make NBA teams jealous, players who look like they actually enjoy being there, coaches who seem invested in development rather than just managing personalities and putting out fires.

Her phone buzzes with a text from her teammate Nneka, asking if she wants to grab dinner. For a second, she considers it. Nneka is one of the few people on the team who still talks to her like a human being instead of a walking PR disaster, who remembers that underneath all the attitude and anger is someone who just wants to belong somewhere.

But then she thinks about sitting in some trendy LA restaurant, trying to pretend everything is fine while people at other tables recognize her and whisper about her latest fuck-up. The idea makes her stomach turn and her skin feel too tight, the way it always does when she feels trapped.

Instead, she drives home to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, taking the long way along the coast because the sight of the ocean sometimes helps quiet the noise in her head. The Pacific stretches endlessly to the horizon, indifferent to her problems and her reputation and her inability to stay out of her own way.

The apartment is nice—ocean views, modern kitchen, walk-in closet full of designer clothes she rarely wears because most places she goes, people are looking for reasons to judge her anyway. But it feels empty in a way that has nothing to do with furniture or decoration and everything to do with the fact that she's been living there for four years without making it feel like home.

She spreads Rob's photos across her coffee table, pushes her laptop aside, and FaceTimes the one person whose opinion actually matters to her.

"Hey, baby girl," comes the familiar voice of Coach Thompson, her high school coach who'd been more of a father figure than anyone else in her life. His weathered face fills the screen, dark skin lined with years of standing on sidelines and dealing with teenage attitudes, but his eyes are the same warm brown that had made her feel safe when she was seventeen and angry at the world. "How'd the meeting go?"

"About as well as expected," Jiana says, settling back into her couch and pulling a throw pillow into her lap. "Rob wants to ship me off to Spain."

Coach Thompson's eyebrows raise toward his receding hairline. He's in his sixties now, retired from coaching but still involved with youth programs in South Central, still the same man who'd seen something in a angry, defensive teenager that nobody else wanted to deal with. "Spain? That's a new one. What's in Spain?"

She explains the Real Madrid opportunity, watching his expression shift from skeptical to thoughtful as she talks. He's one of the only people who knows her whole story—the childhood trauma, the trust issues, the way she uses anger as armor to keep people at a distance. He'd been there through the worst of it, never judging, never trying to fix her, just consistently showing up until she'd finally learned to trust that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Sounds like Rob is looking out for you," he says when she finishes. "Question is, are you ready to let him?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" But she knows what it means, even as she asks the question.

"Jiana, I've known you since you were fourteen years old, sitting in my office after getting suspended for fighting." His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he'd used when she was a teenager convinced that the whole world was against her. "You've got more talent in your pinky finger than most players have in their whole body. But talent isn't what's holding you back, and we both know it."

She knows where this is going, but she asks anyway because sometimes she needs to hear it said out loud. "What is?"

"Fear," he says simply, and the word hits like a physical blow because it's true. "Fear of trusting people. Fear of letting your guard down. Fear of being vulnerable enough to actually grow."

The words sting because they cut straight to the bone, past all her defenses and excuses to the truth she's been running from for years. Ever since what happened with her mother's dealer when she was fourteen—the thing she's never talked about with anyone, not even Coach Thompson, not even the therapists her grandmother had insisted she see. Ever since the juvenile detention center, where she'd learned that the world was divided into predators and prey and she'd rather be the predator. Ever since watching her grandmother slowly waste away from cancer while Jiana was powerless to help, learning that loving someone just meant having more to lose.

"So you think I should go?" she asks, her voice smaller than she intended.

Coach Thompson is quiet for a moment, studying her through the screen with those eyes that have always seen too much. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "I think you should ask yourself what Rose would want you to do."

The mention of her grandmother makes her chest tight in a way that still catches her off guard, even five years later. Rose Jackson had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter, the only person who'd ever looked at Jiana and seen potential instead of problems. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else in her homemade shirts and costume jewelry, believing in Jiana even when Jiana didn't believe in herself.

And she'd died just as Jiana's professional career was beginning, leaving her alone with nothing but basketball and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign.

"She'd want me to stop being scared," Jiana admits quietly, the words barely audible even to herself.

"There you go," Coach Thompson's smile is warm, proud. "That woman raised you to be brave, not bitter. Maybe it's time to honor that."

After they hang up, Jiana sits in the quiet of her apartment, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows that she'd thought were so impressive when she'd first moved in. The Real Madrid folder sits open beside her, full of possibilities and unknowns that should terrify her but somehow don't.

Spain. A country she's never visited, a language she doesn't speak, a team full of strangers who probably know her reputation but not her story. It should be the kind of situation that sends her running in the opposite direction, the way she's been running from anything that requires trust or vulnerability for years.

Instead, for the first time in months, she feels something that might be hope.

_____________________________________________

The terminal is massive, all gleaming steel and glass, filled with the sounds of multiple languages and the constant movement of travelers heading to destinations she's only seen in movies. Everything feels foreign—the signs, the accents, even the way people dress and carry themselves. For a moment, the panic she's been keeping at bay threatens to overwhelm her.

What the hell am I doing here?

Carmen meets her at the arrivals gate. She’s a woman in her forties with short dark hair styled in a way that suggests she pays attention to fashion, kind eyes that remind Jiana a little of her grandmother, and the kind of professional warmth that seems genuine rather than forced. She speaks perfect English with just a hint of an accent, and she doesn't seem fazed by Jiana's obvious culture shock or the way she's gripping her carry-on bag like a lifeline.

"Welcome to Madrid," Carmen says, taking one of Jiana's bags despite her protests. Her handshake is firm, confident, and she's wearing a Real Madrid polo that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable. "How was your flight?"

"Long," Jiana admits, following her through the airport and trying not to gawk at everything like the tourist she definitely is. "And turbulent as hell over the Atlantic. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes somewhere over Ireland."

Carmen laughs, a genuine sound that helps ease some of the tension in Jiana's shoulders. "Your first time in Europe?"

"First time anywhere outside the US, actually." It feels embarrassing to admit, but it's true. Most of her teammates have traveled extensively—summer leagues in different countries, vacations in exotic locations that they post about on Instagram with captions about finding themselves. Jiana has always spent her off-seasons training in LA or visiting her grandmother's grave, too afraid to venture beyond the familiar.

"Then you're in for a treat," Carmen says as they approach a sleek black Mercedes that screams "expensive but understated." "Madrid is a beautiful city. Rich history, incredible food, some of the most passionate sports fans in the world."

The drive into the city is like something out of a European travel documentary. Ancient buildings with intricate facades stand next to sleek modern architecture, tree-lined boulevards stretch as far as she can see, and everywhere there are people—walking, talking, living their lives in a way that seems more relaxed than the constant hustle of LA. The city feels old in a way that America never does, like it has stories to tell and all the time in the world to tell them.

"Your apartment is in Malasaña," Carmen explains as they navigate through traffic that somehow seems more civilized than LA despite the narrow streets. "Great neighborhood, lots of young people, very safe. Close to the training facility and to the city center if you want to explore."

"And the team?" Jiana asks, watching Madrid unfold outside the window like a painting come to life. "What should I expect?"

Carmen glances at her in the rearview mirror, and Jiana can see her choosing her words carefully. "They're excited to have you. Your reputation precedes you, but in a good way. They know you're talented, and they respect what you've accomplished in the WNBA."

"Even with all the..." Jiana waves her hand vaguely, and Carmen's understanding smile tells her that she doesn't need to finish the sentence.

"Everyone has a story, Jiana. What matters is what you do going forward."

The apartment is better than she expected—a two-bedroom space on the third floor of a building that looks like it was built sometime in the last century but has been renovated with modern touches. High ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light, modern furniture that manages to feel both stylish and comfortable. There's a balcony overlooking a tree-lined street where she can see people walking dogs, carrying grocery bags, living their ordinary lives in a way that seems almost magical after the isolation of LA.

"You'll get a phone with a Spanish number, and there's Wi-Fi already set up," Carmen explains, showing her around with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "The kitchen is fully stocked with basics, and there's a grocery store two blocks away. El Corte Inglés is the big department store if you need anything else—clothes, electronics, whatever."

"When do I meet the team?"

"Tomorrow. Practice starts at ten, but come in at nine to get your physical done and meet the coaching staff." Carmen hands her a folder similar to the one Rob had given her weeks ago, but this one is in Spanish and English. "Everything you need is in there—training schedule, team contact information, emergency numbers. My cell phone is highlighted—call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything."

After Carmen leaves, Jiana stands in the middle of her new temporary home, feeling more alone than she has in years but also, strangely, more hopeful. The silence is different here—not the constant hum of LA traffic and sirens, but something quieter, more peaceful. Through the open balcony doors, she can hear the distant sound of conversation in Spanish, the clip-clop of heels on cobblestones, someone practicing guitar in another apartment.

She unpacks methodically, the ritual as much about claiming the space as it is about organization. Her clothes go in the spacious closet—Under Armour training gear, a few nice dresses for whatever social events might come up, the vintage Lakers jersey that had been her grandmother's. Her basketball shoes go by the door, a habit from childhood that she's never been able to break. Her few pieces of jewelry—the diamond studs Rob had given her when she signed her first endorsement deal, the simple gold chain that had been her grandmother's, the small cross pendant she'd worn since she was baptized at eight years old—go on the dresser beside a photo of her and Grandma Rose at her high school graduation.

By the time she's finished, the sun is setting, painting the apartment in warm orange light that makes everything look like a postcard. She should be hungry—it's been hours since she ate anything substantial—but her stomach is still on California time, confused and slightly rebellious.

Instead, she sits on the balcony with a bottle of water, watching people walk by on the street below and trying to process the reality of where she is. Tomorrow she'll meet her new teammates, women who probably know her statistics but not her story. Tomorrow she'll start the process of rebuilding her career and maybe, if she's lucky, herself. Tomorrow the real work begins.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Jiana Jackson allows herself to feel something that might be optimism. Maybe Rob was right. Maybe this is exactly what she needs—a place where she can be whoever she wants to be, instead of whoever she's been told she is.

___________________________________________

The training facility is everything the photos promised and more, a testament to the kind of resources that come with being part of the most successful sports organization in the world. State-of-the-art equipment that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie, multiple courts with perfect hardwood and professional-grade lighting, weight rooms that put most NBA facilities to shame. Jiana arrives early—partly because she's still adjusting to the time change and partly because she wants to get a feel for the place before meeting everyone.

The physical exam is routine but thorough—height, weight, body fat percentage, flexibility tests, blood work, the kind of comprehensive evaluation that makes her feel like a racehorse being assessed for breeding potential. At 6'2" and in the best shape of her life, she knows she's impressive on paper. It's everything else she's worried about.

"Your Spanish is..." The team doctor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, pauses diplomatically as she reviews Jiana's medical history.

"Nonexistent," Jiana supplies, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. "I'm working on it."

"Don't worry. Most of the team speaks English, and they're very patient with Americans who are learning. You'll pick it up faster than you think."

The coaching staff is a mix of Spanish and international backgrounds, led by head coach Elena Vargas, a former professional player who speaks four languages fluently and has a reputation for developing young talent. She's probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggests she's seen it all and isn't easily impressed.

"We're not here to change who you are," Coach Vargas explains during their one-on-one meeting in her office, which is decorated with trophies and team photos spanning decades. "We're here to help you become the best version of yourself. On and off the court."

It's exactly what Jiana needs to hear, even if she's not sure she believes it yet. Too many coaches have tried to mold her into something she's not, to smooth out the rough edges that make her effective on the court but difficult to manage off it.

Meeting the team is the part she's been dreading most since the plane touched down. Fifteen women from different countries and backgrounds, all of whom probably know her reputation for being difficult, for being the kind of player who comes with warning labels and asterisks. She expects judgment, whispers, the kind of cold reception she'd gotten from some of her teammates in LA after her arrest made national news.

Instead, she gets enthusiastic introductions and what seems like genuine enthusiasm for her presence. María Sánchez, the team captain, is a point guard in her late twenties with the kind of court vision that makes everyone around her better. She speaks perfect English with a slight British accent—the result, she explains, of playing professionally in London for three years—and immediately takes Jiana under her wing with the easy confidence of someone used to being a leader.

Lucia Romano, a shooting guard from Italy, shares stories about her own adjustment period when she first arrived in Madrid three years ago, not speaking Spanish and feeling overwhelmed by the cultural differences. Even the younger players, the ones who seem like they should be intimidated by having a WNBA All-Star join their team, are eager to practice with her and ask questions about playing in America.

"They're good people," Coach Vargas tells her after the first practice, as they watch the team cool down and chat in small groups. "Give them a chance."

Practice itself is brutal in the best possible way, a reminder of why she fell in love with basketball in the first place. The pace is faster than she's used to, the style more fluid and creative than the structured systems she's played in since college. There's less emphasis on set plays and more on reading and reacting, on building chemistry through repetition and trust rather than rigid adherence to schemes.

Jiana finds herself working harder than she has in months, pushing her body to keep up with teammates who've been playing together for years, who communicate in a mixture of Spanish, English, and basketball universal language. By the end of the two-hour session, she's exhausted, exhilarated, and cautiously optimistic about what the next few months might hold.

"You did good today," María tells her as they stretch in the cool-down area, sweat still cooling on their skin despite the October chill. "Tomorrow will be even better."

"Thanks," Jiana says, and she means it more than she expected to. "This is... different than I expected."

"Different how?"

Jiana considers the question, trying to put her finger on what feels so foreign about this environment. "Less toxic, I guess. More like a team and less like a group of individuals competing against each other for playing time and recognition."

María nods knowingly, the kind of understanding that comes from years of experience in different basketball cultures. "That's the Madrid way. We succeed together or we fail together. No room for egos or drama."

No room for drama. Jiana can work with that, even if drama seems to follow her around like a lost dog regardless of her intentions.

After practice, she grabs lunch at a small café near the facility, a tiny place with mismatched chairs and walls covered in local artwork. She practices her Spanish on the patient waitress who corrects her pronunciation with gentle humor and seems genuinely delighted by her attempts to order in broken Spanish. The food is incredible—fresh bread that tastes like it was baked that morning, olive oil that seems to have been blessed by gods, jamón that melts on her tongue like butter.

Later that night, in her apartment, she thinks about how long these five months will be and whether or not she made the right choice coming here.

Across the city, Aurélien is having the best water break of his life, and his teammates are starting to worry.

"Bruv, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jude jogs over, grinning. "You're smiling like you won the lottery."

Aurélien can't stop scrolling through his phone, refreshing Instagram for the third time in two minutes. He's been following WNBA news religiously for years—initially because someone said American women could actually ball, but staying because the level of play genuinely impressed him.

But this? This is something else entirely.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, not looking up from his phone. His accent wraps around the English words in that way it always does when he's distracted, consonants just a little too precise. "Everything's perfect, actually."

Camavinga bounds over, always ready to investigate any potential drama. At twenty-three, he's got more energy than a hyperactive puppy and the curiosity to match. "Let me see," he demands, trying to grab Aurélien's phone. "What's got you acting like this?"

"Like what?" Aurélien pulls his phone away, but he's still grinning, and he knows his face is giving him away. He licks his lips—a nervous habit he's had since childhood—and tilts his head in that way he does when he's thinking about something that makes him happy.

"Like you're in love," Vinícius Jr. says with a laugh, joining their little circle. "Who is she? Spanish girl? French? Please tell me it's not another Instagram model."

"Better," Aurélien says, and he can hear the excitement in his own voice. "So much better."

He holds up his phone, showing them the post that's got him acting like a teenager with his first crush. It's from thescoreWNBA, one of the basketball accounts he follows religiously:

liked by wnba, hoops4life, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 1.3M others

BREAKING: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson will spend the WNBA off-season training with Real Madrid Baloncesto's women's team. The 24-year-old All-Star arrives in Madrid this week for a five-month stint. 🏀⚪

ballfan23: Spain about to see what real basketball looks like 👑

wnbastanley: MADRID BETTER TREAT OUR GIRL RIGHT

eurohoopsaddict: She's gonna dominate over there. Different level.

madridista_forever: Welcome to the best city in the world!

basketballjunkie99: Plot twist: she never comes back to the WNBA 😂

hoops4life: 5 months in Madrid? Lucky girl

"Oh shit," Jude says, recognizing the look on Aurélien's face. "You know her?"

"Know her? Bro, she's incredible. Like, legitimately one of the best in the world."

He'd discovered Jiana while she was at USC, initially drawn to the highlights of her dunking. But it was her overall game that kept him watching—the way she could take over when needed, her defensive intensity, leadership qualities that showed even when teammates seemed to annoy her.

"You have a crush on a basketball player?" Camavinga asks, amused. "That's so random."

"It's not random. She's one of the best to ever do it."

"Show us," Vini says, genuinely curious.

Aurélien pulls up YouTube, finding a highlight reel from her rookie season. They huddle around his phone, watching her dominate with size, skill, and intensity that's undeniable.

"Damn," Jude whistles. "She can actually play."

"She's beautiful too," Vini adds appreciatively. "Those tattoos are nice."

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly. "She's not just beautiful. She's talented, smart..." He trails off, realizing how he sounds.

"You're whipped for someone you've never met," Camavinga laughs. "This is amazing."

"I'm not whipped. I just appreciate good basketball."

"Uh-huh," Jude grins. "And her being gorgeous has nothing to do with it?"

The whistle blows before Aurélien can respond, but as they resume practice, his mind races with possibilities. Jiana Jackson, here in Madrid, training next door.

He's going to have to figure out how to meet her without looking like a complete fanboy.

"Focus, Tchouaméni!" the coach barks as he misplaces an easy pass. "Where's your head?"

About a hundred meters away, he thinks but doesn't say.

That evening, Aurélien sits in his La Moraleja villa while Uncle Bertrand cooks, filling the house with Cameroonian spices. Ocho, his Belgian Malinois, plants himself beside his chair, brown eyes hopeful for dropped food.

"You're distracted," Bertrand observes, setting down ndolé that Aurélien barely tastes.

"Just thinking about training."

"Training, hmm?" Bertrand's tone suggests he doesn't buy it, but he doesn't push. He's been around long enough to know when to give Aurélien space to work through whatever is occupying his mind.

Aurélien absently scratches Ocho's ears while scrolling through his phone again. The Real Madrid Baloncesto women's team has posted a welcome message for their new American player, and the comments are full of excitement from Spanish basketball fans. He finds himself studying every photo of Jiana he can find, trying to get a sense of who she is beyond the highlight reels.

Her Instagram is practically bare, which he respects even as it frustrates him. Her public persona suggests someone who values privacy, who doesn't seek attention for its own sake. The interviews he can find show someone articulate and thoughtful, though there's always an edge to her responses that suggests she doesn't suffer fools gladly.

"She's pretty," Bertrand says casually, and Aurélien nearly drops his phone.

"What?"

"The basketball player you've been staring at for the past hour." Bertrand's smile is knowing. "Very pretty. Good player too, from what I can see."

"I wasn't—" Aurélien starts, then gives up.

"I know many things, nephew. Including when you're interested in a woman." Bertrand sits down across from him with his own plate. "What's her story?"

Aurélien finds himself explaining what he knows about Jiana Jackson—her college career at USC, her WNBA accomplishments, the fact that she's supposed to be training with the Real Madrid women's team for the next five months. He doesn't mention the part about having watched her highlights obsessively for the past few years, or the way his heart rate picks up every time he sees a photo of her.

"Sounds like fate," Bertrand says simply when he finishes.

"Fate?"

"Your favorite player, coming to your city, training at your facility." Bertrand shrugs like it's obvious. "What else would you call it?"

Aurélien wants to argue, but the logic is hard to dispute. What are the odds that the one American basketball player he's been borderline obsessed with would end up in Madrid, of all places?

"I should probably leave her alone," he says, though even as he says it, he knows he won't. "She's here to work, not deal with football players trying to hit on her."

"Probably," Bertrand agrees. "But there's a difference between hitting on someone and being friendly. You're part of the Real Madrid family too. It would be rude not to welcome her properly."

The rationalization is thin, but Aurélien clings to it anyway. He's just being welcoming. Showing proper hospitality to a fellow Real Madrid athlete. Nothing inappropriate about that.

His phone buzzes with a text from Jude: So when are you going to accidentally run into your basketball crush?

Aurélien doesn't respond, but he's already making mental notes about training schedules and facility layouts. Just in case an opportunity presents itself.

______________________________________________

The next afternoon, Jiana navigates her first full team practice. The language barrier is more challenging than expected—not because teammates aren't accommodating, but because basketball has its own vocabulary that doesn't always translate.

"More aggressive!" Coach Vargas calls in Spanish, then English. "Use your size! You're bigger than everyone—act like it!"

It's advice she's heard her whole career, but there's something different about how Coach Vargas says it. Not like she needs to apologize for physical advantages, but like she should be proud of them.

Practice is intense but enjoyable, focused on fundamentals and chemistry rather than rigid systems that had drained her love for the game in LA. Teammates are patient with her Spanish, generous with their English.

"You're picking up the system quickly," María says during a water break. "Most players take weeks to adjust."

"Different but good different. More creative than what I'm used to."

Through the windows, she can see movement in the men's complex next door. Real Madrid footballers going through routines with impressive athleticism and precision.

"They're good to look at, aren't they?" Lucia grins, following her gaze. "Some of the most beautiful men in the world, all in one place in Spain."

"I'm here to play basketball," Jiana says automatically.

"Of course," María agrees, smiling. "Just saying, if you change your mind, there are worse places to appreciate attractive men."

After practice, Jiana heads to recovery—ice baths and stretching, her body adapting to European training intensity. She's finishing her cool-down when she hears voices in the corridor, speaking French and Spanish. Male voices, probably the men's football team.

For a moment, she's tempted to look, but that way lies distraction. She gathers her things and heads for the exit.

She's walking toward the parking garage when she hears rapid footsteps behind her. Her defensive instincts kick in—years of unwanted attention—but the voice that calls out is friendly.

"Excuse me!"

She turns, immediately on guard. A man in Real Madrid training gear approaches, and her first thought is oh shit because he's exactly the kind of distraction she came here to avoid. He's tall—probably six-two as well—with dark skin and a fresh high taper fade that frames his face perfectly. His features are striking in that casually sexy way that should probably be illegal: full lips, an African nose that speaks to his heritage, and the kind of effortless confidence that comes from being successful and knowing it.

"You're Jiana Jackson, right?" His accent wraps around her name, making it sound more interesting than usual.

"Yeah," she says carefully, taking a step back. Her defenses are fully up now because this man is trouble with a capital T, and she can tell just by looking at him. "And you are?"

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," he says, extending his hand. The name comes out in a way that sounds foreign to her ears.

"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He smiles, and she notices how it transforms his whole face. "Oh-ray-lee-EN Choo-ah-MEN-ee," he says slowly, pronouncing it properly. "Or just Aurél if that's easier. I know French names are weird."

His handshake is firm but brief, professional athlete to professional athlete. No lingering contact or attempts to stand too close, which she appreciates even as part of her notices how his training shirt clings to his chest.

"Right," she says, because her brain seems to have temporarily malfunctioned. "Aurél."

"I play for the men's football team. Just wanted to welcome you to Madrid," he continues, and she can see genuine enthusiasm in his dark eyes. "I'm actually a huge fan of your game. Been following the W for a few years now."

This catches her off guard. Most people—especially men—who claim to follow women's basketball can barely name three players. "You really watch women's basketball?"

"All the time," he grins, and the expression transforms his entire face in a way that makes her stomach flutter annoyingly. "Started during the bubble, got hooked. The level of play is crazy—pure basketball, you know?"

He's not performing or trying to impress her, she realizes. He's genuinely excited to talk about the sport, the same way she gets when someone wants to discuss technical aspects instead of drama and storylines.

"What's your favorite team?" she asks, testing his knowledge.

"Don't really have one. I just love good basketball." He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that somehow makes him look younger. "But I've been keeping up with the Sparks since you got drafted. That series against Vegas last year? Man, you were cooking."

The specificity surprises her. He's talking about games from months ago with the kind of detail that suggests he actually watches, not just highlights on SportsCenter.

"Well," she says, adjusting her gym bag and trying to ignore how his eyes seem to track the movement, "thanks for the welcome. I should head home—still adjusting to the time change."

"Of course," he says immediately, stepping back to give her space. She notices he's careful not to crowd her, which shows more awareness than most men his age possess. "Just wanted to say hi. If you need anything—food recommendations, help with Spanish, whatever—feel free to ask. We're all Real Madrid family here, right?"

The offer seems genuine, and his smile is the kind that makes people want to trust him. Which is exactly why Jiana's defenses slam back into place. Men who seem too good to be true usually are, especially when they look like they just stepped off a magazine cover.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, noncommittal but polite. "See you around."

"See you around, Jiana Jackson," he says, and the way he uses her full name makes it sound like something special.

As she walks away, she can feel him watching her go, but when she glances back, he's already heading in the opposite direction, seemingly unaffected by their interaction.

Interesting, she thinks despite herself. Very interesting indeed.

But also dangerous. Because the last thing she needs is to get distracted by a pretty face with an accent, no matter how good he looks or how genuine his interest in basketball seems.

She came to Madrid to figure her life out, not to complicate it further. And Aurélien Tchouaméni—with his perfect fade and easy smile and way of saying her name like it means something—feels like exactly the kind of complication she should be running from.

The problem is, for the first time in a long time, she's not sure she wants to run.

The Real Madrid men's team has the day off before their match against Celta Vigo, which means Aurélien is supposed to be resting, maybe doing some light recovery work, definitely not sitting courtside at a basketball arena getting increasingly distracted by a woman who probably doesn't even care that he exists.

But here he is anyway, flanked by Jude and Cama in the premium courtside seats at WiZink Center, trying to look casual while internally freaking out about seeing Jiana Jackson play live for the first time.

"Mate, you've been checking your phone every two seconds," Jude observes, his Birmingham accent cutting through the arena noise. "What's got you buzzing?"

Aurélien slips his phone into his pocket, that unconscious lip-licking thing he does when he's thinking. "Just excited for the game."

A young boy, maybe ten years old, approaches with his father, clutching a Real Madrid jersey. The security guard starts to wave them away, but Aurélien catches the kid's eye and nods toward the guard.

"It's alright," he tells security in Spanish, then to the boy. "What's your name?"

"Pablo," the kid says shyly, his English careful and practiced. "Can I... picture with you?"

"Course you can," Aurélien grins, standing up and moving closer to the barrier. Jude and Cama follow suit, all three of them posing with the starstruck kid while his father takes photos on his phone.

"You like basketball too?" Cama asks the boy in Spanish.

Pablo nods enthusiastically, launching into rapid Spanish about how he plays for his school team and wants to be tall like the American players someday.

"Keep working hard," Jude tells him, ruffling his hair. "Maybe one day we'll see you playing here, yeah?"

After they take a few more photos and sign the kid's jersey, the family heads back to their seats, beaming. Aurélien settles back into his chair, that warm feeling he always gets from fan interactions spreading through his chest.

"That was sweet," Cama says. "Remember when we were that age?"

"Speak for yourself," Jude grins. "I'm still that age mentally."

"We can tell," Aurélien shoots back, but he's smiling.

The arena starts filling with that pre-game energy that's universal across all sports—the kind of electric anticipation that makes his skin prickle with recognition. The Spanish crowd is different from football crowds, more family-oriented, but the passion is just as real.

The paparazzi are having a field day with three Real Madrid stars at a women's basketball game. Aurélien can see the flashes going off, but he's gotten used to that kind of attention over the years.

"Proper circus, this," Jude mutters, noticing the cameras. "Should've known they'd make a meal of it."

"Free publicity for the women's team though," Cama shrugs. "That's good, right?"

Before Aurélien can respond, the arena lights dim and music starts pumping through the speakers. The Madrid Baloncesto women's team is coming out for warm-ups, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe properly.

Because Jiana Jackson dressed for game night is something else entirely.

She's wearing an oversized bomber jacket in army green with patches and embroidered details that scream expensive streetwear. Underneath is a fitted black crop top that shows off the subtle glint of a belly piercing, and her legs are wrapped in leather pants that look like they were painted on. Her hair is styled in sleek waves, and she's carrying herself with the kind of confidence that suggests she knows exactly how good she looks.

"Bloody hell," Jude whistles low. "She's gorgeous, mate. Properly fit."

"Look at those legs," Cama adds appreciatively. "How tall did you say she was?"

"Six-two," Aurélien says automatically, his voice slightly hoarse. He licks his lips unconsciously, watching as she moves with that easy athlete's grace he recognizes from his own teammates.

"Six-two," Jude repeats, grinning. "That's almost as tall as you, bruv. Must be nice not having to break your back talking to someone for once."

Aurélien makes a noncommittal sound, but privately he's thinking that Jude isn't wrong. There's something appealing about the idea of being with someone who can look him in the eye, who takes up space with the same kind of unapologetic confidence that comes with being a professional athlete.

"She moves like us," Eduardo observes, his tone more serious now. "Like, you can tell she's elite just by how she walks. That body language....ouf."

It's surprisingly insightful, and Aurélien finds himself nodding. There is something familiar about the way she carries herself—the same kind of controlled confidence he recognizes in elite athletes, the constant subtle awareness of her environment that marks the truly gifted ones.

"Court vision," he says quietly, watching as she starts her warm-up routine. "That's what they call it in basketball."

"You actually know about this sport now?" Jude asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "Fair play to you, that."

The warm-up routine is mesmerizing to watch. Jiana moves through drills with fluid precision, every movement purposeful and controlled. She's stripped down to just the crop top and leather pants now, the bomber jacket folded neatly on the bench, and Aurélien can see the intricate tattoo work covering her arms in more detail.

"Fuck me, she's talented," Cama murmurs as she sinks three consecutive three-pointers from different spots. "Like, really good."

"She averaged eighteen and eight last season," Aurélien says, then immediately regrets it when both his teammates turn to stare at him.

"Eighteen and eight what?" Jude asks.

"Points and rebounds per game," Aurélien explains, giving up any pretense that this is casual interest. "Those are quality numbers."

"You've been doing homework," Cama grins. "That's actually mad. When did you become a basketball expert?"

Before Aurélien can answer, something catches his attention. Jiana has moved closer to their section of the court, working on shooting drills, and for just a moment their eyes meet across the distance.

It's probably nothing—athletes look at the crowd all the time, especially the expensive seats where sponsors and celebrities sit. But for just a second, he swears she pauses, like she's trying to place where she's seen him before.

"Mate," Jude says quietly. "She's clocking you."

"She's just looking around," Aurélien argues, but his heart rate has definitely increased.

"Nah, she's looking at you," Cama chimes in. "And now she's saying something to her teammate."

Sure enough, Jiana has turned to María Sánchez and they appear to be having a brief conversation while glancing toward the courtside seats. It could be about anything, but the way María grins and says something that makes Jiana shake her head suggests it might be about him.

"This is torture," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Should've stayed home."

"Are you mental?" Jude laughs. "This is quality entertainment. You're absolutely gone for her."

"I'm not gone for anyone," Aurélien protests weakly. "I just think she's class."

"And fit," Cama adds helpfully.

"And tall," Jude continues.

"And I like that shit," Aurélien says before he can stop himself, then immediately wants to disappear into his seat.

The moment of silence that follows feels like an eternity.

"Did you just—" Jude starts.

"No," Aurélien says quickly. "I didn't say anything."

"You definitely said you like that she's tall," Cama says, barely containing his laughter. "Which is probably the most honest thing you've said all night."

Before Aurélien can respond, the warm-ups end and both teams head back to their locker rooms for final preparations. The break gives him a chance to collect himself, though his teammates seem determined not to let him off the hook.

"So," Jude says, settling back in his courtside seat, "what's the plan here? You gonna try chat her up after the game?"

"There's no plan," Aurélien insists, that lip-licking thing happening again. "We're here to watch basketball, remember?"

"Right," Cama nods. "Basketball. That sport you just now care about."

"I've always been interested in different sports," Aurélien says weakly.

"Name another WNBA player," Jude challenges.

"Besides Jiana?" Aurélien stalls, trying to remember names from his recent research. "Uh... A'ja Wilson?"

"Fair enough," Cama concedes. "That's actually a proper player."

"I told you I've been learning," Aurélien mutters, but he's grateful he managed to pull a name out.

Before the conversation can continue, the teams return to the court for player introductions. The arena goes dark except for spotlight that follows each player, and the crowd's energy shifts from casual excitement to genuine enthusiasm.

"Y desde Los Ángeles, California, la delantera, número veintitrés, ¡Jiana Jackson!"

The spotlight finds her at the tunnel entrance, and Aurélien's breath catches. She's changed into her Madrid Baloncesto uniform—clean white with royal blue accents that somehow make her look even more imposing. The crop top and leather pants have been replaced by the team jersey and matching shorts. Her hair is now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing that game face he's seen in highlights but never in person.

She jogs to center court with easy confidence, acknowledging the crowd's applause with a small wave that manages to be both gracious and completely unbothered.

"Proper class, that," Jude murmurs appreciatively. "She carries herself like she belongs, doesn't she?"

Aurélien nods, not trusting himself to speak. Because "class" doesn't begin to cover what he's seeing. Jiana Jackson in person, in her element, commands attention without demanding it.

The thing that gets him most is how focused she is. She's not looking at their section anymore, not seeking out recognition from the crowd. She's locked in, professional, treating this like the serious competition it is.

"You know what I rate about her?" Cama says quietly.

"What?"

"She's not bothered that we're here," Cama observes. "Like, she probably knows who we are—everyone in Madrid knows who we are—but she's not playing to us or trying to impress anyone. She's just here to ball."

It's exactly what Aurélien has been thinking. Too many people treat meeting him like an opportunity—a photo, a connection, a story to tell. But Jiana Jackson is treating this like what it is: her job, her passion, her chance to prove herself.

"That's what makes her different," he says quietly. "She's not here for anyone but herself and her team."

"And that's what makes you fancy her even more," Jude adds perceptively. "Because she's not trying to impress you, which makes you want to impress her."

Aurélien starts to deny it, then realizes there's no point. "Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what it is."

The game starts with Madrid winning the tip-off, and immediately Aurélien understands why Jiana Jackson is considered elite. She moves like water and strikes like lightning, seeming to anticipate plays before they develop. Her first basket comes three minutes in—a smooth jumper from the free-throw line that doesn't even touch the rim.

"Crisp," Cama murmurs appreciatively. "Look at that technique."

It really is textbook. Perfect shooting form that probably took years to develop, executed with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from thousands of hours in the gym. But what impresses Aurélien more is her court vision, the way she sets up teammates and creates opportunities even when she could easily score herself.

"She's not selfish," he observes, watching as she threads a pass through traffic to set up an easy score for María. "Could've taken that shot herself."

"Smart player," Jude agrees. "Knows when to be aggressive and when to facilitate."

"Like a good midfielder," Cama adds, and Aurélien nods because the comparison actually makes sense. The way Jiana controls tempo and creates opportunities reminds him of how the best midfielders orchestrate games.

By halftime, Madrid is up by fifteen and Jiana has seventeen points, seven rebounds, and five assists. The numbers are impressive, but what's more impressive is how effortless she makes it look. Never forcing anything, never getting frustrated, just consistently making the right play.

"She's gonna be class in Europe," Aurélien says during the break, watching her interact with coaches. "The style here suits her perfectly."

"You mean the team-first mentality?" Jude asks.

"Exactly. American basketball can be very individual-focused, but European basketball is more about system and chemistry. She's already adapting her game."

It's true. Even from their courtside seats, he can see how Jiana is adjusting her usual style to mesh with her new teammates. Less isolation plays, more ball movement, constantly communicating. It's the mark of a truly elite player.

"You actually understand this sport," Cama says with genuine respect. "I'm learning stuff just listening to you."

"It's not that different from football, really," Aurélien explains, his hands moving as he talks. "Reading spaces, creating opportunities, knowing when to be patient and when to attack. The fundamentals are the same."

The second half is even better. Jiana seems to grow more comfortable with each possession, her chemistry with teammates becoming more apparent. She hits a three-pointer that has the crowd on their feet, then immediately celebrates with her team like their success matters more than individual stats.

"Look at her face," Jude says during a timeout. "She's proper enjoying herself out there."

He's right. Despite the professional intensity, there's something joyful about how Jiana plays. She's not grimly grinding through another obligation—she's doing something she genuinely loves.

"That's what passion looks like," Aurélien says quietly, unconsciously tilting his head as he watches her. "When you love something so much that even at the highest level, it still brings you joy."

"You sound like you're talking from experience," Cama observes.

Aurélien thinks about that. Does he still feel that way about football? The joy, the pure love that makes everything worth it? Lately it's been more about pressure and expectations. But watching Jiana reminds him of what it felt like when he was younger, when football was just the thing he loved most rather than the thing he was paid to excel at.

"Maybe I need to remember that feeling," he admits.

The game ends with Madrid winning by twenty-one, Jiana finishing with twenty-four points, ten rebounds, and eight assists. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she shakes hands with opponents, and she acknowledges the applause with that same gracious wave.

"So," Jude says as they prepare to leave, "you gonna go chat to her then?"

Aurélien looks down at the court, where Jiana is being interviewed by reporters while teammates celebrate around her. Even from a distance, he can see how carefully she answers questions—thoughtful, professional, giving credit to others rather than focusing on her individual performance.

"No," he says finally. "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Cama asks, genuinely curious.

"Because tonight was about her," Aurélien explains, licking his lips as he thinks. "About proving herself to a new team, new city, new league. She doesn't need some footballer interrupting that moment."

Jude and Cama exchange a look that suggests they think he's being overly considerate.

"But you're still interested," Cama says. It's not a question.

Aurélien watches as Jiana finishes her interview and heads toward the locker room, surrounded by teammates who clearly already respect her. She belongs here, in this moment, where her talent speaks louder than any reputation.

"Yeah," he admits. "I'm still interested."

"Then what's the plan?" Jude asks.

Aurélien considers this as they make their way out, nodding to photographers who capture their exit but managing to avoid direct questions about why three Real Madrid footballers spent their night off at women's basketball.

"Be patient," he says finally. "Let her settle in, focus on basketball, get comfortable in Madrid, then maybe I'll see what's up."

"That's very mature of you," Cama says, sounding slightly surprised.

"Or very stupid," Jude adds with a grin. "Depends how you look at it, bruv."

Maybe it is stupid. Maybe he should have gone down to the court, introduced himself properly, and asked her out like a normal person. But something tells him Jiana Jackson isn't the kind of woman who responds well to typical approaches, and that anything worth having with her is going to require more patience than he's used to bringing.

As they walk out into the cool Madrid night, Aurélien pulls out his phone and finds himself scrolling through photos and videos from tonight's game already appearing on social media. There's a particularly good shot of Jiana's game-winning three-pointer, her face a study in focused concentration.

"Research?" Cama asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Appreciation," Aurélien corrects, pocketing his phone. "Just appreciation."

But as he drives home through Madrid's quiet streets, he's already thinking about when he might see her again, and how he can make sure that when he does, it's because she wants to see him too.

For the first time in years, Aurélien Tchouaméni is genuinely interested in getting to know someone who isn't immediately impressed by who he is. And that might be exactly what he's been looking for without knowing it.

This morning, you're lying in bed, still half asleep, while Aurélien does that weird-ass thing he always does—burying his face between your breasts, rubbing his head back and forth like a cat, blowing raspberries against your skin.

Men are fucking strange.

Your boobs aren't even your best asset (pun intended), but this man is obsessed. You've never gotten a straight answer about why he does this. Some Freudian bullshit probably, men basically being overgrown babies still attached to their mama's titties. But whatever time of day, whatever mood he's in, Aurélien will find a way to plop his big head on your chest and do this shit, squeezing them for "comfort" apparently.

"You done?" you ask, running your fingers through his curls.

He grins up at you, resting his chin between your breasts. "Never."

"We should get up. Your uncle's probably wondering where we are."

"Let him wonder," Aurélien says, but he does finally roll off you, stretching his long body beside yours. "What do you want to do today? I'm free until tomorrow's match."

"I don't know. What do people do in Madrid on Thursdays?"

"Whatever they want," he says with a shrug, sitting up. "I need to run some errands before the boys get here this weekend."

"Right, your birthday weekend." You sit up too, pulling your sleep shirt back into place. For a few months, you'll both be the same age until your birthday in June. Another thing Aurélien weirdly loves. Apparently, French men have a thing for older women. "The big two-five. Any special requests for gifts?"

He gives you a wicked grin. "You. Naked. Wearing only those bracelets I got you."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Besides that, horndog."

He actually seems to think about it, tilting his head. "Dunno. Haven't thought about it."

"You're turning twenty-five in five days, and you haven't thought about what you want?"

His shrug is casual, unbothered. "I got everything I need."

"That's annoyingly sweet but completely unhelpful," you say, kicking him lightly with your foot. "Give me something to work with here."

"Surprise me," is all he says before leaning over for a quick kiss. "I like everything you do."

Twenty minutes later, you're downstairs following the smell of something delicious to the kitchen. Uncle Bertrand's at the stove wearing an apron, looking like someone's Cameroonian Gordon Ramsay.

"Ah, finally they emerge," he says with a knowing look that makes heat rise to your cheeks. "Just in time for breakfast."

Aurélien's eyes light up as he sees what's cooking. "Ndolé!" he exclaims, peeking over his uncle's shoulder. "And puff-puff!"

"What's that?" you ask, sliding onto a barstool at the kitchen island.

"Cameroonian breakfast," Aurélien explains, sneaking a bite of something and feeding a little to Ocho, who sits obediently at his feet. "Ndolé is a stew with nuts and bitter leaves. Puff-puff is like... sweet fried dough?"

"Like donut holes?"

"Kind of, but better," he says, stealing another piece and popping it in his mouth.

"Dja, stop eating all the food before I've served it," Bertrand scolds, swatting at him with a wooden spoon. "Take Ocho outside, he needs to go."

"Allez, Ocho," Aurélien commands, and the dog immediately stands, trotting toward the back door. To your surprise, Aurélien follows him.

"Where you going?" you whisper as he passes.

He nods toward his uncle, a meaningful look in his eyes. "He wants to talk to you about something."

Before you can ask what the fuck that means, he's gone, the sliding glass door closing behind him.

Uncle Bertrand ladles some of the stew into a bowl and places it in front of you, along with a plate of the round, golden puff-puff.

"Eat," he says simply. "Then we talk."

You obediently try the ndolé, surprised by how good it is. Rich, nutty, with this bitter edge that somehow works. Nothing like it back in Jersey.

"This is fire," you say, taking another spoonful.

Bertrand looks pleased. "Family recipe. Dja's grandmother taught me, and I taught him. He can make it too, if he ever stops being lazy and actually cooks for you."

You chuckle. "He makes a mean omelet, but that's about it."

After you've eaten a bit, Bertrand sits across from you, his expression turning more serious.

"I need to tell you something," he begins. "About your family in Cameroon."

Your spoon pauses halfway to your mouth. "My family?"

"Yes. Dja asked me to look into it. To find your grandmother." He pulls out his phone, taps a few times, then slides it across the counter to you. "My friend got back to me this morning."

On the screen is a photo of an elderly woman with a wide smile and familiar eyes. Your eyes.

"This is your grandmother, Esther," Bertrand says gently. "She lives in Douala, in the Bamileke community."

Tears start falling before you can stop them. You lean closer to the screen, studying every detail of this woman's face. Your grandmother. The connection to a past, a heritage you barely known about.

"She looks like me," you whisper, a tear sliding down your cheek.

"She does," Bertrand agrees. "She wants to meet you. And your brother too."

You swipe at your eyes, overwhelmed. "How is she? Is she okay?"

"She is well. Strong woman, like you," Bertrand says with a small smile. Then his voice turns more somber. "There is something else you should know. About your father."

Your chest tightens. "What about him?"

"He passed away three years ago," Bertrand says gently. "I'm sorry."

You nod, surprised by the twinge of grief for a man you barely knew. "And my grandmother? She knew about us?"

"Yes, she knew." Bertrand hesitates, then continues. "Your father... when he left your mother, it was because he had to return to Cameroon. To his wife there."

"His what?" The words don't make sense at first.

"He had another family in Cameroon. A wife, and three children." Bertrand meets your eyes steadily. "Your half-siblings. They want to meet you too."

You sit back, stunned. A second family. A whole other life your father led that you knew nothing about. Your mom didn't know either, or your abuelita. All these years thinking he'd just abandoned you, when really he'd gone back to... another family.

"Our family is going to Cameroon this summer," Bertrand continues. "Dja, his parents, his siblings. You should join us. Meet your grandmother, your other family."

You shake your head, not saying no, just trying to make all this make sense. "I... I need to talk to my brother about this."

"Of course," Bertrand says with an understanding nod. "Take time. Think about it."

The sliding door opens and Aurélien returns with Ocho, who trots straight to his water bowl. Aurélien's eyes immediately find yours, noting the tears.

"You okay?" he asks, quickly crossing to your side.

You nod, managing a watery smile. "Yeah. I just... thank you."

His brow furrows. "For what?"

"For finding her. For doing this."

Understanding dawns on his face, and he glances at his uncle, who nods in confirmation. Aurélien wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side.

"I promised I would, didn't I?" he says simply.

And that's the thing about Aurélien. For all his childish moments, when he makes a promise, he keeps it.

This fucking man was really making it hard to keep any walls up, to be careful as you normally would be. With every gesture, every kept promise, another brick in your defenses crumbles.

"What do you think?" he asks after a moment. "About coming to Cameroon with us?"

You look up at him, at his hopeful expression, then at Bertrand who watches you with kind eyes, and finally back at the photo of your grandmother still on the phone screen.

"I think," you say slowly, "that I have a lot to think about."

But deep down, you already know what your answer's gonna be. Because how do you say no to finding a piece of yourself you never knew was missing? And how do you say no to him, this man who somehow got past all your defenses?

The walls are coming down, whether you ready or not.

Uncle Bertrand left the house to head off and do God knows what, but you're feeling very "appreciative" of Aurélien's efforts in finding your grandmother. You still have a lot of questions about your father basically being a polygamist and a lot to consider for your summer plans, but right now, your man needs to know just how much that gesture meant to you.

There's something about what he did—that true man-of-the-house type, protector vibe made your hormones go insane. Aurélien can be annoying as fuck sometimes like any other man, but then he pulls moves like this that bring out all that king energy and suddenly your body's making decisions your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

"Take your pants off," you say, watching him load the last dish into the dishwasher.

He doesn't even turn around at first, just finishes pressing buttons until the dishwasher hums to life. When he finally faces you, that lopsided smirk is already there, the one that got you on that flight to Madrid in the first place.

"Right now?" he asks, like he doesn't already know the answer.

"Right fucking now, Djani." You slide off the barstool and make your way around the kitchen island into his space. "Take your pants off."

He gives you that look, the one that says he's gonna make you work for it. "Magic words, bebé."

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts. "Please," you groan, and his smile gets wider.

"Let's go to the bedroom. I don't want to have my come all over the kitchen."

"Oh, so now you don't want it here? I don't remember you saying that a few months ago." The sass just slips out naturally, and earns you a sharp slap on the ass that makes you jump.

"Get your ass up the stairs," he growls, and you giggle but move your feet, feeling him right behind you as you climb the steps.

Inside the bedroom, he closes the door out of habit even though nobody's home. Your heart's doing that stupid flutter thing again as you turn to him, taking in how tall he is, how his eyes have gone dark with want. Without thinking, you drop to your knees in front of him, fingers already finding his waistband.

You look up at him through your lashes, slowly undoing his belt. The metal buckle makes this loud-ass sound in the quiet room. His breath catches when you pop the button on his pants and drag the zipper down inch by inch.

"You're killing me," he murmurs, one big hand cupping the side of your face, thumb tracing your cheekbone like you're something precious.

You hook your fingers in his pants and boxers, pulling them down in one go until they're bunched around his ankles. The way he sucks in a breath makes your stomach flip.

Aurélien’s dick is thick and already hard, resting heavy against his thigh. You glance up at him through your lashes, eyes shining with intent.

"You really tryna thank me like this, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and hoarse.

Your lips part slightly, but instead of answering, you lean in, kissing the skin just above his hip, then lower. The muscles in his stomach twitch under your mouth. He exhales sharply.

"You don’t have to—"

"I want to," you cut in softly, looking up at him again. "Let me."

That’s all he needs to hear.

His fingers move to your hair, gathering it gently but firmly at the base of your neck. You take your time, trailing kisses along the base of his shaft, letting your tongue flick out once—just to tease. He groans, head tipping back, one hand braced on the wall.

"Shit, bébé…"

You wrap one hand around the base and start slow, lips soft and warm as you take him into your mouth. He lets out a low, broken moan that makes your thighs clench. That sound he makes is deep, guttural, and helpless and is exactly what you wanted.

"Just like that," he mutters, tightening his grip slightly in your hair. "You’re doing so good…"

You hum around him, sending a shiver through his whole body. Your other hand comes up to cradle his thigh, steadying yourself as you start to build a rhythm that is slow, controlled, and letting your tongue trace every vein.

Aurélien bites his bottom lip, trying to keep it together, but the way his hips twitch forward gives him away. He’s lost in the sight of you on your knees, mouth full of him, eyes flicking up every so often like you know the power you have right now.

"Keep going, bébé," he whispers, voice barely steady. "Don’t stop…"

You don’t. You take him deeper, using your hand where your mouth can’t reach, hollowing your cheeks and pulling back with a slick pop just to make him groan again. He’s swearing now, in French and English, head tipped back against the doorframe like he’s trying not to lose it.

"Putain… You’re gonna make me—"

You grip his thigh tighter, pick up your pace just slightly, letting your tongue press against the underside of his length with every stroke. His breath turns ragged. His hand is gripping your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him on this earth.

And then....

"Bébé, fuck—"

His body stiffens. He shudders. You feel the tension snap through him, a heat and pulse that makes you dizzy with satisfaction. He groans deep in his chest, chest rising and falling, eyes glazed and full of awe as he looks down at you.

You sit back slightly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and smirking up at him.

"That what you needed?"

Aurélien can’t even speak for a second. He just laughs, breathless, shaking his head.

"Yes," he says finally, voice rough. He leans down, lifts you easily into his arms, and kisses you with everything he’s got. "Get on that bed."

You raise a brow. "I thought I already gave you your reward."

"Oh, you did." He bites your bottom lip. "Now it’s my turn."

His hands make quick work of your shirt, lifting it over your head, followed by your bra, which was tossed carelessly to the floor. His mouth is on your skin immediately, lips soft, tongue warm as he circles your nipple, then draws it in gently between his teeth.

Your breath catches.

"Aurélien," you whisper, one hand in his curls as he switches to the other breast, lavishing it with the same attention of sucking, teasing, and letting his teeth scrape your skin just enough to make your hips twitch.

He smiles against your chest. "Así te gusta, ¿no?" he whispers. You nod, but he pulls back, catching your chin between his fingers. "Dímelo."

"Sí, me encanta," you breathe.

He kisses you hard then, all heat and tongue, like he’s trying to brand you from the inside, as he removes the rest of your clothes. He guides you to the bed, easing you down onto your hands and knees, the mattress cool against your skin. You feel him behind you, lining himself up but then he pauses.

A kiss to your shoulder.

A hand tracing the curve of your spine.

"Look at you, bébé ," he says low as he slides in slowly, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your body clenches at the stretch, the way he fills you so perfectly. He moves with a steady rhythm at first, his hand resting on the dip of your lower back, his thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin. You gasp, spine arching, palms curling into the sheets when he rocks into you harder, and you can’t stop the breathy moan that slips out. He does it again. And again. Each time rougher, more possessive.

"Así…" you manage. "Sí, así, por favor…"

Your moans slip into broken Spanish, the kind that makes his rhythm falter for a moment because God, he loves when you get like this. You don’t even realize you’ve said, "Oooh, papi… aquí… aquí," until he growls something low in French and shifts behind you, bracing one foot on the edge of the bed.

This new angle has you seeing stars.

Your mouth opens, but no words come—just breathless sounds and the occasional stammer of "Dios…" and "oh my God," as your arms start to shake.

Aurélien leans forward, hand wrapping around your throat from behind, not choking, just enough pressure to ground you. "You feel that?" he asks, voice ragged. "This is what you do to me."

You nod, barely able to speak. Everything’s too much — the rhythm, the stretch, the way his body claims yours without question. All you can do is take it.

And he gives.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t force it — but he knows your body. Knows when you're close by the pitch of your moans and the way your hips try to pull back against his, that you were close.

"Así," you moan. "Más… más fuerte, papi…"

Your arms nearly give out as he thrusts into you harder, rougher now, but like he’s sculpting pleasure out of every movement. Your breath stutters with every slap of skin on skin, and he growls in your ear.

"Te voy a hacer venir así," he says, voice thick with effort. "Toda para mí."

You nod frantically, the words spilling out of you in fragments. "Sí… sí… toda tuya, juro…"

He wraps his arm around your waist, bringing you back against him with every deep stroke. And when your moans dissolve into cries and trembling whimpers, when the pleasure turns sharp and blinding, he holds you tighter—riding you through it, praising you softly in French and Spanish as your release washes over you.

After, he wraps himself around you, pulling you into his chest, both of you sweaty and panting, foreheads pressed together. His lips graze your jaw, your temple, your cheek.

"Merci," he murmurs.

You laugh, still dazed. "For what?"

"For letting me fuck you like that."

You kiss him back, slow and sweet.

"Anytime, Djani."

And you mean it.

After your little activities, you're sprawled across Aurélien's king-sized bed feeling boneless and satisfied. Your silk press is officially destroyed, there's no saving it now. Your hair has fully went back to its natural curly state, which normally would have you freaking out, but you're too damn relaxed to care.

"I like your hair like this," Aurélien says, fingers gently pulling at one of your curls and watching it spring back.

"Really?" You give him a skeptical look. "It looks a mess."

"Non, it's pretty." He drops a kiss on your forehead before sliding out of bed. "We should go out. There's a place I want to take you."

"Now? We just—"

"Yes, now." He's already headed to the shower. "Wear something cute."

An hour later, you're in his Lamborghini again, dressed in a little black dress that hugs every curve, heels that make your legs look miles long, and the Christian Dior saddle bag in black he got you for Christmas. Your hair is still curly, despite your best efforts to tame it with some leave-in conditioner you found in his bathroom.

Aurélien keeps glancing over at you at stoplights, a small smile playing on his lips.

"What?" you finally ask, feeling self-conscious.

"Your hair," he says simply. "I meant it. I like it like this. Or those braids you had in Mexico after the Euros. Remember?"

"Braids are cute, but my curly hair is not it." You check yourself in the visor mirror for the tenth time. "It's all frizzy now."

"I don't understand how you don't see it." He shakes his head, genuinely perplexed. "It's beautiful. Wild. Like you." He winks, and you roll your eyes, but you're smiling too.

The car fills with music from his playlist—Burna Boy's latest—as you drive through Madrid's evening streets. You steal glances at him, taking in how fucking good he looks in that Rhude green logo shirt, dark wash denim, and those limited edition Louis Vuitton Nike Air Force 1 Low sneakers designed by Virgil Abloh. Green is definitely his color.

Twenty minutes later, he pulls up to a spot that makes you sit up straighter in your seat.

"Korean BBQ?" Your face breaks into a wide smile. "You remembered?"

"Of course I did." He looks proud of himself. "You said it was your favorite when we were in Paris."

Inside, you're seated at a private table in the back, grill already warming up. Aurélien orders in surprisingly decent Korean, which makes you raise your eyebrows.

"What? I had a Korean teammate at Monaco," he explains with a shrug. "Taught me the important stuff."

"Like how to order meat?"

"Exactly. Priorities."

As the food arrives, platters of marinated meats, banchan side dishes in tiny colorful bowls, lettuce for wrapping, Aurélien starts telling you about his friends who are coming for his birthday weekend.

"I've known Jules the longest, since I was like 14, 15," he says, flipping pieces of beef on the grill. "Then met Hugo, Manuel, and AK at the Bordeaux academy a couple years later."

"Jules plays for FC Barcelona, right?" you ask, remembering from your late-night deep dives on Aurélien's Instagram.

He nods, making a face. "Yeah, rivals on the pitch, but that's my brother for real. Known him too long."

"He's the fashion one, right?" You recall pictures of a stylish guy in Aurélien's stories.

"Yeah, that's him. Always dressed like he's about to do a photoshoot." There's fondness in Aurélien's voice. "AK's got a concierge service going now making bank connecting athletes with luxury shit. Manuel plays professionally too, same with Marco and Julio."

You wrap a piece of meat in lettuce, adding some rice and sauce. "Are Marco and Julio coming too?"

Aurélien shrugs, mouth full. "They liked my message in the group chat, but nothing else. We'll see."

Conversation flows as easily as the soju he ordered, and by the time the bill comes, which he grabs before you can even think about it, you're full and a little tipsy and way more relaxed about meeting his friends.

But the night's not over. Aurélien drives to a bowling alley next, a fancy one with leather couches and cocktail service at each lane.

"I didn't know you bowled," you say, swapping your heels for those ugly rental shoes.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, bebé," he says with a wink, picking up a shiny black ball like he knows what he's doing.

Turns out, he doesn't. For all his athletic ability on the pitch, Aurélien is absolute garbage at bowling. You, on the other hand, spent many Friday nights at the lanes in Jersey City with your cousins.

You crush him, throw after throw, your score nearly double his by the final frame.

"You cheated," he declares, scowling at the scoreboard.

"How do you cheat at bowling?" You can't help but laugh at his expression. "Just admit I'm better at this."

"Never." But he's fighting a smile too, his competitive nature at war with how much he obviously likes seeing you happy.

He pulls out his phone and tugs you close, holding it up for a selfie. You pose, smiling, his arm around your waist.

"I'mma post these on my stories," he says, already filtering the photos.

That makes you nervous. The whole situation with Jude's fangirls had finally died down, and thankfully no one had found your Instagram. But still...

"You sure that's a good idea?"

He looks at you, suddenly serious. "I want people to know about us. Not everything, not details, but... yeah. I'm sure."

Before you can argue, he's already uploaded the pictures. No tags, no caption, just the two of you looking happy at a bowling alley. It's nothing scandalous, but it's definitely a statement.

Your phone immediately buzzes with a text from Melissa:

Melissa: GIRL IS THAT YOU ON AURÉLIEN TCHOUAMENI'S INSTAGRAM STORY?!?!?!

You look up at Aurélien, who's watching you with a little smile. "Phones are already blowing up, huh?"

"Yep."

He takes your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. "Ready for this? For real?"

And looking at him now, tall and handsome and a little vulnerable beneath all that confidence, you realize you are. Ready for whatever comes next. Ready for him.

"Yeah," you say, squeezing his hand. "I'm ready."

aurelientchm uploaded on their story!

jkeey4 …. ⤷ aurelientchm pas de mots ? 🤨 ⤷ jkeey4 poster ta fille maintenant 👀 qu’est-il arrivé au privé Aurél ? ⤷aurelientchm toujours privé, mais pas secret ⤷jkeey4 👌🏾

judebellingham my girlfriend! ⤷ aurelientchm bro… 🤦🏾‍♂️

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camavinga elle a gagné ? ⤷ aurelientchm elle a triché 🙃 ⤷camavinga vraie merde de type perdant douloureux

Less than 2 days after Aurélien posted that innocent bowling alley pic, someone figured out your full name and where you worked in NYC. It wasn't even that hard—you had a damn LinkedIn profile—but these bitches are really out here working as unpaid detectives when they could be getting actual paychecks.

You knew how nasty and invasive the gossip blogs could get, but this shit is bananas. Welcome to WAG life, I guess.

Now you're sitting at Aurélien's away game against Valladolid, right next to Miss Denise again, watching the boys do their warmups. Your phone's been blowing up non-stop—co-workers, old college friends, even your fifth-grade teacher somehow—all asking if you're dating Aurélien Tchouaméni.

"You holding up okay, love?" Miss Denise asks, noticing you silencing yet another call.

"I guess. At least they can't find my Instagram." You'd had the right idea to keep that shit under a nickname and private since day one of messing with Aurelien. "But it's only a matter of time the way these internet detectives been going in. Like, don't they have jobs? A life even? My God."

Miss Denise laughs, patting your hand. "First rule of WAG life: they'll always find you eventually. Just keep your head up and don't read the comments. Ever."

On the pitch, Aurélien's stretching with Kylian, both of them occasionally glancing up at the family section. When Aurélien spots you, he gives that little smile that still makes your stomach do flips, even with all this madness going on.

"Oh, look at Kylian go!" Miss Denise says as the game gets going, pointing to him as he runs between defenders.

The match is fast, and you're still learning the finer points, but even you can tell when something spectacular happens like when Kylian scores his first goal twenty minutes in. The stadium erupts, and Miss Denise jumps to her feet.

"That's his first of the night," she says confidently. "Watch, he'll get a hat trick."

"A what?"

"Three goals in one match."

"Is that good?" you ask, and she gives you a look like you just asked if water is wet.

"It's brilliant. Kylian's on fire today."

Sure enough, by the end of the match, Kylian has scored three goals, and Real Madrid wins 3-0. The away crowd is quiet, but the traveling Madrid fans are going nuts.

You watch Aurélien celebrate with his teammates, all sweaty hugs and back slaps. He looks happy, in his element. This is his world, and somehow, now it's becoming yours too.

After returning from Valladolid, you're back at Aurélien's villa getting ready for dinner with his friends. Uncle Bertrand is MIA again, probably reporting back to Aurélien's parents about you. That's a whole other stress ball you're dealing with. You still have to talk to your brother about your grandmother and these half-siblings you never knew existed. And your mother? Jesus, that's going to be a conversation for the history books.

But tonight is about meeting Aurélien's day ones, so you push all that to the back burner.

"You nervous?" Aurélien asks, coming up behind you as you apply lipstick in his bathroom mirror.

"A little," you admit. "What if they don't like me?"

"Impossible," he says, which is his answer for everything. He drops a kiss on your shoulder. "But fair warning, they're loud as fuck."

That turns out to be the understatement of the century.

The restaurant is a private area of some trendy Spanish-Asian fusion spot. You hear Aurélien's friends before you see them—a chorus of loud French voices, laughter, and what sounds like an argument but is probably just normal conversation for them.

Five guys jump up when you and Aurélien approach the table. They're all tall, all fine as hell—what the fuck is in the water in France?—and all talking at once.

"AT! Finally!" says one with locs that stop at his shoulders, pulling Aurélien into one of those bro hugs. This has to be Jules, the Barcelona player. He's the most fashion-forward of the group in a designer shirt you recognize from the latest Dior collection.

"And this must be the famous American," says another with longer locs that reach his chest, Manuel, you guess from Aurélien's descriptions. His accent is thicker than the others.

"The one who's got our boy posting on social media like a teenager," says a third, this one with a low fade and waves so perfect they look airbrushed. He extends his hand. "I'm AK. The sane one."

"Don't listen to him," says the fourth, also sporting a fresh fade. "I'm Hugo, the actual sane one."

The fifth guy, who you assume is either Marco or Julio based on earlier conversations, just nods at you with a smile.

Once you're seated, the real circus begins. These grown-ass men become teenage boys around each other with inside jokes, French that switches to English and back, and endless clowning.

"So Jules, how's it feel to lose to Valencia again?" AK asks, and the table erupts.

"Fuck off," Jules says, but he's grinning. "We're still ahead in La Liga."

"For now," Aurélien jumps in.

"Not for long," says Manuel. "Not with that defense you got."

Jules gives him a look that could freeze hell. "Say that again when you're not in Ligue 2, bro."

"Oooooohhhh!" The whole table loses it, and you quickly realize this is how they speak to each other, constant shit-talking mixed with real love.

"Don't mind them," Hugo says to you, while the others continue their football debate. "They've been like this since we were kids."

"I can tell," you say, watching Aurélien and Jules go at it about some match you've never heard of.

"So, you're the one who finally got Dja to settle down," Hugo continues, studying you with interest. "We thought it would never happen after O—"

"Yo!" Jules cuts him off sharply. "We don't talk about her, remember?"

The table goes quiet for a second. Aurélien's face changes briefly before he forces a smile. "Ancient history," he says, but his hand finds yours under the table, squeezing a little too tight.

"Anyway," Jules says, changing the subject, "did AT tell you we're taking over a club tomorrow night for his birthday?"

The conversation changes to birthday plans, but you can't shake the moment that just passed. The ex—the O girl—clearly left a mark. You file that away to think about later.

The night goes on with more food, more drinks, and more stories that have you laughing until your sides hurt. Jules, you discover, is petty as fuck and takes no prisoners. When AK brings up some girl Jules was apparently talking to, Jules shuts that down with a surgical strike about AK's recent business fail that has the whole table going "damn."

They're loud and chaotic and completely unconcerned with the other diners who keep glancing over at your table. This is how they are, unapologetically themselves, secure in their brotherhood.

By the time dessert arrives, you've been fully accepted into their circle. They talk to you directly now, asking about your life in New York, your job, your thoughts on Madrid.

"You know," Jules says at one point, leaning across the table toward you, "in all the years I've known AT, I've never seen him this happy."

Aurélien rolls his eyes. "Don't start with that sappy shit."

"It's true though," Manuel chimes in. "Our boy's in love."

"I'm right here," Aurélien protests, but he's smiling too, and his arm is draped across the back of your chair, fingers playing with the ends of your curls.

Love. The word hangs in the air, unnamed by either of you but increasingly hard to ignore.

As you look around the table at these men who know a side of Aurélien you're still discovering, you realize you're getting deeper and deeper into his world. And surprisingly, it fits you better than you expected.

After dessert, the boys insist on coming back to the villa for what they call a "mini pre-birthday celebration," which actually translates to playing Call of Duty that has you low-key pissed. Like, hello? Can't you have time with your man? It's one in the morning, and these grown-ass men are screaming at a TV screen like they're still thirteen.

You quickly push that thought away because who is this? This jealous, clingy person wanting Aurélien all to herself? This isn't you at all. Or at least, it wasn't before.

Besides, there's this nagging curiosity about what happened between Aurélien and his ex. You were never given the full story, and honestly you shouldn't care, it's ancient history like he said, but there you are again, trying to find cracks and holes in something that's working so damn well so far.

The entertainment area downstairs is a mess of empty beer bottles, chip bags, and loud-ass PlayStation 5 noise. They're all crowded on the oversized sectional, controllers in hand, talking shit to each other in that mix of French, English, and what you're pretty sure are just made-up insults.

Aurélien glances over at you leaning against the doorway, gives you an apologetic smile, but then Jules is shoving a controller in his hand, and he's right back in it.

You move to the media room on the other side of the house, and Ocho follows behind you. The leather couch swallows you as you tuck your feet underneath you, one hand combing through your hair while the other scrolls through Instagram.

Mistake number one.

You're only human, so curiosity gets the better of you, and you click on one of those football gossip accounts Miss Denise warned you about. There they are, analyzing those pictures of you and Aurélien at the bowling alley like it's fucking CSI: Madrid.

"AURÉLIEN TCHOUAMÉNI'S NEW GIRL? 👀" the caption reads, followed by a deep dive into who you are, where you're from, and how long this has been going on. They've even done side-by-sides of you and his ex because of course they have.

Mistake number two: you scroll to the comments.

"She's not even pretty." "Another gold digger for sure." "Won't last. He still loves Ornella, I know it." "Downgrade much? 😂" "She's probably just a jump off until he gets Ornella back." "Heard she's a hoe from NYC 🤷‍♀️"

The comments sting more than they should. You know it's just faceless trolls hiding behind usernames, but still. Then you see someone tag Ornella directly (again, what the fuck is their problem?), and that's when you make mistake number three.

Your dumbass clicks on her profile.

Something you swore to yourself you'd never, ever do.

And she's... okay looking. Not here to judge or whatever, but you can see how she's used the fame she got from being the only girl Aurélién was publicly seen with to her advantage, promoting herself as a fitness influencer. Her feed is all perfect poses in matching workout sets, smoothie bowls, and the occasional brand partnership.

Should you do that now? Become an influencer like Ronaldo's girl Georgina and so many other WAGs? Or should you keep being you like that British baller's girlfriend Tolami?

Does Aurélien want you to become an influencer?

Being an influencer would mean working without giving your dumbass boss notice for PTO... but you like your job. You worked hard for it, spent hours in unpaid internships, clawed your way up in a competitive industry. Are you seriously thinking of giving it all up for some man?

I mean, he is fine as fuck and you know long-distance would be hell on earth, but yeah, fuck that. You close out of Instagram. That was a dumb idea. What the hell are you doing?

"NIGGA!!"

The scream makes you jump, nearly dropping your phone. Ocho's head pops up too, ears alert. You pad down the hall to see what the commotion is about, finding Manuel and Julio in what looks like a scuffle, but none of the others are paying them any mind. They're just drinking whatever's in their red Solo cups and continuing to play COD like two grown men aren't wrestling on the floor.

"What's happening?" you ask, genuinely concerned.

Aurélien doesn't even look up from the screen. "Manuel cheated."

"I didn't fucking cheat!" Manuel protests from the floor, where Julio has him in a headlock.

"You stream-sniped me," Julio says, not loosening his grip despite Manuel's struggling.

"What's stream-sniping?" you ask.

"It's when—" AK starts to explain, but he's cut off by a chorus of yells as something explodes on the screen.

"FUCK YEAH!" Jules jumps up, controller raised like a trophy. "That's how Barcelona does it!"

More chaos erupts, and you just stand there, watching these supposed adults lose their minds over a video game. This is Aurélien's world when you're not around—loud, chaotic, full of these lifelong friendships that run deeper than any dating relationship could.

Aurélien catches your eye again and mouths "sorry" before turning back to defend his honor in whatever digital war they're fighting.

You head back to the media room, Ocho still following loyally. The dog jumps up on the couch beside you, resting his head in your lap like he knows you need the company.

Your phone buzzes with a text from your brother:

Joaquin: Yo, did you know your face is all over Twitter? And why am I finding out from random people that you're dating some soccer player??

Great. Just great. Another uncomfortable conversation you need to have. You toss your phone aside without responding. It's too late for this shit.

As Ocho snuggles closer, you scratch behind his ears and try to quiet your mind. The sounds of the guys in the other room—laughing, cursing, trash-talking—fade into white noise.

Maybe this is what relationships are. Not just the romantic parts, but accepting this whole package—his friends, his lifestyle, his past. The good, the bad, and the loud-ass Call of Duty sessions at one in the morning.

You close your eyes, leaning back into the couch. Ornella's perfect Instagram feed fades from your mind, replaced by the reality around you. This villa, this dog, that chaotic man in the other room who somehow worked his way into your heart.

It's messy and imperfect, but it's real. And maybe that's better than any fake social media life could ever be.

Aurélien's birthday morning breaks with Madrid sunshine streaming through the blinds he forgot to close last night. You've been awake for twenty minutes already, just watching him sleep, which is creepy as fuck but whatever it's his birthday, and he looks peaceful for once, not running around a pitch or arguing with his boys or trying to charm your pants off.

Not that he needs to try that hard.

The last few days have been a whirlwind, from that Korean BBQ date to the social media explosion to the late-night gaming session with his friends that ended around four in the morning. You'd fallen asleep on the media room couch, only to wake up being carried upstairs in Aurélien's arms, which should've been romantic but mostly had you worried about him throwing his back out before a match.

"I lift weights heavier than you, bebé," he'd mumbled when you expressed this concern, which earned him a light smack on the chest.

Now, on the morning of the big 2-5, you watch the birthday boy stir, his face scrunching adorably before his eyes flutter open.

"Are you watching me sleep? Creepy," he says, voice thick with sleep but a smile already forming.

"It's your birthday, I'm allowed to be creepy today," you reply, leaning in to kiss him softly. "Happy birthday, old man."

He groans at the "old man" comment but pulls you closer, morning breath be damned. "Now we're the same age for a few months."

"Still older and wiser," you tease, yelping when he pinches your side in retaliation.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, probably more notifications about you and Aurélien, since the internet hasn't shut up since those bowling alley pics dropped. Football Twitter is dissecting your relationship like it's a frog in biology class, gossip blogs are running wild with speculation, and someone even found your brother's Instagram and DMed him asking for the "real tea."

But you ignore all that right now, focusing instead on the birthday boy who's currently trying to convince you that birthday morning sex is a European tradition you simply must respect.

"It's cultural," he insists with mock seriousness. "Very important."

"Is that so? Funny how all these 'traditions' benefit you."

But you give in anyway, because it's his birthday and because, well, you want to. Always do with him.

Afterward, as you're both catching your breath, his phone starts blowing up with birthday messages. The first is from his mom, followed immediately by his dad, then his siblings—all FaceTiming from different locations. You try to stay out of frame, not ready for that particular introduction yet, but Aurélien has other ideas.

"Maman, Papa, I want you to meet someone," he says in French, then switches to English as he pulls you into view. "This is Y/N."

Your heart nearly stops as you find yourself looking at the faces of his parents on the small screen. His mother has his eyes, intelligent and assessing. His father has that same strong jawline. They both look surprised but quickly recover.

"Bonjour," you manage to say, one of the few French words you know.

"Ah, she speaks French!" his mother says with a warm smile that eases some of your tension.

"Not really," you admit. "Just a few words."

"We will teach you when you come to Cameroon," his father says matter-of-factly, and you realize Bertrand must have already told them about the invitation.

The call lasts only a few minutes, with promises of longer conversations soon, and then it's his siblings' turn. His younger brother calls from his boarding school in North Carolina, a mini version of Aurélien with the same bright smile. His sister calls from a spotty connection in Cameroon, all excited energy and quick questions about you and Aurélien immediately change the subject.

"They liked you," he declares after the final call ends.

"They barely met me."

"Trust me, if they didn't like you, you'd know." He stretches, all long limbs and morning laziness. "I'm starving. Birthday breakfast?"

Breakfast turns into a birthday lunch when Jules, Manuel, and AK show up at the villa with bags from some fancy bakery and more alcohol, because apparently hair of the dog is the only way to deal with last night's drinking.

"Didn't you guys just leave like six hours ago?" you ask as they make themselves at home in Aurélien's kitchen.

"It's AT's birthday," Jules says, as if that explains everything. "We've never missed one since we were fifteen."

It's sweet, actually, this brotherhood they've built. Watching them move around each other with the ease of people who know every habit, every preference, finishing each other's sentences and communicating with just looks sometimes.

Your phone buzzes again, and this time you do check it, immediately regretting the decision. Some football gossip account has posted side-by-side photos of you and Ornella again, with a poll asking followers "Who wore it better?" It's not even the same outfit—just both of you in black dresses at different events. The comments are predictably brutal.

"The ex was way classier" "New girl looks basic AF" "Lol this won't last past summer transfer window"

You close the app, trying not to let it get to you. This is the price of dating someone in the spotlight, you guess, but knowing that doesn't make it sting any less.

"Put that away," Aurélien says, coming up behind you and taking the phone from your hand. "No social media on my birthday. It's another tradition."

"You have a lot of these so-called traditions," you say, but you're grateful for the excuse to disconnect.

The day unfolds in a blur of food, drinks, more friends showing up, calls from teammates, and Aurélien barely leaving your side through it all. Despite the growing crowd at the villa mostly Real Madrid players and their partners, plus Aurélien's closest friends he keeps finding ways to touch you, to bring you into conversations, to make sure you're not lost in this world that's still so new.

Miss Denise shows up around four with Jude in tow and a beautifully wrapped gift that turns out to be a vintage watch Aurélien has apparently been eyeing for months.

"How did you know?" he asks, genuinely touched as he carefully examines the timepiece.

"Jude might be a pain in the arse, but he pays attention," Miss Denise says with a wink.

Your own gift, a custom-designed leather jacket with his initials subtly embroidered on the inside, earns you one of those face-splitting smiles that still makes your stomach flip.

"It's perfect," he says, immediately trying it on despite the warm weather. "How did you know my size?"

"I measured one of your other jackets," you admit. "You have like thirty of them."

"But now this one's my favorite," he declares, kissing you right there in front of everyone, which sets off another round of wolf whistles and teasing comments.

By early evening, the party moves to a private club in downtown Madrid that's been rented out just for tonight. You nurse the same drink all night, watching as the guys get progressively louder, the music gets heavier, and the dancing gets... well, let's just say you're glad there's a strict no-phones policy in here.

Aurélien is in his element, the center of attention, laughing and dancing and accepting birthday wishes. Every so often, his eyes find yours across the room, checking in, making sure you're okay.

Around midnight, he appears at your side, slightly buzzed but not sloppy. "Ready to go home?"

You raise an eyebrow. "It's your party. Don't you want to stay?"

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. "I want my other present. The one where you're wearing nothing but those bracelets I got you."

Heat floods your body, remembering his request from days ago. "Your guests..."

"Won't miss us," he finishes, taking your hand. "Manuel will keep everyone entertained. It's what he does best."

Back at the villa, the quiet is a relief after hours of thumping music and shouted conversations. Aurélien leads you upstairs, surprisingly steady on his feet for someone who's been drinking since noon.

In the bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed, watching as you slowly undress for him, leaving on only the Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets that catch the low light, the tiny diamonds sparkling against your skin.

"Happy birthday," you say, feeling both powerful and vulnerable as his eyes travel over you.

"Best. Birthday. Ever." His voice is low and slurring as he reaches for you.

What follows is different from your usual hunching—slower, more intentional, like he's memorizing every inch of you. Afterward, as you lie tangled in the sheets, his fingers trace lazy patterns on your back.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For the sex? You're welcome," you tease.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling in his chest. "For that too. But I meant for being here. For celebrating with me. For being my girlfriend."

The naked sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. He's looking at you with this dopey smile, eyes soft, and goddamn if it isn't the cutest thing you've ever seen.

"You're such a simp," you say, trying to lighten the suddenly emotional moment.

He just shrugs, completely unbothered. "Only for you, bebé."

"Aw," you say out loud, but inside you're fucking hyperventilating because goddamn him for being like this, for being so cute and sincere when you least expect it.

"I'm serious," he continues, propping himself up on one elbow to look at you better. "I know this has been a lot—the guys, the media, my family calling. But having you here, it means everything."

There's something in his eyes, something that looks dangerously close to love, and you're not ready to name it yet, but you feel it too. This thing that started as a DM slide, that was supposed to be just a hookup, has somehow become the most real relationship you've ever had.

"I'm glad I'm here too," you say, which isn't nearly enough, but it's all you can manage right now.

It seems to be enough for him though. He pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Mierda, where is he?" you mutter, your Spanish flowing naturally after years of speaking it with your abuelita and family back home. You check the time again. Thirty minutes late already.

Your phone buzzes.

Auré: Almost there, traffic fucking sucks. 10 more mins x

You sigh but can't help smiling. This man and his time management.

It's been a month since you last saw each other in person, when he flew you out to Paris for the weekend. Six months since that first weekend in Madrid when what was supposed to be a hook-up turned into something you weren't expecting. Now here you are, back in Madrid, but this time it's different. This time he wants you to meet his teammates, his friends. Making shit official.

The thought still freaks you out. You've heard all about them from his stories - Camavinga, Jude, Vini - they're like characters in a TV show you've been following through Auré's late night calls. But meeting them? That's a whole other level.

Your thoughts scatter when you spot it - the black Lamborghini Urus with those ridiculous red seats he's so proud of - pulling up to the curb. Your heart does that stupid flutter thing it always does when you see him.

Aurélien steps out, all 6'2" of him, looking like he just stepped out of a damn GQ shoot in his matching ESSENTIALS hoodie and track pants with a pair of bright white Air Force Ones on his feet. His smile though - that's what gets you every time.

"Hey you," he calls, that deep voice carrying his accent.

You try to maintain your composure, that RBF your friends always tease you about, but it breaks the second he wraps his arms around you. He smells the same, feels the same, and you hate how much you missed this.

"You're late," you mutter into his chest.

"Missed you too," he laughs, pulling back to look at your face. His eyes drink you in before he leans down to kiss you, right there in front of everybody. His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

When he breaks the kiss, he licks his lips and grins. "Your hair looks good."

"It better. Sat at Carmen's for five hours."

He laughs, grabbing your carryon with one hand and holding yours with the other. "How's Cinco? Still terrorizing your mom's cat?"

"As always. That Doberman thinks he's a lapdog," you say, smiling at the thought of your big-ass dog trying to squeeze onto your mom's couch. "How's Ocho? Still destroying your shoes?"

"Only the expensive ones," he says, rolling his eyes as he opens the passenger door for you.

The red leather seats are even more obnoxious in person. "You really weren't joking about these seats, huh?"

"Why would I joke about perfection?" He slides into the driver's seat, his large frame making the car seem smaller somehow.

He starts the engine and pulls away from the curb, one hand on the wheel, the other finding its way to your thigh like it belongs there. Like no time has passed.

"So," you say, trying to sound casual, "tonight's the big reveal, huh?"

Aurélien glances at you, then back at the road. "You nervous?"

"Nah," you lie, and he knows it's a lie because he squeezes your thigh gently.

"They're gonna love you," he says simply. "And if they don't, fuck 'em."

You laugh. "That's your solution to everything."

"Works so far." He licks his lips again, a habit you've noticed he does when he's thinking. "But seriously, it's just dinner. Few drinks. No big deal."

"Says the guy who's not walking into a room full of world-famous footballers."

"You've dealt with worse. Remember that girl at your cousin's wedding?"

"Tiffany," you both say in unison, then laugh.

You fall into comfortable silence as he navigates Madrid traffic, his music playing low. Some French rap you've grown to like over the months.

Your mind drifts back to how all this started. That Instagram like. The DM. Your friend Melissa's voice ringing in your ears: "Girl, he's just bored and horny. These ballers fly girls out for one thing only. Take the dick appointment and the shopping spree, but don't catch feelings."

So you'd flown to Madrid with your eyes wide open, fully expecting a weekend fling and some content for the group chat. What you hadn't expected was the man himself – thoughtful, funny, a little nerdy about the most random things. By the time you'd landed back in Newark, you were already in trouble.

"What you thinking about?" Aurélien asks, breaking into your thoughts.

"Just... how we started. How Melissa was so sure you were just a fuck boy."

He laughs. "And your mom thought I was paying you for sex."

You groan at the memory. "God, don't remind me. That phone call was so embarrassing."

Your mom had seen the Madrid pictures on your Instagram and called you immediately. "Are you an escort now? Is that how you're paying your bills?" The horror in her voice had made you laugh and cry at the same time.

It had taken Aurélien FaceTiming her, speaking to her in his formal, parent-pleasing voice, showing her his house, his dog, talking about his family back in Bordeaux, before she started to believe this was something real. Now she asks about him constantly. Traitor.

"She loves me now though," he says, smug.

"Yeah well, you didn't have to send her that Louis bag for Christmas."

"Your mom deserves nice things. Like her daughter."

You roll your eyes but can't help smiling. He's always doing shit like that – thoughtful, extravagant gestures that make it impossible to keep your walls up.

"By the way," he says, taking a turn down a tree-lined street, "I've been meaning to tell you. Jules and Hugo want to come visit next week. AK too, maybe. That cool?"

"Your Bordeaux crew?" Your stomach tightens a little. You've heard about his childhood friends, seen them on his IG stories, but never met them. Another level of seriousness. "Yeah, that's cool."

"They've been on my ass about meeting you. Hugo thinks I made you up."

"Wait, you haven't shown them my pics?"

He glances at you, confused. "Course I have. But Hugo's an idiot who thinks I could Photoshop a whole girlfriend."

You laugh despite your nervousness. Meeting his team is one thing, but his day-ones? The guys who've known him since before he was Aurélien Tchouaméni, Real Madrid star? That's... a lot.

"Look," he says, turning onto a gated drive, "we're home."

Your eyes widen as you take in the villa, a sprawling, modern house with huge windows and a garden that seems to stretch forever. Even though you've been here many times before. Something about this visit feels different. More permanent.

"Home," he says again, with that easy smile. "Still got that room ready for Cinco when he visits."

"When Cinco visits," you repeat, the implication clear. He's creating space for your life in his. "Auré..."

"Don't," he says quickly. "Don't overthink it. It's just a house."

But you both know it's not just a house. It's a statement.

He unlocks the door and leads you inside. The interior is still stunning – open, minimalist, but with warm touches that make it feel like a home, not a showpiece. The framed photos are still everywhere – his family, his teammates, and several of you. You and him in Paris. You on the beach in Barcelona. You asleep on his chest, a candid shot you didn't even know he had.

"This is... a lot," you say, taking it all in.

"Too much?" he asks, and there's real worry in his voice.

You turn to face him. "No. Just... not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

That's the question, isn't it? From day one, you've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to get bored. For some scandal with another girl. For this bubble to burst and reality to set in.

"I don't know," you admit. "Not this. Not you actually wanting more than just..."

"Just sex?" He raises an eyebrow. "I mean, that's great too, but..." He pulls you closer, his hands settling on your hips. "I want all of it. The good, the bad, the boring everyday shit."

Your heart hammers in your chest. Part of you wants to run. The other part wants to throw caution to the wind and dive headfirst into whatever this is.

"I'm not good at this," you say quietly. "The relationship thing. The trust thing."

His hands slide up to cup your face. "I know. Your dad fucked that up for you."

You flinch slightly. Your Cameroonian father had walked out when you were eight, leaving your Puerto Rican mom to raise you and your brother alone. It had shaped everything about how you approach relationships – always with one foot out the door, never putting all your eggs in one basket.

"I'm not him," Aurélien says, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "And I get that words don't mean shit. So I'll show you. Every day."

He kisses you then, deep and slow, and you melt into him despite yourself. His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass and pulling you against him.

"Mmm," he murmurs against your lips. "I missed this ass."

You laugh, breaking the kiss. "Always so romantic."

"I try." He nips at your bottom lip. "We have three hours before dinner. Plenty of time to go to the bedroom."

"Is that all you think about?"

"Around you? Pretty much." His hands are roaming again, hungry and possessive in a way that always lights you up. "But if you'd rather relax instead..."

"Shut up," you mutter, pulling him back in for another kiss.

Three hours later, you're standing in his massive closet, wrapped in his robe, trying to decide what to wear to dinner. Your hair is slightly tousled from your hunching, but the silk press is mostly intact – thank God for Carmen's skills.

"Wear the black dress," Aurélien calls from the bathroom where he's trimming his goatee. "The one with the—" he makes a gesture outlining your curves.

"You're helpful," you say dryly, but you know which dress he means. The one that hugs every inch of you, the one that made his eyes bug out in Paris. "Isn't that a little much for dinner?"

"It's perfect. Trust me." He appears in the doorway, bare-chested with a towel wrapped around his waist, skin still damp from the shower. His eyes darken as he takes you in. "Actually, maybe stay just like that."

"We'd never make it to dinner."

"Would that be so bad?" He steps closer, fingers playing with the tie of the robe.

You swat his hand away. "Stop it. You said this dinner was important."

"It is." He sighs dramatically. "Fine. Get dressed. But just know I'll be thinking about taking that dress off all night."

"You're impossible," you laugh, but secretly, you love how much he wants you. How he never seems to get enough.

An hour later, you're in the Lamborghini again, headed to some upscale restaurant in central Madrid. Your nerves are back in full force.

"What if they think I'm just with you for your money?" you ask suddenly.

Aurélien looks at you like you've lost your mind. "Who gives a fuck what they think?"

"I do! I don't want them thinking I'm some gold-digging—"

"Hey." He cuts you off, reaching for your hand. "My boys know me. They know I wouldn't be serious about someone who's fake. And anyone with eyes can see this is real."

You want to believe him, but the anxiety is still there. "It's just... this fame shit is crazy. Everyone's always watching, judging."

"Yeah, and most of them are miserable fucks with nothing better to do." He squeezes your hand. "Look, I know it's not easy. The spotlight, the gossip, all of it. But we deal with it together."

You nod, trying to calm your racing heart. You remember the first time you got a taste of what being with him would mean. A photo of you two in Barcelona had made its way to some football gossip account. The comments had been brutal. Who is she? She's not even that pretty. Bet she's just a quick fuck. Gold digger. Thirsty hoe.

Aurélien had been furious, ready to go to war in the comments section. You'd stopped him, but the incident had shaken you. Made you realize what you were signing up for.

"Stop overthinking," he says, reading your mind as always. "Tonight is about having fun. Being normal. My boys are just regular dudes who happen to play football."

"Regular dudes worth hundreds of millions," you mutter.

He laughs. "Yeah, well, there's that."

When you arrive at the restaurant, you're led to a private room in the back. Your stomach is in knots as the door opens to reveal a group of men and a few women, all laughing and talking loudly in a mix of Spanish, French, and English.

Aurélien's hand finds the small of your back, warm and steadying. "Hey!" he calls out, and all heads turn your way.

The next few minutes are a blur of introductions. Eduardo Camavinga, who hugs you like he's known you forever. Jude Bellingham, with his British accent and easy smile. Vinícius Júnior, who immediately switches to Spanish when he hears you're half Puerto Rican.

"So you're the girl who's got our Tchou acting like a lovesick teenager," Jude says with a grin, making everyone laugh.

"Don't believe anything they say about me," Aurélien tells you, but he's smiling wide, clearly pleased to finally have you here with his friends.

"Oh, we have stories," Cama says mischievously. "Like when he was texting you during Coach's speech and walked into a door."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "You never told me about that."

Aurélien groans. "Thanks a lot, bro."

Dinner is a surprisingly relaxed affair. The food is incredible, the wine flowing freely. You find yourself sandwiched between Aurélien and Vinícius, who's easy to talk to and doesn't seem bothered by your occasional Boricua slang that makes him laugh.

Throughout the meal, Aurélien barely leaves you alone – his hand on your thigh under the table, occasionally leaning over to kiss your temple, proudly introducing you as "my girl" in a way that makes your heart flutter despite yourself.

It's when the dessert arrives that Eduardo raises his glass. "To Aurélien and Y/N, because it's about damn time he brought you around. We were starting to think he was embarrassed by us."

"Never," Aurélien says, raising his own glass. "Just wanted to keep her to myself a little longer."

His eyes find yours, warm and full of something that looks a lot like love. You clink glasses with him, feeling a weight lifting off your shoulders. These people aren't judging you. They're welcoming you.

In the car on the way home – and when did his place start feeling like home? – Aurélien is buzzing with energy.

"See? Told you they'd love you."

"They're nice," you admit. "Easier than I thought."

"Real recognizes real," he says simply, reaching for your hand. "Next week, my Bordeaux crew. Then maybe a trip home to meet my parents? They're dying to meet you."

The panic must show on your face because he laughs. "Relax. One step at a time."

"Yeah," you breathe. "One step at a time."

But as you look over at him – this man who slid into your DMs six months ago and somehow slid right into your heart too – you realize you're already several steps in. And remarkably, you're okay with that.

"What?" he asks, catching you staring.

"Nothing," you say, smiling. "Just... happy."

His answering smile is blinding. "Me too, bebé. Me too."

When you get home – there's that word again, home – Aurélien pulls you into his arms in the driveway, kissing you under the stars. "So, official enough for you?" he murmurs against your lips.

And for once, you don't hesitate. "Yeah," you say softly. "Official."

Because maybe this thing that once seemed too good to be true is just... good. And true.

The next morning, you wake to the feeling of something hard pressing against your ass and warm breath on your neck. Aurélien's arm is draped heavily across your waist, pulling you flush against him. You wiggle a little, still half-asleep, and hear him let out a low groan.

"Mmm, good morning," he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and that French accent even more pronounced. His lips find the sensitive spot behind your ear.

"Morning," you mumble, reaching for your phone on the nightstand. No notifications. You open Instagram and scroll through, half expecting to see some grainy shots of you and Aurélien at dinner last night. Nothing yet. Small mercies.

Aurélien's hand slides under your camisole, his palm warm against your stomach. "Two whole weeks," he says, sounding pleased. "All your PTO from that fancy marketing agency in New York, just for me."

"Don't get too excited," you tease, but you can't deny the flutter in your chest. You'd never used all your vacation days for one person before.

His hand travels higher, cupping your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple. "Can't help it," he says, rolling his hips against you. The hardness of his morning wood is impossible to ignore. "Already excited."

"Don't you have to leave for practice soon?" you ask, glancing at the time.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. "That's why quickies exist, bebé." His teeth graze your earlobe before he whispers, "Come ride this dick."

You turn in his embrace, looking up at him as he licks his lips sexily, giving you that look that always makes heat pool in your belly. His bare chest is on full display, showing off his perfect abs and that tiny sprinkling of a happy trail disappearing beneath the sheet.

You let out a scoff but straddle him anyway, making him smile up at you as he places his large hands on your hips.

"I just want to fuck you all the time, bebé. You're so sexy," he says, eyes hooded.

"Mmhmm," you say, but stay put as his hands slide up from your hips to squeeze your breasts, still covered by your pajama camisole. Your hardened nipples betray how you truly feel, and Aurélien's smile turns smug.

You lean forward, capturing his lips with yours. The kiss is slow, sexy, sensual – his tongue sliding against yours, his hands tangling in your hair. It feels surreal, being here with him like this. Being his girlfriend. Official.

Just as things are heating up, a loud bark from downstairs breaks the moment. Then another. And another.

Aurélien sucks his teeth, letting out a frustrated groan. "Putain, Ocho! Not now!"

You can't help but giggle at his frustration as he mutters something in rapid French that you can't quite catch.

He taps your thigh lightly, signaling you to move. "To be continued," he promises, slipping out of bed. He pulls his boxers down a bit to adjust himself, giving you a perfect view.

"Damn, looking good, Tchouaméni," you catcall, just to tease him.

He blows you a kiss before heading downstairs to let Ocho out. You hear him talking to the dog in that baby voice he pretends he doesn't use.

By the time he comes back upstairs, you're already in the bathroom, starting the shower. He slips in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and picking up right where you left off.

"We have fifteen minutes," he says, kissing down your neck. "Just enough time for me to make you come at least once."

And true to his word, he does exactly that, with his fingers and tongue working magic against the shower wall. It's quick and intense, leaving you breathless and clinging to his shoulders.

"Now I'll be thinking about that all day during training," he says with a self-satisfied grin as you both get dressed afterward.

"That was the plan," you tease, pulling on a pair of leggings and one of his hoodies.

An hour later, you're sitting in the stands at Real Madrid's training facility, watching Aurélien and his teammates run drills. Apparently, this is what girlfriends and wives of ballers do – show up to training sessions, sit in the designated family section, and watch their men work.

It feels strange being here officially. No more sneaking in, no more 'just a friend' introductions. You're Aurélien Tchouaméni's girlfriend now. The thought still makes your stomach do somersaults.

On the pitch, you watch as Camavinga tackles Aurélien, sending them both sprawling dramatically onto the grass. Instead of getting up, they start wrestling, laughing like little kids. Jude jogs over and jumps on top of both of them, creating a pile of million-dollar athletes acting like teenagers.

"They're always like this," comes a voice with a French accent, though not as deep as Aurélien's.

You look up to see Kylian Mbappé standing a few feet away, a water bottle in hand. He's smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners.

"Kylian, right?" you say, extending your hand. "I'm Y/N, Aurélien's—"

"Girlfriend, I know," he says, shaking your hand. "He hasn't shut up about you. It's all 'my girl this' and 'my girl that.'"

You laugh, feeling your cheeks warm slightly. "Didn't realize I was such a hot topic."

"You have no idea," Kylian says, taking a seat next to you. "So, Aurélien says you live in, uh, New Yohk?" His French accent makes it sound like 'New Yohk,' and you can't help but smile at the similarity to how Aurélien pronounces it.

"Yeah, Jersey City actually, but I work in Manhattan."

"Doing what?"

"I'm a senior designer at a marketing agency. We handle campaigns for some pretty big brands."

Kylian nods, looking impressed. "That's dope. Creative type, huh? Maybe that's what Tchou needs, someone with some actual culture."

You laugh. "You say that like the man doesn't spend hours telling me about art exhibits he wants to take me to."

"He's trying to impress you," Kylian says with a grin. "Trust me, two years ago all he knew about art was whatever he saw on album covers."

Before you can respond, a whistle blows, signaling the end of the water break.

Kylian stands, giving you a friendly nod. "Nice to finally meet you."

"You too," you reply.

As he jogs back to the field, Aurélien breaks away from the group and heads over to you. His skin is glistening with sweat, his training shirt clinging to his torso.

"You good?" he asks, reaching the barrier. "You can go get something to eat in the facility if you want. Kitchen's open."

"I can do that?"

He nods, flashing that million-watt smile. "You have special perks now, girlfriend." He winks, then reaches over to give your ass a playful slap. "I'll meet up with you in a bit."

Behind him, Camavinga and Jude let out exaggerated wolf whistles. Aurélien flips them off without even turning around.

"Ignore them," he says. "They're just jealous."

You feign embarrassment, but truthfully, there's something kinda nice about being claimed so openly. About not being a secret.

Inside the facility, you find your way to the kitchen area. It's modern and spacious, with a buffet setup that would put most restaurants to shame. Fresh fruits, salads, a variety of proteins, and of course, all kinds of performance-enhancing shakes and supplements.

You fill a plate with some grilled chicken and vegetables, then look around for somewhere to sit. The space is fairly empty except for a few people scattered at different tables. Your eyes land on a stylish Black woman with a pixie cut and multiple ear piercings, probably in her fifties, typing away on her phone at a corner table.

There's something familiar about her. You walk closer and suddenly realize where you've seen her before – in Jude's Instagram posts. It's his mom.

She looks up as you approach, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Hello there, love. You must be Aurélien's girl. I'm Denise, Jude's mum."

Her Brummie accent is warm and inviting. She gestures to the seat across from her. "Join me! I could use some company while the lads are out there showing off."

You introduce yourself as you sit down. "It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Bellingham."

"Oh, none of that. Call me Denise, please. Or Miss Denise if you're feeling formal."

"Miss Denise it is," you say with a smile.

"So," she says, setting her phone down, "Jude tells me you've captured our Aurélien's heart completely. About time that boy settled down with someone nice."

You can feel your cheeks heating up. "I don't know about all that. We're just..."

"Official?" she supplies with a knowing smile. "That's what Aurélien was telling everyone. Said he's never been this serious about anyone."

Your heart does a little flip. "He said that?"

"Mhmm. And I've known that boy for a while now. Not one to exaggerate about matters of the heart." She takes a sip of her tea. "So, tell me about yourself. Jude mentioned you work in marketing?"

You nod, diving into an explanation of your job, your life in Jersey City, and how you and Aurélien met. Miss Denise listens attentively, asking thoughtful questions and laughing at all the right moments.

"And your family? They're supportive of this long-distance relationship?"

You shrug. "My mom was skeptical at first. Thought he was paying me for... well, you know."

Miss Denise laughs heartily. "Oh, I do know. Had similar thoughts when Jude started bringing girls around with those fancy gifts. But your mum's come around?"

"Yeah, Aurélien FaceTimed her. Charmed her completely. Now she asks about him more than she asks about me."

"They have that effect, these boys," she says, a note of pride in her voice. "But it's not easy, being with someone in this life. The spotlight, the distance, the gossip."

"I'm figuring that out," you admit. "But worth it, I think."

Miss Denise reaches across the table to pat your hand. "That's the right attitude, love. And between you and me, it's nice to see another woman of color in these stands. We've got to stick together."

You smile, feeling a sense of camaraderie with this woman you've just met. Maybe this whole WAG thing won't be so bad after all.

As you continue chatting with Miss Denise, learning about her experiences raising a football prodigy and navigating this world, you can't help but feel like you've found an unexpected ally in this unfamiliar territory.

And when Aurélien eventually comes to find you, his face lighting up when he sees you deep in conversation with Jude's mom, you think you could get used to this life after all.

Day three of your Madrid visit, and you're standing in Aurélien's laundry room, sorting through a pile of his training clothes. You know he has people for this – a whole staff that comes to clean the villa twice a week – but you needed something to keep your hands busy, your mind occupied. Otherwise, you might just chicken out and not show up at his match tonight.

The match. Where you'll be official official. Wearing his fucking jersey with his name across your back. Sitting in the family section. On camera, probably. The thought makes your stomach twist.

Aurélien's been out all morning – meetings with sponsors, then a team lunch. Left you alone in his big ass villa, which isn't a first, but it is the first time you've been here as someone who "belongs." The first time with the key he surprised you with last night, along with those Van Cleef & Arpels bracelets that match his own.

That's Aurélien all over – he likes consistency, likeness. Matching everything. Always talking in "we" instead of "I." Some might call it being a team player. Others, the consequences of being a responsible big brother all his life. The weirdos on the internet will definitely see it as him staking his claim.

You call it what it is – clinginess, plain and simple. Though you'd be lying if you said you didn't find it just a little bit endearing.

Neither of you are big flexers on social media. You post to your IG sometimes, and so does he. But the last couple days, he's been dropping hints about the two of you – videos on his stories with your loud-ass laugh in the background, pictures of your turned back at the grocery store, or you playing with Ocho. It's got the gossip blogs talking, wondering. Since when did Aurélien Djani Tchouaméni claim a girl? Not since... well, you're not going to say her name. That O girl, his ex. But not since her, anyway.

The washing machine beeps, pulling you from your thoughts. As you move the wet clothes to the dryer, your mind drifts back to those early days, before things got serious.

"So wait, your dog is named Cinco? Like the number five?" Aurélien asked, his face filling your phone screen on that first FaceTime call.

You nodded, angling your phone so he could see your Doberman sprawled across your couch. "Yeah, why? Is that funny?"

"No, it's just..." He turned his camera to show a Belgian Malinois lounging on a plush dog bed. "My dog is Ocho. Eight."

You both burst out laughing at the coincidence.

"Maybe Cinco needs a little brother," he said, that smooth-talking voice making something flutter in your chest. He licked his lips, the hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "We could make them a matching set."

"You're getting way ahead of yourself, Mr. Real Madrid," you teased, but there was no bite to it.

His expression turned more serious. "Your dad, he's from Cameroon too, right? Like my parents. Which part?"

You shrugged, a familiar pang of loss hitting you. "Honestly, I don't know. He wasn't around much, and then not at all. I know I have a grandmother still living there, and some aunts, but..."

"I could help you find them," he said it so simply, like offering to help look for lost keys. "If that's cool with you."

"Yeah," you said, surprised by the offer. "That'd be... thanks."

"I like that you're Cameroonian too," he said, his eyes intense even through the screen. "I can teach you everything about it. We should find out which tribe you're from."

"Tribe?"

"Yeah, I'm Bamileke," he explained, pride evident in his voice. "My people are warriors. We have a rich history."

"That's dope," you said, genuinely interested. "On my mom's side I'm Taíno. Indigenous Puerto Ricans were warriors too."

His eyes lit up. "See? We're both descended from warriors. It's meant to be."

Even then, he was trying to find connections, similarities. Building a "we" before there was even an "us."

The sound of the front door opening snaps you back to the present. Ocho's nails click rapidly against the marble floors as he runs to greet him. You hear Aurélien's deep voice cooing at the dog in French.

"Bebé? Where are you?"

"Laundry room," you call back.

He appears in the doorway a moment later, looking unfairly good in tailored pants and a fitted button-up. "Why are you doing laundry? I told you Maria comes on Thursdays."

You shrug. "Just keeping busy. Nervous about tonight."

His expression softens as he crosses the room to wrap his arms around you from behind. "Don't be nervous," he murmurs, lips against your neck. "It's just a game."

"It's not the game I'm nervous about."

He turns you to face him. "The cameras? The public? That's nothing. Just keep your eyes on me."

"Easy for you to say. You're used to it."

"And you will be too." He kisses your forehead. "I got you something."

From a shopping bag you hadn't noticed he was carrying, he pulls out a white home jersey with "TCHOUAMÉNI" and his number across the back.

"Custom-made," he says, looking pleased with himself. "For my girl."

You take it, the fabric soft between your fingers. It makes everything so much more real.

"Thank you," you say, and you mean it despite the butterflies in your stomach.

"Wear it tonight," he says. "I want everyone to know."

"Know what?"

"That you're mine." He says it so simply, but the weight of it hangs between you. Then he grins, lightening the moment. "And that I'm yours."

Five hours later, you're sitting in the Santiago Bernabéu Stadium, your heart hammering in your chest. Aurélien's jersey feels both too tight and too big somehow, a physical reminder of what tonight represents.

"First match?" Miss Denise asks, settling into the seat beside you. She looks stylish as always, her pixie cut perfectly shaped, multiple earrings catching the stadium lights.

"First official one," you say with a nervous smile. "As... you know."

"The girlfriend," she finishes with a knowing smile. "Don't worry, love. The first one's always the scariest. After that, it's just another Tuesday."

You try to believe her, but your palms are still sweating as the teams run onto the pitch for warm-ups. Your eyes immediately find Aurélien, his tall frame impossible to miss. As if sensing your gaze, he looks up toward the family section, a smile breaking across his face when he spots you in his jersey.

He gives you a small wave before jogging off to join his teammates. The simple gesture calms your nerves just a bit.

"He's a good boy, that one," Miss Denise says, following your gaze. "Got a good head on his shoulders."

"Yeah," you agree. "He's...special."

As the match begins, Miss Denise takes it upon herself to be your personal commentator, explaining the finer points of the game.

"See, Ancelotti's got him playing out of position again," she says with a disapproving click of her tongue. "He's a proper center midfielder, not a defensive back. Waste of his talents, if you ask me."

You nod along, having absolutely no idea what she's talking about but appreciating the distraction. You're just here to watch Aurélien run around looking good in his kit and, occasionally, kick a ball.

But even your untrained eye can tell he's doing well. There's a confidence to his movements, a control that seems to radiate to his teammates. Every time he touches the ball, a little surge of pride runs through you.

By halftime, Real Madrid is up 2-0, though Aurélien hasn't scored. Not that you expected him to – you've gathered that's not really his job.

"He's playing brilliantly," Miss Denise assures you. "Controlling the midfield."

You're halfway through your popcorn when you notice people around you looking up at something. You follow their gaze to the giant Jumbotron and nearly choke.

There, in high definition, is you sitting next to Miss Denise. But what makes your stomach drop is the caption: "Jude Bellingham's mother and girlfriend."

"That's not true!" you blurt out, pointing at the screen. Which, of course, the camera catches too, broadcasting your indignant expression to the entire stadium.

Miss Denise just laughs, patting your hand. "Welcome to football, love. They never get it right."

But you can already picture the social media storm brewing. The gossip blogs. The football fan accounts. You, apparently, are about to become a whole thing.

God, Aurélien is going to lose his shit.

The second half feels twice as long, despite Real Madrid adding another goal. Your phone buzzes non-stop in your pocket, no doubt blowing up with notifications as the Jumbotron mishap spreads across social media. You resist the urge to check it, focusing instead on watching Aurélien command the midfield, as Miss Denise puts it.

When the final whistle blows – Real Madrid 4, Las Palmas 1 – you let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Miss Denise stands, offering you her hand.

"Come on, love. Let's head down to the locker rooms. The boys will be out soon."

You follow her through the stadium's inner corridors, an area you've only been to a couple times before, and always sneaking in with a security guard Aurélien had bribed. Now, you're walking through with a laminated pass hanging around your neck. Official.

The area outside the locker rooms is already filling with wives, girlfriends, and family members. Miss Denise greets several of them by name, introduces you to a few, and then finds a spot against the wall where you both wait.

About twenty minutes later, the locker room door opens, and players start trickling out, all freshly showered and changed into Real Madrid tracksuits. Jude emerges early, his boyish grin widening when he spots you and his mom. He skips over – literally skips – and you're quickly learning that Jude is a bit of a gossip. Messy as fuck, as Aurélien would say.

"Hi girlfriend," he teases, reaching you first.

You roll your eyes at him, watching as he leans down to kiss his mom on the cheek. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he leans toward you like he's going to kiss you too.

Out of nowhere, Aurélien appears, his hand firmly on Jude's chest. "Put your dirty mouth on her and I'll really fuck up your shoulder."

"Damn, Aurél!" Jude scowls, exaggeratedly rubbing his shoulder. "Low blow. You know I need surgery and been avoiding it."

"Then keep it pushing, bro," Aurélien says, pushing Jude lightly to the side, careful of his injured shoulder.

As soon as Jude moves, Aurélien's full attention is on you. He leans down for a light kiss, just a peck, before pulling back slightly. But he immediately comes back for another, then another, until he's consuming your whole mouth with his full lips.

Wolf whistles and catcalls erupt from his teammates walking by, followed by Jude's indignant voice, "My mum is right here! Jesus Christ!"

Aurélien finally stops, looking a bit sheepish as he turns to Miss Denise. "Sorry about that, Mama D."

She just waves a hand dismissively. "Please. Like I haven't seen worse. Good game today, love."

Aurélien beams at the praise. "Thanks. We played well."

"You played well," she corrects. "Even out of position."

He laughs, then turns his attention back to you. "Ready to go home?"

The word still gives you butterflies. Home. With him. "Yeah," you say. "Let's go."

In the car, Aurélien is quieter than usual. Some R&B plays softly through the speakers – Bryson Tiller, you think – while his fingers tap rhythmically on the steering wheel. You wonder if he's upset about the Jumbotron incident, or maybe something else entirely.

He sucks his teeth, a sure sign he's annoyed, but when he finally speaks, his voice is steady.

"You're mine," he says simply. "The internet is always lying. It'll die down though."

You hadn't even brought it up yet, but of course he knows. Word travels fast in a locker room.

"I'm not worried about it," you say, though that's not entirely true.

"Don't look at your phone," he advises. "Jude's fan girls are crazy as fuck. They'll be in your comments talking shit."

"My Instagram's been private for a while," you remind him.

"Still. Be careful." His hand finds yours across the console. "People are wild about this stuff."

As you pull up to his villa and through the security gates, you notice all the lights are on inside. You frown, confused. You definitely turned everything off before leaving.

Aurélien isn't confused though. He's annoyed, cursing under his breath as he parks.

"What's going on?" you ask, suddenly on alert.

He turns to you, his expression a mix of resignation and amusement. "I guess you're meeting my uncle tonight."

"Your uncle?" you repeat, stomach dropping slightly. Meeting family already feels like a big step, especially African family. This was early. Too early based on what Aurélien had told you.

You know his uncle "watches" over him in Spain, but Aurélien had mentioned he was always traveling back and forth to Cameroon and Paris. So there's no real watching of Aurél, just occasional pop-ins.

"I didn't think we'd be meeting him for a while," you say quietly as Aurélien kills the engine.

"Me either," he says, running a hand over his face. "But it's just Uncle Bertrand. He's cool."

Cool or not, you're suddenly hyper-aware of your appearance – hair probably a mess, still wearing Aurélien's jersey, no makeup touch-up since before the game. Not exactly how you'd planned to meet any of his family.

Aurélien had made it clear early on that his parents were traditional African parents with high expectations. His mother, an education advisor, and his father, who worked in pharmaceutical sales, were "smart smart" as Aurélien put it. You've watched enough Nollywood movies to know how intense those parental expectations can be.

Being half Cameroonian might ease their bite, but you're still American. You don't speak French or know much about your culture. And you know his uncle will report back to his parents with all this information, possibly talking them down from accepting you.

"Hey," Aurélien says, squeezing your hand. "Stop overthinking. It's fine."

"Easy for you to say," you mutter, but there's no time to argue. You're already here, and Aurélien is already out of the car, coming around to open your door.

As you enter the villa, Ocho comes bounding over, his tail wagging excitedly. You bend down to scratch behind his ears, grateful for the distraction.

"Dja? C'est toi?" a deep voice echoes through the house, using Aurélien's middle name – Djani. You've noticed his family always calls him by his middle name.

"Oui, Tonton," Aurélien answers, his hand finding the small of your back.

A rapid exchange in French follows, too quick for you to catch any of it beyond "match" and "bien." Footsteps approach, and then a tall, distinguished-looking man appears in the foyer.

Uncle Bertrand is clearly cut from the same cloth as Aurélien – same height, similar jawline, though his face carries the wisdom of years Aurélien hasn't yet lived. His eyes, sharp and assessing, roam over you, taking in the jersey, then flick to Aurélien's hand around your waist.

More French follows, but this time you catch your name in the mix, and the word "petite amie" – girlfriend.

"Uncle," Aurélien says, switching to English for your benefit, "this is Y/N, my girlfriend. Y/N, this is my uncle Bertrand."

"Ah, the famous Y/N," Bertrand says, his accent thicker than Aurélien's but his English perfectly clear. "My nephew has been keeping secrets, it seems."

"It's nice to meet you," you say, extending your hand, which he takes firmly.

"Come, sit," he gestures toward the living room. "We have much to talk about."

You shoot Aurélien a worried glance, but he just nods reassuringly, guiding you to the large sectional. You settle beside him, his arm draped protectively around your shoulders.

"So," Bertrand begins, sitting across from you. "How long has this been going on?"

"Six months," Aurélien answers before you can.

Bertrand's eyebrows rise. "Six months and you didn't think to tell the family? Your mother will not be pleased, Dja."

"Don't tell them," Aurélien says immediately. "I want to be the one who does. When it's time."

"And when will that be?"

Aurélien's fingers tighten slightly on your shoulder. "Soon."

Bertrand studies him for a moment, then nods. "Very well. But don't wait too long. You know how news travels in our community."

"Yeah, I know," Aurélien says with a sigh.

Bertrand turns his attention to you. "So, Y/N, Aurélien tells me you're half Cameroonian?"

The questions begin, gentle but probing. Where exactly in Cameroon is your family from? (You don't know specifics). Do you speak French? (No, sadly). What do you do for work? (Marketing design). How did you meet? (Instagram, but you let Aurélien explain that one). Have you ever been to Cameroon? (No, but you'd like to go).

Through it all, Aurélien stays close, occasionally jumping in to answer for you, which earns him scolding looks from his uncle.

"Let her speak, Dja. I want to know her, not your version of her."

To your surprise, the interrogation isn't as bad as you feared. Bertrand is direct but not unkind, genuinely seeming to want to know you rather than judge you.

"You must come to the family gathering in Paris this summer," he says after about an hour of conversation. "Meet everyone properly."

You look to Aurélien, who seems pleased by this. "We'll see," he says, which you've learned is his way of saying yes without committing.

"Well," Aurélien says, standing suddenly. "It's late, and we're tired. The match, you know."

"Of course," Bertrand says with a knowing smile. "Don't let me keep you."

Aurélien tugs you up beside him. "We're going to bed. Ocho, stay with Uncle Bertrand."

The dog, who had been lounging at your feet, looks up but doesn't move, apparently content where he is.

As Aurélien leads you toward the stairs, Bertrand calls after you: "Use a condom, Dja! I'm too young to be a great-uncle!"

Aurélien sucks his teeth loudly, muttering something in French that sounds distinctly annoyed. You bite your lip to keep from laughing, face hot with embarrassment.

"Ignore him," Aurélien says as you climb the stairs. "He thinks he's funny."

"He seems nice," you offer.

"He's okay. Better than my dad will be."

The admission sends a jolt of anxiety through you. If meeting his uncle was this nerve-wracking, what will meeting his parents be like?

But as Aurélien closes the bedroom door behind you, pulling you into his arms and kissing you deeply, you decide that's a worry for another day. Right now, you have more immediate concerns.

Like the fact that despite his uncle's teasing, you're pretty sure Aurélien doesn't have any condoms left after the last few days.

Aurélien's hands are on you, tugging at the hem of his jersey that you're still wearing.

"Take this off," he murmurs, his lips already trailing down your neck, hands sliding under the fabric to touch your skin.

But your mind is racing a thousand miles an hour, unable to focus on his touch. His parents. Soon. But how soon is "soon"? You're already meeting his childhood friends in a few days, and now his parents too? This is a lot for one month of actually dating, official dating at least.

Aurélien, as usual, is really horny after a match. Like a squirrel trying to get his nut—literally and figuratively. His hands roam everywhere, his breathing already heavy as he pulls the jersey up to expose your stomach, pressing hot kisses against your skin.

"Baby, wait," you say in a low voice.

But Aurélien doesn't wait. He keeps kissing your exposed stomach, trying to pull the jersey over your head. You push him back and he falls onto the bed, more dramatically than warranted because it was never that hard of a push. But Aurélien, being Aurélien, thinks it's you trying to take control. He bites his bottom lip, looking up at you with those dark eyes.

"I love when you get like this," he growls, fingers already working to untie his pants.

"Aurélien, no. Hold on for a second," you say, and he finally pauses, noticing your serious tone. "I'm meeting your mama soon?" you ask, anxiety creeping into your voice.

He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed at the interruption. "I don't want to think about my mother right now, bebé. I'm trying to fuck. Don't ruin the vibe, please."

"Well too fucking bad because I'm ruining it."

"Why?" he groans like a petulant child, flopping back on the bed.

"Because you told your uncle that I'm meeting them soon? Like what the hell? How soon is 'soon'?"

He shrugs, casual as ever. "Like next month or something."

"Next month? Nigga what?"

And then you're pacing, hands gesturing wildly as you slip into rapid-fire Spanish.

"¿El próximo mes? ¿Estás loco? Ni siquiera he desempacado mi maleta por completo y ya estamos hablando de conocer a tus padres? Esto es demasiado rápido. Demasiado. Y tu tío ya está aquí, juzgándome, probablemente enviando informes a tu madre sobre cómo no soy lo suficientemente buena, cómo no hablo francés, cómo soy demasiado americana..."

Aurélien just lies there on the bed, watching you with a mixture of confusion and amusement as his erection slowly deflates. He catches maybe one word in five, but your tone says everything.

"¿Y qué diablos voy a usar? ¿Qué se supone que debo decir? ¿'Hola, soy la chica de Instagram que su hijo ha estado follando durante seis meses'? Oh Dios mío, ¿y si no les gusto? ¿Y si piensan que soy una buscadora de oro? ¿O peor, qué tal si..."

"Bebé," Aurélien finally interrupts, sitting up. "I have no idea what you're saying, but I know you're freaking out."

You stop pacing to glare at him. "Of course I'm freaking out! I don't even know your mother's name!"

At this, Aurélien bursts out laughing. "Yes, you do. It's Josette. And my father is Fernand. We've talked about them many times."

You blink, because he's right. You do know their names. You know his younger brother goes to boarding school in the States. You know his younger sister is spending time working in Cameroon, helping his older half-sister at a nonprofit there. You know a lot about them—but you don't know them, know them. Not yet.

"That's not the point," you say, deflating slightly. "This is happening so fast."

Aurélien stands, crossing to you and taking your hands in his. "Breathe, bebé. Woosah," he says, doing an exaggerated breathing demonstration that makes you roll your eyes despite your anxiety.

"It's not funny, Auré."

"I'm not laughing," he says, though his lips twitch like he's fighting a smile. "Look, it's just dinner. One dinner. And it's not for weeks. We have plenty of time to prepare."

"What if they hate me?"

"Impossible."

"What if I say something wrong?"

"I'll be right there to translate," he promises, his hands sliding to your waist. "Now, can we please get back to what we were doing? I've been thinking about this all game."

He leans in for a kiss, but you duck away from his grasp, shaking your head. "No punani while your uncle is here."

Aurélien's face falls. "What? Come on, bebé. He's all the way downstairs. And the walls are thick."

"No," you say firmly, though your resolve weakens a bit when he gives you those puppy dog eyes.

"Please?" he whines, reaching for you again. "I need you."

"Not happening," you insist, slipping past him toward the bathroom. "I'm going to clean up from the match."

You close the bathroom door behind you, and immediately hear a loud, muffled groan followed by what sounds like Aurélien throwing himself back on the bed repeatedly, like a child having a tantrum. You can't help but smile a little at the image. For a world-famous footballer worth millions, he can be such a baby sometimes.

Alone in front of the mirror, you take a deep breath, staring at your reflection. Brown eyes, brown complexion, full lips. The same face that's always looked back at you. But somehow everything else feels different now. In just a few short months, you've gone from casual hookup to girlfriend, from sneaking around to sitting in the family section, from FaceTime calls to meeting parents.

It's a lot. Too much, maybe.

But as you hear Aurélien shuffling around in the bedroom, probably changing for bed and still grumbling about his sexual frustration, you can't help but feel a flutter of something that might be happiness. Or terror. Or both.

And all she could think about was how fucking much her right shoulder hurt.

"Fifteen seconds, Miss," the umpire called.

She bounced the ball once, twice, three times against the rust-colored clay. Her opponent, Svetlana Kuznova, stood across the court, racket twirling impatiently in her hand. The Russian had already been warned twice for time violations, yet somehow she was the one getting the passive-aggressive countdown.

She tossed the ball skyward, arched her back, and drove her racket through with the kind of fluid power that had drawn comparisons to her idol since she was sixteen. The serve sliced through the air, painting the T-line perfectly.

"Ace. 30-15," the umpire announced.

A pocket of American fans erupted, waving their little stars and stripes like she was out here fighting for democracy instead of just trying to win her first major on clay. Her eyes flicked to them, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth, when she saw him.

Fuck.

Those shoulders. That jawline. The green and white checkered knit polo tucked neatly into black slacks like he was attending a damn garden party instead of a tennis final. Even with the black sunglasses masking half his face, she'd recognize Jules Koundé anywhere.

"Miss Y/L/N, please serve."

Right. Tennis. The final. Focus.

She bounced the ball again, trying to push away memories of his hands gripping her waist, holding her against the wall of his Barcelona apartment, his lips at her neck whispering things in French she couldn't understand but somehow made her whole body flush hot anyway.

Her serve caught the net.

"Fault."

From the commentary box high above, two voices dissected her mistake for millions of viewers.

"Y/L/N seems to have lost focus momentarily. That's not like her, Patrick. She's been laser-sharp all tournament."

"Sometimes in these big moments, the pressure can get to even the most composed players, John. Let's see if she can reset."

She took a deep breath. She had two months of not answering his texts under her belt. Two months of pretending the best sex of her life hadn't happened. Two months of focusing solely on her game, her career, her goals.

And now he was here, on the one day she couldn't afford distractions.

Her second serve landed safely, starting a rally that stretched her side to side across the baseline. Kuznova hit a cross-court backhand that she had to full-stretch for, her grunt echoing around the stadium as she somehow redirected it down the line for a winner.

"40-15."

"Magnificent from Y/L/N!" the commentator exclaimed. "That's the kind of shot Serena would be proud of!"

But she was already thinking about the next point, and definitely not about how Jules had shifted forward in his seat, clapping with that infuriating little half-smile that always made her feel like he knew something she didn't.

By the time she'd taken the first set 6-4, she had managed to mostly forget Jules was there. Tennis had always been her salvation, the place where nothing else mattered. Not her mother's sacrifices to afford coaching. Not the racist comments on social media. Not the memory of Jules' fingers twisted in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp.

Damn it.

"Challenge!"

She snapped back to reality as Kuznova pointed angrily at a ball mark near the sideline. The Russian was already walking to her chair, certain the call would be overturned.

The Hawk-Eye replay showed the ball catching the tiniest sliver of the line.

"Ball was good. Point to Y/L/N. Game, first set, Y/L/N."

The Russian slammed her racket against her chair, launching into a tirade at the umpire that would definitely cost her a code violation.

From the commentary box: "Kuznova clearly frustrated with that call, though the technology doesn't lie, John."

"It doesn't, but when you're out there in the heat of battle, sometimes you see what you want to see. Y/L/N looks composed despite the drama. She's been unflappable."

If only they knew how flapped she actually felt.

During the changeover, she closed her eyes, towel draped over her head. Her coach's voice echoed in her mind: Control what you can control. The rest is just noise.

Jules Koundé was definitely noise. Exceptionally attractive, French-accented noise who had once made her come three times in a single night.

Focus. Focus.

By the third set, her legs burned with fatigue. She'd dropped the second set in a tiebreak after Kuznova started employing every trick in the book – medical timeouts when she had momentum, tying her shoes during her service rhythm, even subtly moving the ball marks with her feet when the umpire wasn't looking.

But she had been dealing with gamesmanship since junior tennis. This was just higher stakes.

She painted the line with a forehand winner to go up 4-2 with a break. As she walked to the chair for the changeover, she allowed herself a quick scan of the stands. Jules was leaning forward, elbows on knees, sunglasses now perched on top of his head. She recognized Pedri and Gavi sitting beside him, Barcelona teammates who seemed fully invested in the match.

No women with them, she noted, then immediately scolded herself for caring.

Two games later, Kuznova hit a return long on match point. The stadium erupted.

"Game, set, match, Y/L/N! She is your Barcelona Open champion!"

She dropped to her knees, racket falling beside her, hands covering her face as the reality washed over her. Her first clay court title. Her name on the trophy alongside legends.

After shaking Kuznova's hand (a frigid exchange that lasted milliseconds), she looked up to her box where her coach and physio were jumping around like lottery winners. She'd done it. Despite the shoulder pain. Despite Kuznova's tactics.

Despite Jules fucking Koundé and his ability to make her body remember things it had no business remembering during a final.

The press conference was the usual barrage of questions – about her game plan, about adjusting to clay, about what this meant for the French Open next month. She handled them with the poise that had earned her the nickname "Ice Queen" from the tennis media, a label she found both reductive and vaguely racist, but had learned to live with.

"And finally, we noticed some famous faces in the crowd today. The Barcelona football players seemed quite supportive. Any connections there?"

Her stomach tightened. "I don't really follow football much," she lied smoothly. "But it's always nice to have support from fellow athletes."

Technically not a lie. She didn't follow football. She had, however, followed Jules Koundé straight to his bed last time she was in Barcelona.

The locker room was blissfully empty when she finally returned, trophy ceremony complete, drug test finished, media obligations fulfilled. Her shoulder screamed as she gingerly changed out of her sweat-soaked match clothes. Tomorrow would be recovery – ice, massage, maybe some light movement. Tonight was for celebration.

Alone, preferably.

She checked her phone. Sixteen texts from friends and family. Hundreds of notifications. And one message from a number she'd been ignoring for two months.

Jules: Magnifique, chérie. Your backhand is still as good as I remember. Dinner to celebrate?

She closed her eyes. How did he still affect her like this? It had been an incredible few months, not a lifetime. Just some phenomenal sex and surprisingly deep late-night conversations in broken English and her high-school French. Nothing worth risking her focus for.

She typed out Not interested and deleted it. Typed I'm busy and deleted that too.

A knock at the locker room door saved her from herself.

"Ms. Y/L/N? Your car is ready whenever you are."

"Thanks, I'll be right out."

She slung her bag over her good shoulder and pushed through the door, only to walk straight into a solid chest in a green and white checkered polo.

"Congratulations, champion," came that accented voice, smooth like expensive bourbon and just as intoxicating.

She took a step back, forcing herself to look up into those dark eyes that somehow always seemed to be laughing at a private joke.

"Jules. What are you doing here? This area is for players and staff."

He gestured vaguely with his hand. "When you wear this—" he pointed to his face with a smile that was equal parts confidence and charm, "—people let you go places you shouldn't."

Despite herself, she felt the corner of her mouth twitch. "Humble as always."

"You ignored my texts," he said, stepping closer, his cologne bringing back memories that made her grip her bag tighter.

"I've been busy. Training. Winning tournaments. You know, my job."

"And I have been busy winning matches. My job also." He shrugged those shoulders she remembered digging her nails into. "But I still find time to reply to messages."

She glanced around the hallway, acutely aware that at any moment, a reporter or tournament official could round the corner.

"I need to go."

"To celebrate your win, yes? Perfect. I know a place."

"Jules—"

"Your coach, your team, they can come too." He stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes never left hers. "Unless you are afraid to be near me?"

There it was. The challenge. The slightly cocky edge that had drawn her to him in the first place.

"I'm not afraid of anything," she said, chin lifting.

His smile widened. "This I know. I watched you today. Fighting like a lion."

"Lioness."

"Oui, of course. The more dangerous of the two." He checked his watch, an elegant timepiece that probably cost more than most people's cars. "My teammates, they are waiting with their girlfriends. We have a reservation at Disfrutar in one hour. Best restaurant in Barcelona. You deserve the best today, no?"

She knew she should say no. Knew that getting entangled with Jules again would only complicate her life right when things were falling into place professionally.

But standing there, riding the high of victory, with his dark eyes filled with something that looked dangerously like admiration mixed with desire, she found herself nodding.

"Fine. But I need to shower and change first."

"Of course. I will wait."

As she turned to head back into the locker room, his voice stopped her.

"Hey."

She looked back over her shoulder.

"You cannot say no to me, chérie. We both know this."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face.

"Watch me," she said, letting the door swing shut behind her.

But they both knew she didn't mean it.

________________________________________________

The restaurant was nothing like she had expected. No teammates. No coaches. No buffer between her and the man currently pulling out her chair like they were on some kind of goddamn date.

This dreadlocked-ass nigga is trying to be slick.

And he was. A bouquet of white lilies and pink roses waited on the table—her favorites, which she'd mentioned exactly once during a 3 AM conversation months ago. The private corner table screamed premeditation, tucked away with a view of the Barcelona skyline lighting up against the deepening twilight.

"You said your teammates would be here," she said, settling into her seat, already mapping an exit strategy.

Jules slid into his chair, close enough that his knee brushed against hers under the table. "They were busy." His accent made every lie sound smooth as cognac. "Such a shame."

"Yeah. A real tragedy."

He smiled, not even bothering to hide his deception. His locs were pulled back loosely, a few escaping to frame his face in a way that was entirely too appealing for her sanity. She tried to focus on the menu instead of how the restaurant lighting caught the angles of his jawline.

"You played incredible today," he said, his voice dropping to that lower register that always did things to her body. "That backhand down the line in the third set? Magnifique."

"Thanks."

The waiter approached with a bottle of champagne she definitely hadn't seen Jules order. Another part of his master plan, obviously.

As the bubbling liquid filled her glass, Jules leaned closer. "To the champion," he said, clinking his glass against hers. "And to reunions."

"I didn't agree to a reunion," she muttered, but took a sip anyway. The champagne was excellent, obviously. Nothing but the best for Jules fucking Koundé.

"Yet here you are."

"Under false pretenses."

"Details." He waved his hand dismissively, eyes never leaving hers.

The first course arrived—some delicate arrangement of seafood that probably cost more than most people spent on groceries for a week. Jules watched her take her first bite, his gaze so intent it made her skin warm.

"Stop staring at me while I eat."

"I like watching your mouth," he replied without a hint of shame. "It reminds me of things."

She nearly choked on her food. "You're being inappropriate."

"And you're being stubborn." He shifted closer, the heat of his thigh pressing against hers. "Two months, chérie. No reply to my texts. No call. Nothing. As if what we had was nothing."

"It was just—"

"If you say 'just sex' I'm going to lose my mind." His hand found her knee under the table. "We both know it was more."

His fingers traced small circles on her exposed skin where her dress had ridden up, the touch sending unwelcome electricity up her thigh. She shifted away, but the small booth didn't give her much retreat.

"The press will have a field day if they see us," she tried, changing tactics.

"Let them." Jules shrugged, taking a sip of his champagne. "I'm not ashamed of being seen with you."

The conversation momentarily paused as their main courses arrived. She used the interruption to collect her thoughts, to remind herself why she'd stopped answering his texts in the first place.

Focus. Career. No distractions.

But Jules had always been the ultimate distraction. Even now, as she tried to concentrate on her food, she could feel his eyes watching her every move.

Halfway through the meal, he leaned over and pressed his lips against her exposed shoulder, the contact brief but burning.

"I missed you," he murmured against her skin. "Missed the sounds you make when I touch you."

She cleared her throat, hyper-aware of the restaurant staff moving around them. "Jules, we're in public."

"Mmm." He pulled back, but only slightly. "Then perhaps we should go somewhere private."

"We're eating dinner."

"I'm hungry for something else."

She rolled her eyes, though the heat spreading through her body betrayed her true reaction. "Does that line actually work on women?"

"I don't use it on women. Only you." His smile was slow, deliberate. "And judging by how your pulse just jumped, it's working just fine."

Throughout the meal, Jules maintained his assault on her senses. A hand on the small of her back. His thumb brushing over her wrist. Eyes that tracked every movement of her lips. She was holding strong, though—keeping the conversation light, deflecting his more suggestive comments, ignoring the way his cologne made her want to lean closer.

Until dessert arrived.

One plate. One spoon. One knowing smirk from Jules.

"I ordered for us to share," he said innocently, though nothing about the heat in his eyes was innocent.

She eyed the decadent chocolate creation between them. "I can ask for another spoon."

"Where's the fun in that?" He scooped up a bite, holding it toward her lips. "Open."

Against her better judgment, she leaned forward and accepted the offering. The rich chocolate melted on her tongue, embarrassingly good. She licked her lips to catch a stray bit of sauce, only realizing her mistake when she saw Jules' eyes darken.

"You don't know how much I've dreamt of your lips and tongue," he said, voice so low it was almost a growl. "The things they do to me."

She inhaled sharply and started coughing, chocolate going down the wrong way. Jules patted her back, his touch firm but caring, while passing her water with his other hand.

"You good?" he asked, concern briefly replacing the desire in his eyes.

She nodded, taking a sip of water. "You can't just say shit like that in public, Jules."

Instead of backing off, he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. "We should leave."

"No."

His eyes widened, a flash of surprise quickly melting into something darker, more primal. The brown of his irises deepened to molten pools that rivaled the chocolate on the table.

"Why not?" His head tilted to the side, studying her with newfound interest. Then he leaned in again, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You always playing around like you don't want this dick. I know you do, chérie. You know why?"

She gasped, partly at his words, partly at the feeling of his hand sliding higher on her thigh.

"Because I know how much you been wanting to taste me, to fuck me just like I've been wanting you. You know how much your pussy been aching for me to—"

Someone cleared their throat nearby. The waiter stood there, check in hand, expression carefully neutral. She wanted to sink through the floor.

Jules switched effortlessly to Spanish, exchanging pleasantries with the waiter as if he hadn't just been whispering filth into her ear. He pulled out his black American Express card and handed it over without even glancing at the bill.

As the waiter walked away, Jules turned his attention back to her. He leaned back in his seat, legs spread wide in classic manspread, arm draped casually across the back of her chair. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder as he picked up his dessert wine with his free hand.

He sipped slowly, eyes never leaving hers over the rim of the glass. The intensity of his gaze made her shift in her seat, heat pooling between her thighs despite her determination not to react to him.

After finishing his wine, he set the glass down with deliberate care. The silence between them stretched, charged with everything unsaid.

Finally, Jules sighed, his expression shifting to something more serious, more vulnerable than she was prepared for.

"I missed you."

She rolled her eyes, unable to handle this sudden sincerity. "This fucking man," she thought.

Jules saw the incredulous look on her features. "I do, besides all the sex. I miss you."

"Lies."

"Never," he scoffed, shaking his locs in denial. The motion caused several to fall forward, framing his face in a way that made her heart stutter. He rubbed his goatee thoughtfully, a smirk playing on his lips though his eyes remained fond. "Remember the summer, after the Olympics? When we stayed almost two full days in our hotel in Lisbon? How we didn't want to leave each other's sides at all?"

She did remember. That stolen weekend had been a little piece of respite before they both had to return to training for their respective careers and their schedules became increasingly hectic.

"I do," she admitted softly.

"Remember what I told you that night when we went to NOBU? How I wanted you to be my—"

"I'mma stop you there, Jules, because you're pushing it."

A low chuckle escaped his lips, rich and velvety. "Chérie, don't act like I won't pull you into a bathroom and bend you over the counter and..."

With each word, he moved closer, until she found herself backed into the corner of their booth. Their faces were mere inches apart, his words trailing off into charged silence.

"You make me feral," he admitted, his voice rough with honesty. "You make me wild and I don't know why. I'm addicted to you, chérie. I'm addicted to your smell, your taste, your presence, and I don't know why. You didn't have to ghost me, you know? You didn't have to leave me like you did knowing that all I wanted was to be yours."

"Jules, we are both—"

"Busy," he finished, shaking his head in disbelief. "That's always been your excuse."

He made a soft tsk sound against his teeth, the sharp click somehow both dismissive and intimate. Then he pulled back slightly, giving her room to breathe.

"I know we're busy, but we could've given it a chance. At least tried instead of not even making an attempt."

"Jules, you don't know what you're talking about. We had a fling and it was getting very hot and..."

"And what?" he wondered, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. "We both caught feelings. Admit to that at least."

"Jules..."

"Admit to it," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for evasion.

She exhaled slowly. "Maybe we both caught feelings, but as I was saying—"

"Oh là là," he scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically, and she knew Jules' petty side was about to make an appearance.

Before she could tell him off, the waiter returned with his card. Jules tucked it back into his wallet after signing his name, then turned his attention back to her.

"You're so annoying at times," he said, but there was no real heat behind his words.

She parted her lips to retort, but he held up his hand, stopping her.

"I'm tired of playing these games, really. I know I should move on, but you know me—you know how stubborn I am and how I always fight for things I want. And you're the only person I want." He exhaled deeply, his intense stare sending a shiver down her spine. "So I'm going to give you a choice, and whatever you do tells me how you really feel."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Copa del Rey is next week in Sevilla." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You remember Sevilla too, right? When I fucked you on our hotel balcony?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Jules," she gasped, glancing around to make sure no one had heard him.

"I knew you remembered," he smiled widely. "That was the first time I made you squirt."

"Oh my god, Jules, please!" she hissed, urging him to get to the point.

"Okay, okay," he chuckled. "Copa del Rey is next week. Your coach told me that you're free then and will be in Paris to prepare for the French Open. I booked you a flight." His expression sobered. "The choice is whether you take that flight from Paris to Sevilla and watch me at my match. If you do, then I know you feel the same as I do but were just being your normal stubborn self. And if you don't..."

"If I don't?" she prompted when he trailed off.

Jules answered with a shrug. "You just don't. But to be clear, I will never try to link up with you anymore, and you can't come running back on some 'I made a mistake' bullshit. You will be blocked."

"Petty much?" she teased, giving him a look of distaste.

"I'm protecting my peace, chérie. Don't shit on my methods." The impasse between them stretched for several seconds before he broke it. "Deal?"

After another pause, weighing the implications, she finally nodded. "Deal."

With that, he leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek before standing. "Your driver should be here by now."

Sure enough, her phone buzzed with a text from her driver saying he was waiting outside.

"I'll walk you out," Jules said, his hand finding the small of her back as they moved through the restaurant.

The Barcelona night was warm, stars barely visible against the city lights. A gentle breeze carried the scent of the Mediterranean, mixing with the lingering notes of Jules' cologne as he walked her to the car.

He opened the door for her, his hand lingering on hers as she slid into the backseat.

"See you soon, I guess," he said, the uncertainty in his voice a rare crack in his confident façade.

She nodded, still stunned by the evening's turn of events. As the car pulled away from the curb, she watched him through the window, standing tall and impossibly handsome in the soft glow of the restaurant lights.

What the fuck had just happened? And more importantly, what was she going to do about that flight to Sevilla?

She leaned against the balcony, mesmerized by the sea of jerseys filling the massive stadium. The roar was muffled but still palpable, creating a strange bubble of calm amid the chaos. Below, groundskeepers were making final preparations for Real Madrid's season opener against Valencia.

"Would madame like another drink?" A server appeared at her elbow, startling her.

"Oh, non, merci," she replied, still clutching her half-full champagne flute.

Technically, she wasn't alone in the box—there were servers, security, and a handful of club officials milling about—but she might as well have been. The other WAGs were two boxes over, a deliberate separation that hadn't gone unnoticed by social media already.

"Trouble in Madrid paradise? Mbappé's girlfriend gets separate box at first game."

She'd seen the headline pop up on her phone ten minutes after arriving. Someone on the inside was clearly feeding the gossip machine.

The truth was much simpler: she preferred her space on game days. After finally making inroads with the WAGs at that second training session and the lunch that followed, she’d been surprised to receive multiple invitations to join them in their box today. Camila had been particularly insistent, Sofia had promised homemade Spanish treats, and even the usually reserved Eva had texted to say there was “plenty of room.”

But game days were different. She needed space to feel her nerves, to curse in French when things got tense, to be herself without cameras capturing every reaction. So she’d politely declined, sending a quick message to the WAG group chat:

Thanks ladies, but I need my own box for this one. Match day superstition… don’t want to jinx Ky’s debut! Save me some treats for after?

Their responses had surprised her:

Camila: Totally get it. I was the same until Rodrygo made me join the group. Something about “team unity” 🙄

Sofia: No pressure! The offer stays open for whenever you’re ready.

Eva: Superstition = you watching in your lucky underwear 👀

Lucia: First rule of WAG club: respect the superstitions. We’ll keep your seat warm for next time!

That last message had made her smile. Acceptance, without pressure. Maybe the Madrid WAGs weren’t the ice queens she’d initially thought.

Her smile grew at Kylian's pre-game text:

Cherchez-moi après l’échauffement. Je te ferai un bisou. Le premier objectif est pour toi, Squirtle.

Sentimental dork. She typed back:

Les vrais hommes marquent des tours du chapeau lors de leurs débuts. Je dis juste.

Défi accepté. Regarde-moi.

She grinned, pocketing her phone as she spotted the teams emerging for warm-ups. Even from this distance, Kylian was instantly recognizable—something about the way he moved, electric and fluid. Pride swelled in her chest watching him, now dressed in pristine white instead of PSG blue.

He looked good. Happy. Like he belonged here, despite what half of Paris was saying about betrayal and loyalty. She knew the truth: how he'd agonized over the decision, how he'd cried the night he told Nasser he was leaving. The public only saw the headlines, the salary figures, the glamour. They didn't see the boy from Bondy who still sometimes couldn't believe this was his life.

True to his word, after warm-ups, Kylian jogged to her side of the pitch, looking up at the boxes. She pressed her hand against the glass, and even though she knew he probably couldn't see her clearly, he blew a kiss in her direction. The gesture was caught by cameras, instantly broadcasting on the stadium screens.

A collective "awww" rose from the crowd, followed by enthusiastic cheering. On impulse, she decided to mark the moment. She snapped a selfie with the pitch behind her, making sure the diamond "K" pendant resting against her collarbone was visible. The necklace—Kylian's first big gift to her three years ago—always brought her luck on game days.

She posted it to Instagram with the caption:

her_instagram: first match in madrid! ⚪️ #halamadrid #nervousbutexcited

She barely had time to set her phone down before the notifications started flooding in. Unlike the usual barrage of hate, there seemed to be more positive comments this time:

@madrid_fan_2002: Ok I wasn't sure about her but she looks happy to be here. Welcome to Madrid!

@footballwags_daily: That VIEW though 😍 Separate box is a flex

@kylianm10_stan: The K necklace is back! Lucky charm for our boy

@fashion_footballers: Still wearing the famous K pendant I see 👀 Some things never change even in a new city

She smiled, scrolling through more comments, until she landed on one that made her nearly spit out her champagne:

@wags_uncensored: We all know Mbappé has a thing for seeing his initial around her neck... word is he gets turned on seeing her wearing his "brand" if you know what I mean 😏

"For fuck's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes.

The K pendant had been the subject of ridiculous speculation for years. What had started as a sweet gift—a simple diamond "K" that Kylian had given her after signing his first major contract renewal—had somehow morphed in the public imagination into some kind of kinky ownership symbol.

The rumors had started after a tipsy night out in Paris when she'd posted a bathroom selfie with Kylian visible in the background, looking at her with unmistakable heat in his eyes. She'd been wearing just the pendant and his jersey at the time (and pants, contrary to the rumors). The internet had gone wild with theories about Kylian's supposed possessive streak and kink for "branding" her.

There was a tiny grain of truth to it—Kylian did get a particular look in his eyes when she wore his initial—but it was hardly the 50 Shades scenario people imagined. More like the normal pride of a young man seeing his girlfriend wear his gift.

And now the speculation was starting up again in Madrid.

More comments rolled in:

@madridista4ever!: Does the K stand for Kylian or Kinky? 😂 We've all heard the rumors girl

@footy_gossip_queen: I see the ownership tag is still firmly in place. Get you a man who makes sure everyone knows you're his property 🔥

@mbappeswifey21: That necklace is LITERALLY a collar don't @ me

She groaned, closing the app. It was going to be one of those days.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Alexia:

Girl the comments about your necklace are SENDING ME. Pretty sure Ky is trending for his "kink" not the game 💀

Don't encourage it omg. It's a normal necklace! Not my fault people are pervs.

Sure Jan. Bradley says Ky used to get all growly in the locker room whenever someone mentioned you wearing his initial. Just saying!

I hate you.

You love me. Also are you watching the pre-game? They just showed your post on the broadcast lmao

She quickly switched to the small TV in the corner of the box. Sure enough, the commentators were discussing Kylian's debut while her Instagram post was displayed on screen. One of them was actually pointing to the K necklace, seemingly speculating about its significance.

"Putain de merde," she groaned.

As she continued scrolling through comments, she noticed a new theme emerging:

@madridsocialite: Are we not going to talk about how her boobs look way bigger than in Paris? Madrid upgrade includes surgery?

@wags_body_watch: The K necklace is a distraction from the obvious boob job. No shame girl, they look good!

@footballfashionista: New city, new... assets? 👀 #ChestUpgrade

She stared at her phone in disbelief, then looked down at her chest. She was wearing a simple yellow vest, and yes, her breasts did look fuller than they had a few months ago, but that was because:

1. She'd gained a perfectly healthy five pounds since moving to Madrid (stress eating pastries, thank you very much)

2. She'd switched to the hormonal implant in her arm for birth control, which had the side effect of making her boobs swell

Not that any of that was anyone's business, but it certainly wasn't plastic surgery.

"Putain," she muttered for what felt like the hundredth time that day. Couldn't she just exist in her body without commentary?

Her phone rang. It was her sister.

"Salut, t'es bonne?" her sister asked, barely containing her laughter.

"Don't start," she groaned.

"I just saw your post. You're trending on Twitter, you know."

"Of course I am. God forbid they focus on Kylian's actual football skills."

"To be fair, he's trending too. But yeah, half the comments are about your chest and that necklace. Maman called me asking if you really got surgery. I told her it's just the implant."

"Merci. At least someone believes me."

"You could just ignore it, you know."

"And let them make up their own narrative? Non, merci."

Her sister sighed. "Tu sais que je t'aime, but maybe stop giving them ammunition? Every time you respond, it just keeps the story going."

"So what am I supposed to do? Just let them say whatever they want?"

"Pretty much, yeah. Or lean into it. Make it a joke. I don't know."

She sighed, turning her attention back to the match as it began. Kylian was electric from the start, his speed causing problems for Valencia's defense. When he scored in the 23rd minute—a rocket into the top corner—she leapt to her feet, cheering wildly. True to his word, he pointed directly at her box during his celebration, making a small "K" with his fingers before being mobbed by teammates.

The second half was even better, with Kylian scoring again and setting up a third as Madrid cruised to a 3-0 victory. When the final whistle blew, she felt a genuine surge of happiness and belonging for the first time since moving. This was why they were here—for moments like this. Kylian was thriving on the pitch with his French buddies by his side. She was finally finding her place with the WAGs. Even Milo had stopped eating her shoes (mostly).

When she made her way down to the family area after the match, the other WAGs were waiting, Camila immediately pulling her into a hug.

"There she is! Our good luck charm!” Camila exclaimed. "We’ve decided the K necklace is mandatory for all matches from now on."

"I second that," Sofia agreed. "My husband says Kylian played like a man possessed today."

"Possessed or trying to impress someone," Eva added with a knowing smile. "Either way, it worked."

Before she could respond, the doors to the players’ area swung open. Kylian emerged first, now in his team trackie with his hair damp from what must have been a quick shower. His eyes scanned the room, lighting up when they landed on her. Unlike his usual composed public demeanor, he made a beeline straight for her, ignoring the waiting press and club officials.

"There she is," he said, loud enough for nearby people to hear, before pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms wrapped possessively around her waist, and he buried his face in her neck for a moment, right where the K pendant rested.

"You were amazing," she murmured, surprised by his public display of affection. They usually kept things more reserved in front of cameras.

Instead of answering, he pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss that was definitely not their usual public peck. His hand came up to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing against her jawline, while his other arm kept her firmly pressed against him.

When he finally released her, she was slightly breathless. "What was that for?" she whispered.

"Just happy," he said with a grin, but there was something heated in his gaze as it dropped to the K pendant. His fingers came up to touch it briefly. "Lucky charm worked."

She caught Camila and the other WAGs watching with barely concealed amusement. Sofia made an exaggerated fanning motion, while Eva whispered something to Lucia that made them both dissolve into giggles.

Maybe the internet wasn’t completely wrong about the pendant after all.

A reporter approached, microphone extended. Kylian kept his arm firmly around her waist, tucking her against his side in a way that was unusually possessive for him in public.

"Kylian! Congratulations on the debut goals. Your celebration seemed to have special meaning?"

Kylian's media-trained smile appeared, though his arm remained locked around her. "Thank you. Yes, special meaning for someone special." He squeezed her hip.

"There's been quite a reaction online to your girlfriend's post today, particularly the necklace—"

"I think," Kylian interrupted smoothly, "we should focus on football today. It was an important win for the club, for the fans."

"But there's speculation about your relationship dynamic—"

"The only dynamic people should be concerned with is how I'm connecting with Vini on the pitch," Kylian cut in, still smiling but with a clear edge. "That's what matters today."

The reporter, recognizing defeat, pivoted to questions about the match. Throughout the interview, Kylian kept her pressed against his side, occasionally letting his fingers stroke small circles on her hip or brush against the K pendant at her throat. It was subtle but definitely not their usual public behavior.

When the interviews finally ended, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Let's get out of here."

"Don’t you have team obligations? Dinner or something?"

"They’ll understand," he said, his hand sliding to the small of her back. "I’ve got other priorities tonight."

As they made their way toward the exit, she noticed his eyes dropping to her chest momentarily. "So," he said casually, though his voice had dropped lower, "I see the comments about certain… changes."

She rolled her eyes. "It’s the implant. And maybe some stress eating."

"Mmm,” he hummed, a small smirk playing at his lips. "Whatever it is, I’m not complaining."

“Kylian!” she hissed, swatting his arm. "People are watching."

"Let them," he shrugged, unconcerned. "Maybe it’ll give them something else to talk about besides that.” He tapped the K pendant lightly, but the gesture made her skin warm under his touch.

"You know, you're not exactly helping with the rumors when you act like this," she pointed out as they approached his waiting car.

"Like what?" he asked innocently, though his hand had slid to rest lower on her back than was strictly necessary.

"All... possessive and touchy. People already think you have some weird ownership kink with this necklace."

Instead of the denial she expected, he just laughed, opening the car door for her. "Some rumors have a grain of truth, Squirtle."

"Kylian!" she gasped, genuinely surprised by his admission.

He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed her ear. "What? I like seeing you wear it." Then, as the cameras continued to flash around them, he added in a whisper only she could hear: "And I like taking it off you even more."

Her cheeks flushed as she slid into the car, Kylian following close behind. As they pulled away from the stadium, she couldn't help but think that maybe the internet wasn't entirely wrong about the K pendant after all.

The front door shut with a soft click behind them, the quiet of the villa wrapping around them like a secret. Milo’s tags jingled faintly from his bed in the corner, but it was Gatsby’s loud, nasal snore echoing down the hall that made her laugh softly.

“He’s louder than the fans at Parc des Princes,” she muttered, slipping off her heels.

“Shhh,” Kylian whispered from behind her, already toeing off his sneakers. “Don’t wake him. I need you too bad to stop now.”

His arms wrapped around her waist before she could take another step. He pressed himself against her back, hands gliding up her ribs and then down again, slow and purposeful, like he couldn’t decide which part of her he wanted to touch first.

“Kylian—”

“Tu m’as manqué toute la journée,” he murmured into her neck, lips brushing over the spot he knew made her shiver. “Je te veux maintenant.”

Her breath caught. “Really?”

He turned her around, eyes dark, lips already parted. “I’ve been hard since you walked into the press area with my initial bouncing on your chest.”

She smacked his chest lightly. “You’re a menace.”

“Non, bébé,” he said, walking her backward toward the couch with slow, stalking steps. “Je suis affamé.”

The backs of her knees hit the couch, and she fell onto the cushions with a little gasp. Kylian was on her in an instant, kneeling between her legs, hands pushing her vest up, mouth already tasting the curve of her stomach.

“I missed this,” he groaned, licking up to her sternum, then pulling her vest all the way off. “Tes seins… putain, regarde-les.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the heat rising to her cheeks. “They’ve literally been attached to me this whole time.”

“Pas comme ça,” he said, squeezing them with both hands, thumbs brushing her nipples. “Pas à moi. Pas dans ma bouche.”

Her breath hitched as he dipped his head, sucking her nipple into his mouth, tongue circling slow and deliberate until she arched up into him.

“Kylian,” she gasped, threading her fingers through his curls.

He kissed his way up her throat, his voice ragged now. “J’ai besoin de te sentir. Tout de suite.”

She didn’t protest when he hooked his fingers into her waistband, dragging everything—jeans, panties, the last of her resistance—down in one swift pull. Her legs fell open easily, welcoming, needy.

“You gonna be good for me tonight?” he asked, kissing the inside of her thigh. “Or you wanna fight again?”

“Depends,” she said breathlessly. “You gonna fuck me like you mean it?”

Kylian chuckled, dark and low. “Oh, bébé. Je vais te baiser jusqu’à ce que tu cries mon nom.”

He stood just long enough to strip, his erection already thick and leaking, and she bit her lip at the sight of him. He knelt back down, pulling her hips to the edge of the couch, guiding himself with one hand while the other gripped her thigh.

“Ready?” he asked, voice thick with heat.

She nodded, but it didn’t matter—he was already sliding in, one slow, unrelenting thrust that made her whimper.

“Putain, toujours si serrée pour moi,” he grunted, eyes rolling back for a second.

Her legs wrapped around his waist automatically, heels digging into the small of his back.

He fucked her like he’d been waiting all week. Deep, rhythmic strokes that made the couch creak beneath them. One hand gripped her jaw, tilting her face toward him, forcing her to look him in the eye.

“Dis-moi que tu m’aimes comme ça,” he growled, sweat starting to bead on his brow.

She moaned, hands scrambling for purchase against his shoulders. “I love you like this. I love you all the time.”

His thrusts got harder, messier.

“Tu vas jouir pour moi, hein?” he whispered against her lips. “Crème pour moi, bébé. Mon Squirtle.”

Her mouth dropped open in a wordless cry as her body tightened around him, pleasure ripping through her in waves. She clenched down so hard it dragged a strangled groan out of him.

“Fuck, yes,” he gasped, hips stuttering as he came, burying himself deep, holding her through every trembling second of it.

They collapsed together, tangled, breathless, damp with sweat and satisfaction.

Gatsby snored louder from down the hall.

She started laughing.

Kylian looked up, lips swollen, brow furrowed. “Quoi?”

She wiped her eyes. “I think Gatsby’s jealous he won’t get to be little spoon tonight.”

Kylian laughed, dropping his forehead to her collarbone. “He can have his turn tomorrow.”

She grinned, stroking his back. “You’re so generous.”

“I know,” he said smugly. “Now let’s take this to bed.”

She didn’t move.

“…Bébé?”

“…Five more minutes. My legs don’t work.”

Kylian lifted his head from her collarbone, a smug-ass grin on his face. “Cinq minutes? You think I’m that patient?”

She let out a hoarse laugh, tossing her arm over her eyes. “You were just inside me—like, thirty seconds ago.”

He shrugged, unfazed, brushing his hands along the inside of her knee. “And I’m ready again in ten. Footballer stamina, remember?” A kiss against her cheek. “Elite recovery time.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, skeptical. “You said that last time. Then you needed electrolytes and a nap.”

He smirked, wicked and proud. “Because you squirted all over the sheets and drained my soul like some succubus. Not my fault you’re greedy.”

“Greedy?” she laughed. “You’re the one who just fucked me like a crazy person.”

“Still am,” he murmured, eyes glinting. Then he scooped her up without warning, and she squealed as her legs flailed.

“Kylian! My legs don’t even work yet!”

He grinned as he walked them toward their bedroom. “Good. Less resistance.”

The door creaked open. Gatsby snored on his dog bed in the corner, rolled onto his back like the most peaceful third wheel on earth, one paw twitching like he was chasing a dream squirrel.

Kylian laid her down with a surprising tenderness, but the look in his eyes was anything but gentle. Hungry. Focused. His gaze trailed from the sheen of sweat on her collarbone to the diamond “K” pendant that rested between her breasts. He thumbed it once, eyes narrowing in quiet satisfaction.

“You know this pendant’s a problem, right?” he asked, voice low and lazy.

She blinked up at him, breath already hitching. “You gave it to me.”

“I know.” He let the “K” sway between them, the cool metal brushing her skin. “But every time I see it on you, I wanna fuck you stupid.”

She laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Three years together and you still talk like we just started dating.”

Kylian grinned, lips ghosting along her jaw as he nudged her further up the bed. “That’s because you keep leveling up. My girl gets finer and filthier. It’s a beautiful thing.”

She opened her mouth to sass him—but then his hand slid between her thighs.

Schlick.

Her gasp was immediate. His fingers moved slow, deliberate, tracing through the slick heat of her.

“Yeah,” he murmured, watching her face. “There she is. Look at how messy you sound, putain. You hear that?”

Schlick. Schlick.

“Kylian,” she whimpered, eyes fluttering shut.

“T’entends ça?” he murmured, licking his lips. “That’s the sound of a girl who’s gonna make a mess all over my hand.”

She whined, squirming as he curled his fingers just right, knuckles dragging against the spot that made her see stars.

“Stop it,” she hissed, not even meaning it. “You’re gonna make me—”

He stilled. Smirked.

“Again?” he asked, eyes lighting up like she’d just scored a hat trick. “Squirtle, don’t tell me you’re about to—”

“I hate you,” she groaned, tossing her forearm over her eyes as her thighs tried—and failed—to clamp shut around his hand.

“You love me,” he whispered against her throat, his fingers picking up pace again, stroking her like he knew her body better than she did. “You love when I make you do this. When I fuck it out of you with my hands. Regarde-toi, bébé. Tu dégoulines.”

Her body jolted, thighs trembling violently.

“No—Kylian—shit—I’m gonna—”

Her orgasm hit her like a freight train, her hips lifting off the bed, an involuntary cry ripping from her lips as her pussy clenched and pulsed around his fingers—wet, gushing, soaking his hand and the sheets in a rush of heat.

Kylian didn’t stop.

He watched her fall apart, smug as ever, his free hand smoothing up and down her thigh like he was calming something wild.

“Voilà,” he murmured. “Regarde-moi ça. Fucking beautiful.”

She collapsed into the pillows, breath stuttering, hair a mess across her face.

“You’re insane,” she panted, blinking up at him.

“And you’re messy,” he grinned, holding up his dripping fingers like a trophy. “My favorite.” He then sucked them clean. “Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Kylian!”

“What?” he said, already crawling between her thighs again. “I need to mark my territory.”

“Again?” she asked, wide-eyed, barely recovered.

He glanced at the puddle beneath her, then at his dick—already hard again and nudging her thigh.

His grin widened, lips brushing hers. “You tell me, Squirtle.” Kylian then slid back into her—slow, thick, deep—and her mouth fell open in a moan as her body welcomed him like he never left. He kissed her jaw, her neck, her mouth. “You feel like home,” he whispered. “And I’m never leaving.”

“Kylian—bébé—”

“Je t’aime,” he whispered against her skin. “Every goddamn inch.”

“Je t’aime plus,” she mumbled, dazed and open under him, her hands splayed over his back.

They moved like they’d done this a thousand times before—because they had. And it was still this good. Still this much. They came together again, this time slower, deeper, mouths barely touching, fingers tangled like they couldn’t get close enough.

After, they lay in silence, her hand absently tracing the damp curls at the nape of his neck, Gatsby’s snores still going strong in the background.

“Okay,” she whispered eventually. “Maybe your stamina’s improved.”

Kylian cracked a lazy smile. “Told you.”

“Still not enough for a third though.”

He rolled her on top of him, dick stirring back to life already.