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Was it intimidation, perhaps? Your family rolled their eyes whenever you ranted about women’s inequality, but it was true! It wouldn’t be the first time that a male classmate acted out because they couldn’t accept that you were smarter than them. It was a shame to think that Angus could be the same way, but you didn’t know the guy very well. Who was to say?

Both being English majors and juniors, Angus was a familiar face around campus. The university was on the smaller side, so you became closely acquainted with almost all of your classmates. You had even made your first best friend at school: Sally Wyman, who sat next to you in English 101, was most passionate about Medieval English literature, and whose favorite book was, mindbogglingly, Beowulf. It was nice to have a small cohort, but it had its downsides as well: people that you didn’t like were inescapable. Angus was in every class, every semester, and popped up at every get together and study session. The two of you brushed shoulders constantly, much to your chagrin. 

It was the Fall of ‘72 when he first caught your eye. He sat in front of you in the lecture hall of your American Literature course, and quickly became a sort of celebrity. Angus was outspoken, smart, witty, constantly raising his hand. Not all were fond of him, and occasionally an annoyingly heated debate about the writing of Kerouac would have everyone yelling at him to  shut up. But even this didn’t deter your crush on him; his passion in class was motivating and aspirational. You knew you were smart, but you rarely had the confidence to speak up like him. Knowledge seemed to get wedged and stuck in the corners of your mouth, but flow endlessly out of your pen. Maybe if you had an assignment or essay to turn in then your professors would recognize your talents, but most classes were just hours upon hours of lecturing. Angus’ constant participation proved that he was not only smart, but self-assured, unafraid. You wanted to be like him.

Okay. Maybe the crush was helped by the fact that he was extremely cute, too. During particularly boring lessons, you found yourself lost in the mess of dark hair that made up the back of his head. You wanted to trace the C-shaped curls on the nape of his neck, the small freckles that dotted the pale column of his throat. If you stretched your arms, you would be able to run your hands over the expanse of his broad shoulders, smooth the wrinkled shirt collar beneath his sweaters. Even his sideburns, which would have you rolling your eyes on anyone else, left you in awe. He was stylish; a grown, masculine departure of the boys of your high school.

There was a time where you truly believed that Angus Tully could be the man of your dreams. How foolish you had been.

It was later in that Fall of ‘72 that the illusion cracked, and you saw Angus for who he really was. You were both in Professor Hilbert’s class: Introduction to Creative Writing. The final was a workshop to share with your classmates and receive feedback in return. Everyone had to write a minimum of 10 pages, and have it printed and shared among the class a week before.

You worked anxiously on your story: a tale about a woman whose paranoia and fear of being stalked by her neighbors climaxes into a manic murder-suicide. It was meant to explore and comment on mental illness, motherhood and the perception of women’s hysteria. The idea had been rolling around in your mind for months before the assignment, and you were excited for the chance to finally execute it. You knew that you were by no means the most gifted writer in the class, but you were proud of the work, and expected for it to be positively received.

Angus Tully had completely shattered your dreams. His critique was cutting and brutal: the language was flowery but shallow, your metaphors were nonsensical, and the pacing was all over the place. 

“They say that good artists create, and great ones steal. I’m not sure if that was the framework you used when writing this, but all I could think was that you wanted to make an edgier version of Rosemary’s Baby. I mean, some of the dialogue was ripped right from the movie,” he said, leaned back in his chair with crossed arms.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to remain calm. “I’ve never seen that film,” you admitted. “If there are parallels, it’s all just coincidence.”

The girl sitting next to Angus stifled a laugh, brushing her hair over her shoulder. Tracy Bellevue, if you remembered correctly. “To be honest, I have to agree with Angus on a lot of the critiques. Women’s liberation fiction is getting popular, and this just seems like a chance to cash in. It just felt a little uninspired.” He looked at her with a smirk, and she smiled back. You wanted to melt into a puddle.

By the time you took your seat, it felt like all the passion for writing had been vacuumed out of you, leaving a deflated silhouette of a person behind. Passion was reignited as soon as you had finished re-reading Angus’ piece, however. He had the audacity to call you a thief, when his was nothing more than a Catcher in the Rye rip-off? You refused to let him get away with this, and told him as much when it was time to give feedback. 

“Your admiration for J.D. Salinger is evident, Angus, but I think the story would have benefitted greatly from a protagonist that was more than a Holden Caulfield copycat.”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Excuse me? This character was based on my own experiences, which lots of teenagers have gone through. Just because your story was creatively bankrupt doesn’t mean that you can get mad and say the same thing to me.”

“I’m sorry?” you huffed, ready to annihilate the man in front of you. You were being nice before, but if he wanted to stoop low, you would go there. Hilbert stepped in before you could however, reminding the two of you that only constructive criticism was allowed for the workshop. It was embarrassing to have your piece torn to shreds by Angus and Tracy of all people, but even more so to be scolded by the professor. The two of you left class an hour later silently nursing the wounds, and igniting a bitter rivalry. 

Maybe the two of you could have come back from that workshop with apologies and a clean slate, but it was Angus who had pushed it further. Just two weeks after the incident, Sally had skipped into class asking why you hadn’t come to Angus’ birthday party that previous weekend. You stared at her for a few seconds in disbelief, before sheepishly admitting that you hadn’t been invited, or even knew there was a party being thrown.

How the news had managed to evade you, you didn’t know. But Angus knew that you and Sally were close; and he still didn’t offer you even a pity invite? It stung, and felt isolating. What was up his ass, anyway? Did you do something to make him hate you? Why else would he have been so critical of your story in the first place? Most people in the class seemed to have enjoyed it. Even Professor Hilbert had given you written praise upon returning your story back.

Fuck that guy. You had worked your ass off to be at this school, and Angus Tully thought he was all that? He was just another rich kid who thought that being rude meant that he was smarter than everyone else. What struggle had he ever experienced, fancying himself to be a Holden Caulfield for the modern age? It made you sick. That stupid smirk, that obnoxious height, his full lips, warm brown eyes… You hated the fact that you still found him handsome. You wished that you could picture him with the physical manifestations of his hideous soul, but to no avail. 

Since that workshop, not a semester, class or study session could go by without the two of you at each other's throats, trying to one-up the other at every opportunity. And even now, he thought that he could walk into class 20 minutes late, after just having shamed you for being late last week, and you wouldn’t say anything. 

Angus gave you a glance as he passed by your seat, making his way to the back row, to which you raised your wrist and tapped your watch. Maybe you saw his look turned into a glare, but you were focused on the lesson. Trying to, at least.

The sound of laughter and conversation erupted immediately after class ended, with people standing up and stretching their legs after hours of being seated. You took your time gathering your things, not ready to brave the cutting winter air outside, or endure another two hours of lectures. Getting out of bed was agonizing this semester, nevermind actually going to class. 

Skipping was a nasty habit that you’d been fighting for years, but this semester was starting to grind you down. It was the first time since you came to school that you felt true defeat and disinterest in your education. The only reason you had come into today was knowing that you and Sally could pass notes about her most recent date, and she hadn’t even shown up. It was lonely on days without her, and you couldn’t help the pang of jealousy seeing your classmates making plans without you. Ignoring the chatter around you was easy, and your consciousness was beginning to tiredly degrade back into autopilot mode.

A shadow cut through the scruffed grain of your table. You looked up to see Angus, wrapped in a thick red scarf and backpack hung off a single shoulder, waiting for you to notice him. He was, notably, alone. Usually he didn’t go anywhere without his little group of friends trailing behind him, and you glanced curiously around the room to see where they were. You spotted them, your classmates Max, Brian and Tracy, all walking out of the door, and all staring your way as they did. Tracy’s look could have turned you to stone. It was very rare for them to leave Angus behind.

“Yes?” you asked uncertainly, standing to put your coat on, preparing to go on the defensive.

“A bunch of us are going to Squeaky Boot after Johnson’s class later. You should come with.”

A few seconds of silence passed, while you scrambled to think of a response. Hopefully your calm face didn’t reflect the sudden panic he had just instilled in you. An invitation to the bar? Of all the things he could have said to you, that was the least expected. You stood, mouth slightly agape and wishing to stop time. “But it’s Monday,” was all you could come up with.

He didn’t miss a beat. “So?”

That was difficult to argue with. Eye contact was suddenly painful, and you inspected the line of his jaw instead, dotted with stubble that you wanted to reach out and smooth your thumb over. Damn your racing heart. 

“Huh. Okay, sounds like fun.” To that, Angus simply nodded and turned to join the rest of the group. He didn’t look back at you as they walked out, but you couldn’t take your eyes off of his fleeting figure the entire time. 

You stood alone in the classroom, bag hanging limply from your hand, trying to think. What was that all about?

---

There were many moments where you almost jumped ship. On your walk to the bar, you stopped about every five minutes, wondering if you should turn around and run home. What was holding you back? A drink would do you some good; any distraction from the mess that the semester was becoming. Sally would probably be there, and you knew the others well enough that it wouldn’t be lonely. You reasoned back and forth with yourself desperately, but it did nothing to ease your anxieties. It actually seemed to be making it worse. By the time you got to the door of the bar, you were shaking from more than just the biting cold.

Fuck this. Nothing to be scared of. Just a casual drink with my peers. Invited by Angus Tully. Fuck. You wrangled the door open against the forceful wind, and slipped into the bar. 

The Squeaky Boot was a popular dive bar near your university, populated by drunken 19 year olds and tired townies. It engulfed you in a warm hug as soon as you stepped inside. Along the walls were framed memorabilia and neon Budweiser signs, slouchy leather booths and wooden tables worn smooth with use. There were multicolored Christmas lights tacked to the ceiling, blinking hazily through cigarette smoke. Your name was called from a far corner of the bar, and you melted in relief at the sight of Sally waving you over to a crowded corner.

“Hey!” you greeted, trying to mask your nerves. She was surrounded by your classmates, who were all talking cheerfully among eachother. Your eyes drifted around the room, looking for a tall, lanky figure. You spotted him a few tables away, back turned to you and clad in the same knit sweater he wore to class. “Where the hell were you earlier? I had to suffer through Shakespeare all by myself.”

She grinned brightly. “What can I say? The date went much better than I expected. Can you blame a girl for maybe sleeping over at his, and maybe getting breakfast with him the next morning?”

You gasped, slapping your hand on the table.“Oh my God, did you really? Did he pay for you, too?”

“Of course he did! It was just Ernie’s diner, but you can’t beat free waffles and coffee.”

You beamed at her, excited to hear more. “Okay, I need to hear all the details. Just let me grab a drink, first.”

Sally nodded, waving you away, and turned to busy herself in another conversation. You envied the way she effortlessly sewed herself into social fabric, sometimes. It wasn’t as easy for you to just step into a group and pick up where they were. It wasn’t like you were lonely, desperate for more friendship, but maybe life would be easier if you were a little more confident.

Your fingers were tapping against the bar counter, waiting for your beer, when someone stepped in beside you. 

“Here’s that PBR you ordered,” the bartender slid the can across the counter, scarcely looking at you before a familiar voice piped up.

“Can you make that two?”

You whipped your head towards the newcomer, face to face with Angus, who had only a lazy eyebrow to raise at you. The moment his velvety brown eyes met yours, your breath caught in your throat.

“Hey, I’m not paying for your beer,” you frowned.

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” he replied, grabbing his own can and handing a couple of bucks to the bartender. You counted the bills as he flipped through them and realized that Angus had just paid for you. Oh.

He had already pushed off the counter and began walking away when you turned around. Words of gratitude died on your tongue as you watched him return to his group, all standing around a tall bistro table. Them, patting his back and him immediately blending in effortlessly. You felt sick with nerves again. You spun back to the bar, fistful of cash on the counter for another two beers and a single shot of vodka. You threw the small glass back, and followed it quickly with your first beer, chugging it before the bartender could even finish handing the new ones over. Tonight, you resolved, you were going to do something.

The look of surprise on Angus’s face when you had tapped on his shoulder made you wish you could snap a photo. His brow, usually set in a firm line, was now raised as you thrust the beer into his chest. 

“Here. Since you left your money at the bar.”

Now the brow set back into its annoyed frown. “Is this what I get for being nice?”

“If you mean a free drink, then yes, that’s what you get.”

The beer was wet and cold against his shirt, and your fingers brushed as he took it into his hand. The feeling of his smooth fingertips against your knuckles sent a jolt of electricity up your spine. “I meant being bothered.” He turned around without another word, before Max laughed, smacked Angus’ arm.

“Hey, show some gratitude. How often is someone actually kind to you?” Max grinned, before turning to you. “Wasn’t expecting you to come out tonight.”

You frowned, trying not to feel offended. “Why not?”

“I dunno, thought maybe Tully over here would’ve scared you off. He’s pretty good at that.”

You snorted. “The last person in the world I’m scared of is him,” you said, pointing at the man beside you with your thumb. “He’s like, 80 pounds soaking wet. A toddler could take him out.”

That got howls of laughter from around the table, and you didn’t dare to look at Angus’s face. It felt good to be in on the joke for once, but the moment ended quickly, and conversation resumed around you like waves crashing from all sides. 

“So, Angus,” you looked up for the source of the voice, and saw Tracy with her elbow propped up on the table and her chin in her hand. “How’s your novel going?”

You turned to him in silent surprise, eyes wide.

He glanced at you, before bringing his attention back to Tracy. “It’s not a novel, really. It’s more like a novella. And it’s going well; Sandra from the school paper volunteered to edit the first draft, which is cool.”

“You’re writing a novella? I didn’t know that,” you said.

He turned back to you, looking annoyed just by the sound of your voice. “Why would you know that?”

You sucked in a breath, holding back a biting response. “What’s it about?”

He was avoiding your gaze now, looking back at Tracy. “I’m not gonna let you read it. Not like I need your feedback.”

Tracy didn’t bother to hide her amusement, looking at you with a pitying smirk. These fucking people.

“I didn’t say I wanted to read your shitty book, I was just trying to be polite,” you gritted, pushing off the table. “Don’t know why I bothered, though. It’s not like you deserve it.”

Sally was stationed next to the pool table, yelling tips on how to angle the cues to your fellow drunken students, who missed the ball with one wobbly hit after another. You sidled up to her, beer can crushing under the weight of your furious fist.

“Looks like you got that drink,” she said, watching you over the rim of her own glass. She was drinking something red, with a cherry floating among the ice.

“Need a fucking stronger one, Jesus Christ,” you muttered.

“Angus got you riled up again?”

You threw your arms up, reignited simply at the mention of him. “I mean, what am I supposed to do? I tried to be nice, so I bought him a drink.”

Sally nodded seriously. “I saw that.”

“I don’t know what he wants, or why he insists on being an asshole to me. Like he’s an asshole in general, but to me he’s a giant, toxic one.”

“Hairy too, if I had to guess.”

You choked on your own spit at that, head whipped towards her. Sally just burst out laughing at your reaction, hand slapping her side. “Sorry, just trying to agree with you. Nothing worse than hairy man ass. Let’s get you something else to drink. Maybe not in a glass though; we don’t want it shattering all over the place.”

Not only did you get a stronger drink, but Sally had convinced you to take shots with whoever else was at the bar, and the two of you threw back shots of Smirnoff with the other students and old motorcyclists standing next to you. Well, a few shots. After an hour, you had completely forgotten how mad Angus made you. In fact, all the anger had dissipated into warm fuzziness, and a growing ache between your legs.

Everytime the two of you locked eyes from across the room, you felt desire spike throughout your entire body. Why did he have to be so handsome? Or if that was some inevitable trait gifted to him by God, then couldn’t God make him nicer? It was infuriating. He was infuriating.

Brian wasn’t infuriating. Of all the people who orbited Angus, he was your favorite. You both worked together on a research essay last semester, and got to know each other decently well. He was funny, hardworking, and kind of cute. You liked his wire-rim glasses, and feathered hair. There weren’t any moles dotting his face, or thick curly hair to dig your fingers into, but for now that was okay. You were leaned so close to him that you could smell his cologne. It was spicy, like cedar and smoke. Nothing like Angus, who always smelled soft, like laundry and lavender aftershave. Brian’s hand was brushing against your collar, feigning that he needed to fix its crookedness. 

“How’s your semester been?” He asked.

“It’s been good,” you lied, “What about you?”

“I’ve been doing this internship since September, which is cool. Just copywriting for the local paper, but better than nothing.”

Jealousy and dread was beginning to brew in your stomach. You’d been doing nothing. You were going to graduate next Spring, and you still hadn’t managed to land an internship or build an especially good relationship with any professors. What would you do after school, when you hadn’t been pushing yourself hard enough? The thought of it was making you feel ill.

You hadn’t spoken for a few seconds, and tried to recover with “Oh, wow! That does sound cool.”

Brian gave you a small smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. “Sorry, I’ll be right back, just gonna use the washroom.”

He nodded, stepping back to let you walk away. Weaving through tables and patrons, you finally made it back to the corner where your jacket had been stashed away. You slipped into it quickly, and headed for the door.

It was much quieter outside. Music and laughter had been replaced with the sound of wind blowing against creaking wood, the noise of the bar muffled behind brick. You dug through your pockets, fingers searching through discarded wrappers, chapstick and loose coins before you finally found it. You pulled a tube and lighter from your jacket, cold hands trying to carefully slide a joint from the small tube. 

As soon as you took your first inhale of the joint, relief took over your body. It didn’t take long for your mind to become fuzzy with static, and your limbs relaxed into weightlessness. You stood with your back against the building, and watched the empty street in front of you. Snow swirled through the air, picked up by wind and dispersed like mist. Beams from the streetlights cast the sidewalk in glittering light, and you kicked at the thin layer of snow with the toe of your boot.

The door to the bar swung open, and you watched as Angus Tully walked through. He had his coat on again, the dark red scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. A cigarette hung loosely between his lips. As soon as he saw you, his face dropped into irritation. You weren’t feeling so pleased at the sight of him, either. 

“Jesus, what are you doing out here?” He muttered, leaning next to you against the wall.

You glowered at him. “Do you own the sidewalk, or something? What kind of stupid question is that.”

He fumbled through his jacket pockets. “You’re gonna talk to me about stupid questions? That’s rich.”

There was no dignifying him with a response, you just rolled your eyes and took another hit of your joint to the sound of him rummaging through his coat. After just a few seconds of silence, he sighed, and turned back to you. “Can I use your lighter?”

You kept your eyes on the street in front of you. “Don’t have one.”

“Seriously? You’re going to be like this right now?”

“God, do you ever shut the hell up?” You asked, holding out your lighter for him. It sat in your outstretched palm for a moment, before you felt him pluck it gently out of your hand. There was a flicker of light, and the sound of the Zippo flipping closed before he handed it back to you.

“What are you doing out here, anyway? Shouldn’t you be inside, being an annoying prick to everyone?” You sighed. 

“Y’know, that’s exactly what I asked you,” he said, blowing smoke upward.

Your fingers were starting to feel numb in the cold, and you suddenly wished you brought a pair of gloves with you. “Just needed a little alone time. Which I still haven’t found.”

“Funny, thought you were having fun. Throwing yourself at everyone and whatnot. Seems like your greatest strength.”

You whipped around to him. “I’m sorry, are you keeping tabs on me? How is it any business of yours, what I do or who I talk to? What makes you think you can say that to me?”

Angus was fully turned to you now, too. The cigarette was burning quickly between his fingers, abandoned by his mouth. “I just don’t want my friend to get hurt, that’s all.”

“You were watching Brian and I?” You asked, incredulous. 

His cheeks were turning bright red, and you sensed that it was from more than the biting weather. “So what if I was? I’ve seen how you are with guys.”

“‘How I am with guys?’ What the hell are you talking about? Where are you getting this from?”

“Come on, don’t act dumb. Every semester you get all cozy with some guy from our class, and then you ditch them. I just don’t want the same thing to happen with—I mean, to my friend. I’m not saying you’re easy or anything, just there’s a pattern.”

You were completely speechless. Maybe you did know a lot of guys from your class, but it didn’t mean that you were leading them all on, or that you had even been intimate with any of them. Brian was the one flirting with you tonight, and it didn’t mean you were a slut for indulging in it. But somehowm none of the words came out, no self-defense. You felt raw. 

“What did I do to you, Angus? I mean, really. What did I do to make you hate me so much?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t get it, right? That’s very unsurprising, considering how little seems to get through your head.”

The fuzzy, warm feeling that the pot gave you had turned ice cold, and yet your brain still felt mushy and soft. There was no room for weakness around Angus, but now you felt like an open wound, a deep cut that he was digging his nails into.

“No, I don’t get it,” you replied. The lump in your throat was beginning to swell, like you tried to swallow an apple whole. “Because everyone loves you. All anyone ever talks about is you. ‘Oh, Angus threw this great party. Angus said the funniest thing the other day’. You have everything in the entire world, and you still can’t leave me alone. Apparently, it’s some great crime for me to even make friends. You just want everything for yourself.”

He stared at you with the same wide-eyed expression as before. If you squinted and focused just a bit more, he might have even looked embarrassed.

“I’d love to know what’s so fucking great about you. I really wish I saw that. We could even be friends if you weren’t such a giant asshole,” you finished weakly. You tossed the dead joint to the ground, and brushed past him back to the bar, shoulder shoved into his arm.

“You’re welcome for the lighter, by the way.”

---

The rest of the week had broken you down into a shell of yourself. After getting disasterously drunk after your argument with Angus at the bar on Monday night, you awoke with a pounding headache the next morning. You dragged yourself out of bed and into class, only to realize that you had forgotten to do a reading. If you hadn’t gone out that night, you would have had time to do the assignment, and now you were falling even more behind than before. Your shift at the campus café on Wednesday afternoon was incredibly busy because your coworker had called off. Despite the fact that you were a below-average barista, your boss insisted that you juggle the cash register and making drinks. On Thursday you slept too late and missed another class, and on Friday you barely had the energy to get out of bed.

You spent the weekend trying desperately to study and catch up with homework, but it was like your brain had completely shut down. You read and reread lines from your textbook, failing to gain any meaning from the words, and your hand began to cramp after writing only a page of notes. Everything was falling apart, and there was no one to blame but yourself.

Angus was just the cherry on top. You saw him almost everyday, and when you came to class late that Tuesday, the sight of him was just a stabbing, awkward reminder of what happened. Having that power over you was unbearable, and you wanted to skip classes to avoid even seeing him. You refused to let him know he had that power over you, but it was getting harder everyday.

Monday, on your way to Johnson’s class, you felt more defeated than you ever had. It was the last class of the day, but the sky was already starting to darken, and the snow had accumulated so quickly the past few days that most pathways on campus hadn’t been shoveled yet, leaving you to step wonkily through the quad. You tired quickly from trying to step in the uneven ground, and decided, with much shame, to call it quits and walk back to your dorm. Fuck this. Fuck school, fuck Johnson, and fuck your life.

You turned around and followed your steps back through the quad, staring down at the monotonous ground at your feet, before hearing your name called. Looking up, you saw Angus, bundled up tightly, with a ridiculous trapper hat over his head, curls still managing to escape from underneath. No. No, no, no. This was the last person you wanted to see right now.

There was no avoiding him, however, as his long legs reached you in a few short paces. “What are you doing? Class starts in two  minutes.”

“Yeah,” avoiding his gaze, you attempted to move around him. “Better get a move on then.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “Where are you going? You know Lincoln Hall is the other way, right?”

“I know that, Angus,” you said, attempting to move around him again. However, the man just sidestepped you again, staying directly in front of you.

You looked at him, not bothering to hide the ire in your face. “Do you mind?”

“Are you skipping right now?” He asked, and you wished that he didn’t sound so earnestly concerned. You wished that he didn’t care at all.

“Yes, I am. Now move, please and thank you.”

He simply shook his head. “Don’t skip, okay? Come to class. We have a test on Wednesday and you’ll be screwed if you don’t go.”

You scoffed at him. “Oh please, don’t act like you care. If I fail, it’ll just give you an opportunity to rub in how much better than me you are.”

“It doesn’t matter, okay? We have to go. You’re not like this, you’re not… a skipper,” he insisted.

“How would you know what I’m like, Angus? I’m not going, and that’s it.” You pushed past him again, before suddenly being pulled by the wrist. You stared back at Angus in disbelief, and couldn’t help but think that this was the first time he had ever touched you.

“What the hell are you doing?” you yelled, giving your arm a light tug. 

Angus’ grip was firm, but not painful, as he tugged you back in the other direction. “You’re being ridiculous. Come on, we’re already late as it is.”

Panic began to rise in your throat, and you shook your head frantically, now pulling harder to free yourself from his grip. Angus was much stronger than he looked, and didn’t seem to budge from your flailing attempts to get free. “What the fuck?” He yelled, looking at you incredlously. 

“I can’t do it, Angus! Okay? I can’t explain it but I just can’t walk in there! Please, please, please don’t make me do this,” you begged, eyes screwed shut as you fought back tears.

He released you suddenly, and you fell back into the snow from your continued momentum.

“Oh, shit! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that would happen, I was just trying to…” He stopped, and rushed to kneel by you, where you slowly sat up from the thick layer of snow you had landed in. Your ass was wet, and the chill was beginning to set in quickly. Everything was going so wrong, and you wished to curl into a ball and disappear.

“Are you alright? I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to push you. Well, I mean, I was, but I didn’t mean to push you too far.” He extended his hand, and you grabbed it in defeat, letting him pull you out of the snow.

You brushed your behind with bare hands, and tried to dry them on your coat. “How did my life become so fucked up?” You asked yourself quietly. Angus still stood in front of you, irritatingly concerned, and you suddenly felt very sorry for the both of you.

Angus stared at you with furrowed brows, a frown on his face that you’d never seen before, and you wondered if he was upset. You’d never seen him be upset. Annoyed, of course. Mad, plenty of times. Happy, even, laughing it up with his friends. But simply upset? That was an expression that was new to you, and you hated seeing it on him. He still looked handsome, warm brown eyes trying to melt your cold.

He sighed. “Look, if you’re struggling with school, I get it. And I’m not trying to sabotage you, okay? No tricks when I say this: come to my place after class today. We can work together, and I can fill you in on what you missed for Johnson’s. I figure you can’t go now when…” He gestured awkwardly to your lower half.

You didn’t say anything for a long moment, just letting the snow fall around you in silence. Angus would be ten minutes late if he left for class now. “Why are you being nice to me?” you asked.

He shook his head, and swung his backpack around to unzip it. He tore out a piece of paper, and pulled a pen from the bottom of his bag. One palm was used to hold the paper, and he quickly scribbled something onto the sheet. When he handed it to you, you could see that the writing was messy, and that the pen had torn a little hole in every other character.

“That’s my address. If you want to come over, then come over any time after 4, okay? I promise I won’t belittle you or make you feel bad, or anything. I promise,” he repeated. By the time you looked up from the crinkled page, you saw him jogging to class, backpack bouncing from the single shoulder it hung from, and red scarf trailing behind him.

---

You stood infront of a three-story apartment building on Main Street. The first floor was taken up by a bakery, which you had been to only once before, and the facade was all worn, red brick, and intricate stained glass above the bay windows. It was the kind of apartment you dreamed of living in; the view from the bay was probably so comfortable this time of year. Angus didn’t deserve to live here. You stepped to the front door, and searched for Angus’s name by the doorbells. Once you pressed the button, a surge of anxiety ran through you, and you suddenly wondered if you still looked okay, or if the wind had messed up your hair. You smoothed a hand over your long, wool skirt, and wanted to slap yourself for caring what Angus thought of you.

After a minute, you heard footsteps thumping from behind the door, which swung open to reveal Angus all dressed down. He wore flannel pants, and a grey hoodie with the name ‘Barton’ printed in all caps. 

“Hey, sorry, I didn’t know if you’d actually show up,” he said, stepping aside to let you in.

“No, that’s fine. It’s your house,” you replied, following him up the stairs to the second floor. 

His apartment was so beautiful that it was unfair. The bay window was even more beautiful from this side, gauzy curtains pulled aside, and a plush bench nestled in the space. The kitchen and living room were connected with a wide archway, and you could see from where you stood that the dining table was surrounded by three wooden chairs, his winter coat hanging off the back of one. 

The living room featured a plush corduroy couch, adorned by a single throw pillow and woven blanket tossed over the arm. The coffee table had board games stored underneath it, you could see an intricately designed chessboard poking out. A tall and narrow bookshelf stood next to the T.V set, and you wandered to look at it while Angus cleared the coffee table of mugs and loose paper. It appeared that he was most interested in the American classics, and you were impressed to see a copy of Gravity’s Rainbow on the shelf. You plucked it off carefully, and turned to Angus, holding the book to him with both hands. 

“Is this one any good? I haven’t had the chance to read it yet.”

He looked to you from his place in the kitchen, depositing dishes in the sink. “Oh, uh. I haven’t actually read it yet.”

You snorted, and placed it back on the shelf, next to a curiously worn copy of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius.

“Sorry, I can take this for you,” he said, sounding much closer than he was before. He was only inches from you now, with surprisingly light steps, and gestured to your coat. 

“Oh! Thank you…” you went to put your bag down on the ground, but Angus took it before you could. When you took your coat off, he took it with a single hand, leaving your bag on the couch before going to hang the coat off another chair in the kitchen.

It was awkward standing in Angus’ living room. Did he have a roommate? You wondered what the rest of the apartment looked like, and were itching to explore. You never imagined that you would be in his space, and it was almost too intimate to now be in it. You sat stiffly on the couch, busying yourself by rummaging through your bag.

“Hopefully you don’t mind being in the living room? My kitchen light has been flickering, so it’ll be a headache to sit in there,” Angus asked, setting down two steaming mugs onto the table.

“That’s fine. What’s this?”

“Oh, it’s Earl Grey. Nothing fancy, I don’t own a teapot or anything. Just in case you needed the caffeine,” he turned the handle of one mug towards you, before settling down on the couch.

You mumbled thanks to him, still feeling strange and out of place.

“...What have you been struggling with the most?”

It would have been nice if in that moment, an explosion engulfed the entire room in flames, and you and Tully could be put out of your own misery. The humiliation of having to turn to Angus, of all people, was almost too much for you. His sheepish willingness to help was not making it any easier. You could only groan, and rub at your face, trying to fight the incoming headache.

Angus just stared at you, brow furrowed in confusion and second-hand embarrassment.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m telling you. It might be shocking to hear, but I used to struggle with school, too, and it took a lot of work to get my head back on straight. But I had good mentors, and it got better,” he tried to comfort.

You chuckled, moving your hands to organize your notebooks and assignments across the coffee table. “That doesn’t shock me, actually. You can be kind of dumb sometimes.”

“You’re calling me dumb? Who’s the one that missed three classes in a row for British Romantic Literature? You should value your education a little more; if you don’t show up to class, you’re basically lighting money on fire. That makes you the biggest idiot in the school,” he jeered.

“Three classes in a row? How do you even notice something like that? Are you stalking me or something?” You countered, reveling in the warmth growing in Angus’s cheeks. “Will you just help me, already? I’m behind on two reflections for British Romantic, and if they don’t get done soon, I’ll just about kill myself.”

“That would be a tragedy. How will the world go on without you?”

“Cut the sarcasm, you ass.”

The study session started off rocky, with you and Angus arguing back and forth about Don Juan, insulting the other’s interpretations, and each other’s intelligence. You wanted to quit, almost storming out at Angus’s sharp tongue, before realizing that it was the exact kind of content needed to complete the assignment. His opposing view made it easier to know what you were arguing for the reflections, and you began to write pages upon pages of examination for Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. It became productive to work alongside Angus; he did his work while you did yours, but it was motivating to study with someone as competitive as him. 

Even harder to admit, but you were even having fun. You enjoyed working to background noise, and he let you go through his records to find something you liked. 

You laughed loudly when you pulled out a copy of Shut Down Volume Two  by The Beach Boys. “Really? Angus Tully likes The Beach Boys? Do you dance along to Surfin’ U.S.A.?”

He rolled his eyes at your joke, unamused. “Whatever, it was a gift. I used to like them as a kid. It’s like, the opposite vibe of Massachusettes.”

You placed the vinyl carefully onto the record player. “It’s okay, I like them too. I used to listen to Pet Sounds on repeat; my parents were pissed about hearing God Only Knows ten times a day.” The needle was set to the edge of the record, and you let it begin to play.

“You’re from Massachusettes?” You asked.

He was sprawled lazily on the couch, legs wide, one hand holding a copy of Othello and the other marking it with a pen. He responded without looking at you. “Yeah, a city called New Bedford. It’s by the ocean.” 

Your eyes went wide as you took your spot next to him. “Wow, ocean town? That sounds amazing. You probably fished a lot, huh?”

He shrugged. “I wasn’t great at it. I usually just went because my dad liked to. We’d go and he’d fry it after, and my mom would complain about the smell in the house, although it always smelled kind of salty.” Angus trailed off, looking down at Othello, eyes glazed over in thought. You didn’t know anything about Angus’ life, but you could tell that the subject of his family wasn’t an easy one. Leaving the conversation off on a bitter point would only make things between the two of you tense again, and you changed topics.

“Is that where you went to school, in New Bedford?”

“No, I went to a boarding school closer to Boston. One of those small towns about an hour away.”

You shook your head. “I knew it.”

He shot you a look. “Knew what?”

“That you’re a rich kid. I mean, I knew that it was a private school you went to, I heard you tell Max once, but boarding school?” You shook your head again in pseudo-exasperation.

“Whatever. It sucked, and I hated going there,” he said. The two of you fell silent, the sound of Don’t Worry Baby filling the room.

“What were you like in high school? A total jerkoff?” You played with your pen, scribbling mindlessly in your notebook. When he didn’t respond immediately, you turned to check on him. Othello now sat useless in his lap, and he appeared deep in thought again.

“Honestly, yeah, I was.”

“Shocker,” you quipped.

“Yeah,” he laughed, “Basically everyone hated me. I mean, really hated me. My classmates, my teachers, the whole administration. I did stupid shit like pull pranks but it was something else that was wrong with me. Not just that I blew up a toilet with firecrackers or whatever, but I thought I was so much better than everyone else. And then I grew up a little and realized that I’m not. And I said stuff back then to people that should’ve gotten my ass kicked. Sometimes it did.”

You didn’t expect Angus to be so honest with you, and sat at a loss for words. “You blew up a toilet?”

He just chuckled. “Yeah, and I got caught, too.”

“Rookie mistake.”

“Exactly,” he sighed, running a hand through his messy curls. It was longer now than it had been at the beginning of the semester, and you wanted more than anything to smooth out the stray curl by his forehead. He looked so soft in his hoodie, warmed by lamp light, completely in his element. “This is the first time I’ve ever had real friends before. It’s the first time I’ve walked into a room and people didn’t groan at the sight of me.”

“Yeah, must be nice.” You looked down, fiddling with the hem of your sweater. “It’s hard to imagine how much worse you could’ve been back then, when you’re already pretty bad now. But it’s also hard to imagine you being lonely, when everyone loves you now. Everyone but me, I guess.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric, and you sighed. “You were right, before.”

Angus just sat, watching you. “Right about what?”

“What you said last week. That I don’t get it. There’s probably some obvious explanation for why you hate me, but I don’t understand what it is. I don’t know why you were so mean before, or why you’re being so nice to me now.” Angus seemed to be the shortcut to making you emotional, because as soon as the words came out, you had to fight the shaking in your hands, and the lump in your throat. “I mean, if it’s something that I did, just tell me, and I’ll apologize and we can just be normal classmates. Because I don’t have the energy to fight with you, lately,” you continued.

“It’s not you. You didn’t do anything, okay? I’m just an idiot, and you’re right: I’m a huge pain in the ass,” Angus said, shifting closer to you. 

“It must be me. You’re even nice to Tracy, and she’s the worst,” you warbled. “And you’re already one of the best writers in class; you’ll probably go far. You’re gonna write a novel.”

“It’s a novella. I’ll show you the first draft when it’s done.”

The words were meant to comfort, but it just made you break further, and a gentle tear rolled down your cheek. “I thought you didn’t want me to read it,” you whispered. 

Angus shook his head again. “I was just being an asshole when I said that. I was… scared. You’re a better writer than I am by miles. I didn’t want you to judge me if you read it and found out that it sucks so I… I don’t know. Everytime I’m around you I get scared and defensive and I become even more stupid than I already am.”

You let out a watery laugh, wiping the mist from your eyes. “You’re scared of me? How does that work?”

He sighed your name, a soft sound that you had never come out of his mouth before. Not in that way, as though he could cradle it gently between his smooth palms. When you didn’t look up in response, he placed a hand on your shoulder, moving you towards him. Your skin prickled at his touch; even between layers of clothes you felt electricity sparking and warming your arm. His eyes met yours with an intensity that was almost too much to bear, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. You were less than a foot apart now, the closest to each other that you had ever been. 

“I know that you don’t believe it right now, but you’re talented and a great writer. Everytime you speak up in class it’s something that I’ve never thought of, that probably half the idiots in there could never come up with on their own. And every time you look at me, you’re determined, like you know you could out-smart me any day of the week. You could, and you don’t realize it yet, which is terrifying,” he rambled. You could hardly breathe listening to him. “One day you’re gonna realize that nothing is holding you back, and you’ll leave us all in the dust. I’m a dumbass for being too insecure to admit that before, to you or myself.”

You didn’t know what to say; you had never expected Angus to tell you any of that. You thought that he’d say something about your writing workshop freshman year, or the time you switched his spot in the class presentations from last to first, so that when he came into class five minutes late (as you predicted) he was scolded by the professor. What was unexpected was him singing your praises, and telling you that you were a better writer than him.

“It’s big of you to admit that, Angus. Thank you for saying it,” you said.

“Don’t thank me, thank my shrink. It’s taken years of therapy to get here,” he replied.

You couldn’t hide your surprise at the mention of a shrink. “Well, since we’re being vulnerable, I’m sorry, too. For not being the bigger person, and ending this madness sooner. And for saying some pretty horrible stuff about you before. I guess we were both jealous of each other… I just wanted to be as good as you are,” you admitted. “I do have another question, though.”

Angus frowned, removing his hand from you. “Shit. What else did I do?”

“Why did you say that stuff to me about Brian last week? That was pretty horrible, accusing me of being easy, sleeping around with these guys from class. I wouldn’t hurt him, you know,” you said seriously. 

Angus groaned, dropping his head. “Oh, God. Alright that was messed up, and I was being a male chauvinist pig, but you can’t go out with Brian, alright? Serious, he’s a moronic charlatan and you have to turn him down.”

Now you remembered how rude Angus could be, and a fire was lit under you again. Just when things were going well, he had to go say and something

“And who are you to say who I can and can’t date?”

His head whipped up to you. “You guys are dating?”

“No, Angus. But even if we were, it wouldn’t be any business of yours. I can see whoever I want, and it doesn’t make me a slut or something,” you gritted.

The relief on his face was evident. “Oh, okay, good. That’s good.”

“‘That’s good?’ What are you talking about?” You asked in astonishment. Angus was giving you complete whiplash.

He stared at you, looking as if he had just been caught red-handed, before standing up abruptly. “I think you should go home now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me? What is going on with you right now, Angus?” You snapped, standing with arms crossed. “One minute you’re bearing your soul to me, and now you’re shutting down. What are you trying to communicate? Because I’m so confused.”

Angus’ hands were threatening to rip the hair out either side of his head. “I told you I was scared! Because I like you, okay? Because you’re intellectual and thoughtful and the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and you can’t date Brian, because it’ll destroy me.”

It was as if a gun had been shot inches away from you, the way your ears rang and the world around you narrowed into the tiny pinprick that was Angus Tully. Nothing else existed anymore, just the way he bit into his plush bottom lip, the anguished crease in his brow, the droop of his almond eyes, his silly Barton hoodie. All you could do was reach forward, grab his hoodie strings and press your lips against his.

He melted into the kiss immediately, palms coming to cup your cheeks. He leaned forward to ease the strained reach towards him, and your hands clenched at his chest. Your lips slotted together perfectly, his nose bumping into yours. Even the dots of stubble scratching against your chin, which you would usually bemoan on any other man, was exhilarating and made you press for more. When you pulled back for air, his mouth chased yours until you pushed gently against his chest.

“I like you, too. Is that too juvenile?” You asked timidly.

“No,” he said, caressing the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. Your lips were swollen and warm from being pressed against his, and you loved the soothing feeling of his thumb brushing against you. “It’s perfect. That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Huffing a laugh to yourself, you reached up to twirl a curl between your fingers. His hair was just as soft as you imagined, the perfect contrast against his scratchy cheeks. He laughed with you, and asked “Having fun up there?”

You smiled, leaning into him again, “Lots. I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“Oh yeah? For how long?” He grinned.

You faked an annoyed groan, resting your head on his chest. “Oh, I don’t know. On and off since freshman year? You sat in front of me in American Lit, and I thought you were the coolest guy in the world. On whenever you spoke, and off whenever you spoke to me.”

His deft fingers played with the hair at the nape of your neck, brushing against the locks. “I think I’ve got you beat.”

You raised a suspicious brow at him. “What do you mean?”

“Mine started during freshman orientation. We got the same tour group, remember? And when we went in a circle introducing ourselves or whatever, I couldn’t believe I was gonna be in class with someone as beautiful as you. And then you said you wanted to be a writer and journalist, writing stories about life like Joan Didion, and I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever heard,” Angus replied.

“Oh man, lots of wasted time then. We could have been doing this for three years instead of fighting every day,” you said.

He gave you that soft smile you loved, taking you all in. He felt like the luckiest man alive, and everyone else could suck it. “Better start making up for it now, then,” and he leaned in again, soft and warm and perfect.

You were unbelievably nervous for prom tonight. You and Bubba are going together! You were supposed to be happy, but you can't ignore the slight embarrassment gnawing at you.

Sure, you and Bubs have been best friends since middle school, but Bubba hasn't been making the best of choices for your reputation! I mean, he dropped out the second he was allowed and started working at that grimy slaughterhouse like the rest of his folk.

You wouldn't have minded one bit, except for the fact that people at school are ruthless...

"You can come in!"

You call, albeit nervously, your hands clammy as you clasp them together the second your mother walks in. You watch in the mirror as her face lights up at the sight of you all dressed up.

"Oh, look at you! All grown up!" She gasps, holding her arms out for you. You smile bashfully as you turn around, encasing your mother in a tight hug while she sniffles with joy. "You look.. Just-just out of this world!" She squeals, pressing kisses to your cheeks before finally letting you go.

"Thank you, Mama," you grin widely, a wave of confidence washing over you as you follow your mother down the stairs. Your father stops and looks up from the newspaper, only giving a single nod of approval. You hoped he would've at least said something to you, but you think you would've learned by now, huh?

"Don't mind yer father." Your mother quietly reminds you, whispering in your ear while leading you out of the house. "You know how he is... That war ain't makin' it easier for 'em." She sighs, watching your face carefully. She knows you don't like the war after the incident with the Sawyers.

You take a deep breath and turn to your mother, forcing a smile onto your face that was quick to vanish when your father walked out the door.

"You goin' with those Sawyer freaks?"

Your eyes widen at the insult, but instead of fighting, you lie.

"No, sir." You shake your head, sweat building on your forehead as your father gives you a once-over—his way of making sure you weren't bluffing. "Better be tellin' the truth." He huffs out before heading back inside, your tense shoulders falling as soon as the door closes.

"I'm gettin' picked up by a couple of friends. I'll be back soon, Mama..." You breathe out, pressing a quick kiss to your mother's cheek before turning around and leaving, completely missing the wave your mother gave you as you were quick to hurry away.

Heading down the dirt road, you spot Drayton's grimy truck in the distance. "Finally..." You sigh, glancing back home before moving your feet.

"Aren't you the bee's knees?" Drayton chuckles as you get in the truck, only to frown at the upset look on your face. "Som' I said? Don't you kids say that anymore?" Drayton asks as he looks at you, a small grin soon spreading across his old face when he spots you resisting a smile.

"Oh, cheer up! I never had a prom!" He soon complains, but you know he just wants to break down the part of you wanting to stay upset. "Y'know, I had to work while my buddies partied! I call that family loyalty!" He continues while starting the engine.

"I can't believe I told my mother I was gettin' picked up by friends..." You grumble to yourself, a sly smirk hidden under your hand as Drayton whips his head towards you. "Huh? Aren't I your friend?! Doin' this for ya, 'nd you can't even say I'm yer friend! Well, guess what? I've never been yer friend in the first place!" He laughs, but you know better than to fall for it.

"Thanks for the lift!" You smile, hopping out of the truck and rushing towards Bubba, who squealed loudly, waving you over while nearly smacking some poor soul nearby.

"I got yer tie you wanted so badly!" You exclaim as you run towards him, smiling widely as he hops and covers his mouth in shock and excitement. You pull a red, bedazzled tie from your pocket, and Bubba loses it, jumping up and down before taking the tie ever so gently.

You laugh as his entire being shakes with happiness, nervousness, excitement, and probably a whole load of other emotions as you fasten it around his neck. Bubba looks down at himself before looking back up at you.

You watch him a bit nervously before letting out a surprised squeak as he crushes you in a bear hug before grabbing your hand and twirling you around enough times to make you sick.

"Alright! Enough of that! We'll dance inside!" You manage as he continues to spin you round and round. "Bubba!" Bubba finally listens once you shout his name loud enough.

That boy has to have some obession with spinning you around.

You lean against the wall for support as the world around you spins. "I'm fine, Bubs..." You say, hand on your head as Bubba panics next to you, holding you a bit roughly to make sure you don't drop dead on him.

Once the world stopped spinning, Bubba was grabbing your hand and rushing inside. The school was adorned with balloons and ribbon strung everywhere, as it always was for every occasion, but somehow it felt special this time.

"You wanna dance, Bubs?" You ask excitedly as you watch the band playing on the stage, but Bubba wasn't so excited anymore. You turn your head towards the big man once he starts squeezing your hand and breathing heavily.

"You okay, Bubba?" You scrunch your face with worry as Bubba aggressively shakes his head, waving his other hand around while whining. "You don't like the noise, huh?" You bite your lip as you squeeze Bubba's hand back gently, eyes searching his.

Sure, prom wasn't at all what you were expecting, but it at least got something right. You were spending it with Bubba, and that was what mattered.

Bubba had a nervous breakdown as soon as you two had left, but everything mellowed as soon as he had calmed down. You two were now sitting in the schoolyard, just close enough to hear the music.

"You alright, Bubba?" You ask softly, still holding his hand as he jerkily nods and squeezes your hand more gently this time. You breathe out a sigh of relief, resting your head against his shoulder.

You were happy Bubba was alright. His meltdowns got a bit violent, and you didn't need anyone ruining the night even more by kicking the two of you out instead of you two leaving on your own.

"You like the music?"

You ask, and Bubba nods, licking his lips as he watches the line of students slowly die down as they're let into the building, a duo at a time. You chuckle and roll your eyes at his people-watching, intertwining your fingers with his.

How could you have ever felt embarrassment at being with a one-of-a-kind like Bubba?

You were a big football fan, but you were certainly even more so of your man, one of the season's top scorers. The World Cup was something you'd dreamed of for a long time, but being in that stadium, feeling the vibration of the fans, was extraordinary. The crowd was divided between Brazilians and Norwegians; everyone had fully embraced the competition, and the support had surpassed what would be considered normal for matches.

"I can't believe we made it. Ødegaard was so worried about today's match." You heard Helene's voice, the Norwegian captain's wife, louder than her usual tone because of the noise of the combined "roar" from the Norwegian fans, while Haaland beat the drum, a cultural ritual of theirs. He seemed so happy, but you knew that was also a result of relief.

"Erling too, even though he didn't want to show it as much." Was your reply as you both watched the celebration and took some pictures to capture that historic moment.

"Look, I think we can go over there now." She pointed to the pitch, seeing that it was already open for family members. Then she extended her hand to you; Helene pulled you through the crowd. Most of the audience was Brazilian, but even so, the Norwegians didn't go unnoticed with their red shirts amidst the sea of green and yellow of the opposing team's colors.

You looked for Haaland even from a distance, as there were really a lot of people. You found him greeting the opponents and hugging some of his teammates. He was so sweet and lovable, perhaps more than people imagined given his tall stature and robust build, but you liked knowing that, knowing who you had by your side, and mainly knowing that he was yours.

He found you quickly while Ødegaard was beside him, pulling Helene into a kiss. Erling pulled you into a hug, his body sweaty from the effort of the match, but with that characteristic scent only he had, which left you completely lost and in love. "We won, love." The number nine pulled you into a soft kiss, even in front of some journalists waiting to interview him.

"I think I have the best Viking by my side." You replied, wrapping your arms around his neck, and received the number nine's hands on your waist. Everything was perfect between you two.

He let out a laugh, blushing slightly as he averted his gaze toward Ødegaard, who was hugging Helene from behind. They seemed completely in love with each other, and you loved the friendship you'd built. "For a moment I thought we were going to extra time." The captain said, bringing up the subject.

"I think we played a good match. I can say I feel relieved." Haaland replied, hunching his shoulders, showing his complete physical exhaustion.

"I always knew you guys would win." You said, giving the man a soft kiss on the lips. Players passed by, interviews were about to begin. You knew your husband would soon be pulled into that sea of journalists, but you wanted to enjoy the man's arms around you a little longer.

"I love your confidence in me." He said, looking at you lovingly, and you almost forgot there were thousands of people around. It was like a connection that existed beyond anything tangible.

"I forgot how mushy you two are with each other." Helene said provocatively, bringing you both back to reality at the East Rutherford stadium, causing a series of laughs among you.

"Look who's talking, sounds like you didn't spend the whole match talking about Ødegaard." You replied to the joke, making her blush at the statement. You both knew it was true. The teasing could have continued, but Ødegaard and Haaland were pulled away to answer some interviews as two of the main players of the match.

You stood a little behind the cameras as you watched them answer some questions. The journalist was a woman you hadn't seen at the other games, but the way she stared at Haaland made you uncomfortable, and you knew exactly what that was.

"Haaland, the public wants to know how you feel knowing we're going through the phenomenon you've caused." You watched your man turn his head, confused by the journalist's question. Of course you knew what she was talking about. The "Haaland phenomenon" was all over the internet, practically everyone talking about your husband. Thousands of edits and posts, some of which you were sure insulted you just for being the wife of the man you loved.

"Phenomenon I've caused?" He asked, confused, as he waited for some clarification to come with it. It certainly wasn't one of the questions he expected, but Erling had dealt with inconvenient journalists throughout his life as a football player, with questions looking for holes for gossip pages.

"The phenomenon that apparently everyone wants Erling Haaland for themselves. It's all over the internet, with edits and posts from your fans." She explained, holding the microphone toward the tall, blond man, while fixing her hair with her other hand. For a moment you felt she was trying to adjust her cleavage to get the Norwegian's attention, and your arms crossed as you watched the scene.

Of course you didn't like that. There was the good and the bad side to situations, and it seemed like that one was completely awful. That woman was clearly trying to get your husband's attention in front of you, and there was nothing good about it. You tried to hold your temper, especially since it was an important moment for Norway itself, but there was no minimum respect, even if she couldn't see you on the other side because of the cameras in front and your position slightly to the left. It was clear to everyone that you were a couple. You watched Haaland's forehead furrow in recognition of the situation.

"So, I've seen some posts. I'm really very happy about all the affection from my fans and for my country's football. We're proud of what we're delivering during the World Cup so far." He then looked for your eyes in the corner, in the middle of the interview. "But I have a very angry woman and I don't want problems with her, folks, who by the way is waiting for me so we can be together. So, to put it better: the original is only available to her." Haaland said, letting out a light laugh with a crooked smile, lifting a weight off your shoulders. You knew he was only yours — there was nothing that could take away what you had with each other.

You saw the journalist look discreetly, following his gaze and finding you. Your posture said everything about the situation. She had been caught in her plans, and they had been completely trampled. Your sharp eyes met hers in a silent challenge, but you knew: that man was only yours, and the message had been delivered, by his words and your confident gaze.

The interview ended quickly after that moment. Everything was over, and the plan was to go back to the apartment after the team's celebration. There were some conversations, but the gathering extended into a dinner with some players. All you wanted was to be at the apartment and rest a little.

The apartment was luxurious, but with details that showed the cozy touches you'd brought on the trip. The pastel-toned furniture and the trophies on the walls showed what you lived — how everything was extraordinary in its own way. Your bedroom remained in the same style as the rest of the apartment, but it felt even cozier: books on each side of the furniture leaning against the headboard, with content you read together, slippers in the corner of the room, and the lights that night slightly dimmed.

Your body felt the exhaustion of the day, but your mind worked every moment, remembering the moments you'd experienced. You completely trusted the relationship you had, everything you'd built side by side during those years together. However, the situation still lingered in the air, like a strange need for you to reclaim that man.

You were each other's in all your lives, but maybe it was good to remember he was only yours. Your thoughts still tumultuous as you settled sitting on the bed, leaning against the headboard, wearing only your husband's oversized Manchester City shirt, small white shorts, and your hair tied in a messy bun done after the hot shower, as you waited for Haaland. The sound of the nearly two-meter-tall man's heavy footsteps reached your ears.

"I already fed Freyr, love." You watched Erling talk about your pet cat, which you couldn't leave at the apartment even during the trip, with a Norwegian name, as he entered the bedroom door. He turned quickly to close it, making you watch his bare back flex. You were aware of how attractive your man was, and the size difference between you made you more desirous of him, of the monstrous strength that touched you in the most loving way. "Wow, I think I'm destroyed." He affirmed, letting out a tired sigh, and went to your side of the bed, throwing himself down.

"Then I think it's better if you just rest today, Mr. 'Haaland phenomenon'." You leaned in, bringing your hand to his bare chest, and brought your lips close to whisper the last call, even though your tone was playful. Seeing him, who had his eyes closed, abruptly open one of them and look quickly at you, seeing your raised eyebrow.

"Love, I have nothing to do with that." Erling replied, sitting up on the bed and looking at you, searching for any sign of irritation in your eyes, making you meet that hypnotic greenish color that trapped you, along with that masculine scent that came from him naturally.

"I know, darling." You affirmed calmly, as you fluffed the pillows on your side of the bed, preparing to turn to the opposite side from him, knowing the sensual intentions your own thoughts were taking. "You can rest. Turn off the lights when you go to sleep." You said, closing your eyes pretending, knowing he wouldn't be able to stay silent for long. You waited a few seconds.

"Love..." He called you affectionately, softly, leaning his lips against your ear and bringing his hand to your waist. "I don't know what's worse, your silence or you screaming." Haaland murmured, and that made you hold back a laugh. Clearly you weren't irritated with him, but the fun way you handled things was always a welcome novelty. You chose to remain silent, waiting for your striker's next move.

"Were you jealous, darling?" This time, the tone was different — perhaps provocative. He knew how to provoke a reaction from you. His hands became bolder, going to your ass and giving a squeeze that made your body want to squirm, and his tongue ran over your ear, making you hold back a moan. "You know I'm only yours." He whispered.

But your next move surprised the bigger man. You quickly got up, sitting on his strong thighs, feeling your core and warm body. "And I love knowing that." You replied, pulling him into a hot kiss, your hands going to his neck and caressing his blond hair, how you loved it.

You felt Haaland's surprise by how he stood still for a few seconds, surprised by your attack, but he returned it, quickly taking control. His agile movements not only on the field, but ready for a quick reaction. His body was placed right above yours when he turned you with his strength, getting on top of you. That same skill that left you weak in the knees, but that also made you let out a small scream of surprise, which was soon dominated by his lips.

Kisses and bites went down your neck, going further down. "You wearing my shirt does so many things to me." The words came out of his mouth, disarming you, even though inside you already knew that statement. Your eyes met his in the dim light, and those irises swallowed you.

His lips guiding you as your clothes were removed, your shirt being lifted as your legs intertwined around Haaland's waist. Your core tightened as you felt the volume of his member grow between you, making you both moan. Your hands lost themselves on his bare back as your nails scratched his body, and he moved, rubbing your bodies even through the clothes.

"Erling, I need..." You said in his ear, seeing a crooked smile appear on his lips, as you felt his hands massaging and his mouth on your breasts, the sounds coming out of you before you could hold them back. But that was what Haaland wanted from you.

The kisses and tongue went down your body. You felt his strong hands caressing you, squeezing your ass, as he quickly got up and placed a pillow under your body. A warm feeling formed in the pit of your stomach. You knew what he was going to do and how skilled he was at what he did — not just on the field.

"I think I need to feel a little more of you, love." The words came out of his mouth as he kissed the inside of your thighs and two fingers slowly opened you. You felt yourself trembling in anticipation, but your spine stiffened when you felt his tongue and fingers. He found your clit easily, licking and devouring you as if you were the most delicious delicacy, his favorite sweet. He lost himself between your legs as he made you moan as if he depended on it to live — or as if he could die right there. The moment you closed your legs around his head, almost suffocating him, he didn't complain. He just wanted to feel more of you.

You threw your head back, moaning Haaland's name, as he looked up to see your reactions. He loved watching you reach your pleasure. The orgasm came like the beats of the Norwegian drum. You felt the sensitivity as he sucked everything he could from your essence.

"How could I trade this?" The number nine said, kissing your right thigh and squeezing your ass firmly, when you began to feel the anticipation of what you wanted — the excruciating desire to feel him. That pulsating member when he got up and came over you, bringing it to your entrance, teasing, making you let out the sweetest sounds. Then he brought it inside you.

Feeling the wetness of your pussy and how cozy it was to be inside you, he could never lose that — not just the moment, but what you had together, that connection. The Manchester City player brought his hands to your waist, holding you firmly, in firm and deep thrusts, those that made you roll your eyes, hitting that exact perfect spot.

"Fuck." You heard the curse escape his lips, as you smiled and pulled him into a kiss. Your tongues intertwined as in a battle you both wanted to win, but he dominated, pressing you even tighter against his body as he thrust. "I need to see you on top of me." The words made you moan as he moved you on top of him. He settled on the bed as you watched the sweat on his forehead, his blond hair loose, and in that moment you were more certain than ever that he was the love of your life.

You quickly settled on top. In all the times Haaland had asked you for that, you knew he loved seeing you on top. Your folds settled again around him, and you loved watching how he closed his eyes for a few seconds and let the sounds escape, how he allowed himself to be vulnerable for you too. Your body bounced in search of your orgasm again, feeling his hands squeezing your body and helping you when you felt your thighs get slightly tired. But you knew what he needed and what you yourself needed — he was yours.

Your orgasm came in a whirlwind as your lips met his again, swallowing the sounds that came from each other. You came first, followed by him. It was something you loved: feeling him fill you completely with his seed. You hadn't used protection for a while — it was no longer necessary, as you took care of yourselves with medication. But you didn't want to stop feeling him that way.

"Erling..." You said his name, breathless, feeling him put his head on your shoulder and give a soft kiss on your neck as confirmation that he was listening. "I love you in all our lives." You felt the smile form on his face.

"We're each other's forever, darling." He lifted his head, his blond hair messy from your movements. You loved feeling your hearts beating together, like soulmates, and those green eyes looking at you as if you were the only one in his life. You knew you were — just as he was for you.

When the quarter-final matches arrived in Miami Gardens, between England and Norway, the crowd sang. The Norwegian fans' arms made the sailing motion as your husband scored the winning goal. Then he approached the area where you were, pointed and made the symbol of your name's initial with his hands, looking at you with those loving green eyes, as if to say he would always find you. You heard Helene's voice beside you.

"Looks like you have a Viking completely in love with you, miss." She said provocatively, as was typical of your friendly relationship. But this time, you smiled without blushing. You had a man who loved you out loud.

"Of course, that man is mine." The words came with the tranquility of someone who had the certainty of the love that existed between you, with the certainty that a life side by side couldn't be anything other than the purest perfection.

Hi everyone, this is my first time writing about someone from football, so please be kind. I'm absolutely obsessed with this man and I finished writing this while watching the England vs Norway match — in this alternate universe, Norway wins and goes through to the next stage.

I got depressed just watching Haaland's sad face, but as a consolation to our hearts over this defeat, I bring you a fanfic about this delicious Viking. I hope you like it and that it comforts your hearts a little.

Feedback is always welcome and I accept requests — we need more Haaland fanfics, especially because he's perfect.