L 🦋

　WHEN MICHAEL CAST one last glance at the clock perched above the fireplace, he let out a tired sigh. The television screen was the only source of light in the room, its images throwing muted colours onto the singer’s exhausted face.

　It was almost three o’clock in the morning.

　Michael was no stranger to sleepless nights ━ those endless nights when he would sometimes find himself swamped with work. Yet tonight, it wasn’t that he lacked the desire to sleep. For once, he was utterly exhausted.

　But you still hadn’t come home, so there was no way in hell he was going to go to bed without you.

　His fingertips rolled over his thighs in a rhythm meant to be comforting and patient. He had been wearing his checked pyjama bottoms and his old white t-shirt ever since you had left the house a good six hours earlier.

　Michael was slumped on the sofa, a plate of ice cream abandoned on the coffee table, his eyes darting back and forth between Some Like It Hot and the clock, which, over the course of those six long hours, had become his worst enemy.

　He felt as though every tick-tock was actually mocking him, a way for it to remind him that you still weren’t there and that, despite the hours ticking by, time was passing oh so slowly.

　Michael had hesitated over whether to hurl the remote control at it or throw it into the fire. He wanted to put a stop to the taunts, but something told him that you wouldn’t appreciate him destroying your Canetti, which you had paid a small fortune for to fill that wall that had seemed too bare to you.

　He regretted not having invested in a dartboard instead…

　The singer shot another glare at his arch-enemy and, realising that only two minutes had passed, threw his head back, his curls falling limp against the velvet sofa. His stomach seemed to knot up again, and he found his lip caught between his front teeth.

　You should have been home at least a good fifteen minutes ago. Not that Michael was keeping tabs on you or expecting you to come home at a set time ━ no, you were perfectly entitled to have fun, he had complete faith in you ━ but your friend had phoned him from the bar where you were partying to let him know you were on your way home…

　And that had been twenty minutes ago.

　Michael liked to tell himself that he wasn’t the sort of boyfriend who made his girlfriend feel as if she were in prison with him but ━ damn ━ right at that moment he regretted it.

　He should have at least sent Bill.

　That was what his mind kept repeating over and over. He should have asked him to come and pick you up to make sure you got home safely, but your friend had told him that you had slipped away in a taxi, and it had been too late to send anyone to fetch you.

　Michael decided to wait another three short minutes before phoning Bill to ask him to come and pick him up so they could search the whole state for you.

　If anything happened to you, it would kill him. You had been his whole world ever since he first met you a few years ago. Love at first sight, Michael had told you, and ever since then, he had been certain that if you looked up love in the dictionary, you would find your name in the definition.

　You were going to walk through that door safe and sound, Michael was convinced of it; it couldn’t end like this. He took a twentieth deep breath, his foot unconsciously swaying from side to side on the coffee table.

　Where the hell were you?

　The metallic jingle of keys was enough to dispel the fear that was beginning to gnaw at him in the darkness of the living room.

　Michael sprang to his feet and raced across the room, his long legs giving him the edge. His hands were trembling slightly as he grabbed the door handle and flung the door open. The wood banged against the wall; there would surely be a mark, but he didn’t care.

　You had finally made it home safe and sound.

　"Oh, God thank you," he whispered. "I was getting worried sick, baby…"

　You had to cling to the door handle to stop yourself from falling. Your purse had slipped off your shoulder and was now dangling from your wrist, mirroring the pair of heels you were holding in your other hand. Your eyes were half-lidded, your lipstick had smudged and your eyeliner had run slightly at the corners of your eyes. You looked like a mess.

　"’m fi… ne…" you hiccuped.

　"Girl, you’re not fine," Michael chuckled, walking toward you. "Come here, let me help you get to bed━"

　You flinched back, almost falling to the ground as you pressed yourself flat against the door.

　"Noooooo!" you shouted suddenly. "Back… off! I have… a boyfriend, mis… mister. So… shoo!"

　Michael blinked. He let his arms fall to his sides, his eyebrows gradually furrowing. He glanced behind him, as if to check that there was no one else there whom you might be addressing, before turning his gaze back to you, looking completely confused.

　"You… you what now?"

　"A boyfriend!" you declared, trying to stand up straighter. "He’s tall and… handsome and str… ong… and he will… beat your ass… if you get too close to… me."

　If you hadn’t been so heavily intoxicated, Michael would probably have burst out laughing at the way you were talking. He wasn’t sure how you would react if he made fun of your hiccups.

　He opened his mouth to try to talk some sense into you, but when he saw how close you were to collapsing to the floor, he decided to take a different approach instead.

　"Oh, you got a man, huh?" he asked, taking a step closer to catch you just in case ━ he needed to get you to bed as soon as possible. "That’s a real shame, sweetheart. What’s he like, this boyfriend of yours?"

　You beamed at the question, swaying lightly.

　"The best… sings to… to me all the time…"

　"Does he now?" Michael mused, taking another step. "And where’s that man of yours now, mmm?"

　You face fell into a pout.

　"Busy… works too much…" you answered sadly. "… but if you try anything he’ll ki… ck you!"

　His amusement gave way to a sense of guilt. Michael knew he was working incredibly hard and was rarely at home these days. He had probably never realised just how much it might be affecting you until tonight, as he saw your eyes fill with tears. Michael panicked for a moment. He didn’t want to make you cry ━ he hated seeing you sad ━ so he stepped closer and placed a hand on your forearm.

　"Alright. I hear you, I hear you. I’m not trying to steal you, I promise. I’m just here to get you to bed safely. Your man would want you safe, right?"

　You looked at him suspiciously for a moment. His black hair curled around his face, with a stray lock resting against his forehead. He was looking at you with four large brown eyes that seemed strangely familiar to you. Surely, that wasn’t normal.

　"You know… you kinda look like him… like, a little bit…"

　"Oh yeah?"

　"Yeah…" you nodded, stepping closer. "… Same eyes… same… same smile…" you squinted harder. "… but my man is prettier… like way prettier… no offense…"

　Michael let out a laugh.

　"None taken. I’m sure he is, baby," he was smiling now. "Come on, pretty girl, let's get you to bed. I promise, I'm just helping, that's all."

　You let him guide you, but you kept your distance, your body tense. He led you to the hallway, his hands firm but gentle around your waist. You were mumbling things, your head rolling down to the side opposite his neck. The guy smelled of sandalwood and musk just like your boyfriend and it was enough to send you spiralling.

　"Miss him sooo much… like so, so much… you know how much?"

　"I’ve a feeling you’re about to tell me," he murmured, walking you around a corner.

　"He has those eyes… big, brown, doe eyes that just… he looks like Bambi, you know?"

　Michael flashed you a smile.

　"From Disney?"

　"Oh, yeah… but Mike’s waay cuter…" you missed a step. "Love kissing his nose too... so perfect... and his hair… so soft… he likes when I… run my fingers through it… he even purrs."

　"I do not purr," he chuckled sheepishly.

　"’course you don’t… you don’t have nice hair like him…"

　"Right, right."

　"... And his hands... things he does with his hands and his mouth, oh━"

　"Okay! Okay, wow," Michael cut you in, feeling the heat creeping up his neck. "That's enough detail, don't you think, sweetheart?"

　"You're just jealous..." you hiccuped. "He's the best... so sweet to me... makes me breakfast in bed and lea... ves notes for me when he goes to wo... rk... and dances with me in the kit... chen..." you let out a lovesick sigh. "Just love him sooo much..."

　He gently eased you down onto the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of you. Michael was looking at you with such a shy smile that he almost felt childish about it. No one had ever spoken of him as kindly and affectionately as you had.

　He knew you loved him, even though you weren’t the sort to say it every day. In fact, you hardly ever said it, but he knew. It was written in all the small things you would do like giving him small things that made you think about him for no reasons at all or you staying up all night just to have a chance to see him after a long day at work.

　"You really love that guy, huh?" he murmured, taking off your shoes delicately.

　"With my whooole heart..." you patted your chest clumsily.

　"He's very lucky to have you."

　"’m luckier…" you hiccuped once more.

　You peered down at him, your head tilted at an angle that was giving you a double chin. You could see white teeth flashing at you. Your eyes squinted, trying to focus on his face in the dim light.

　"You look... familiar..."

　"Do I?"

　"Yeah... you kinda look like my Mi... ke... if i close one eye..." you squint harder. "... or both..."

　Michael laughed at you, putting your shoes aside.

　"Must be the lighting..." he bit his lips, trying to hide his giddiness. "Handsome guy?"

　"Very..." you nodded eagerly. "... most handsomest of handsome perfectsome man..."

　"Girl, that sentence makes no sense!" he threw his head back.

　You simply hummed and sank into the mattress, your eyes already fluttering closed.

　That was the moment Michael chose to get to his feet. He stood there for a moment, watching your chest rise and fall beneath your dress, which looked far too uncomfortable to sleep in. He would try to take it off you later, though Michael doubted you would let him in your current state. He was about to walk into the bathroom when he felt a hand grip his wrist.

　He looked down at you.

　"Tell him ‘m home... safe, 'kay? He gets so... worried when I go out... Don't want him to be mad..." you mumbled sleepily.

　"Don't worry, baby, he's not mad at all," Michael reassured you, sitting on the bed next to you, the back of his fingers caressing your cheek lovingly. "He could never be mad at you."

　"I know... he likes when I've fun... but... don't want to worry him..."

　"It's okay, he's not worried anymore, sweetheart, you can sleep," he cooed, his hand never leaving your face.

　For a moment, you seemed satisfied with his words, welcoming Morpheus gladly, but the very next second a wrinkle appeared between your eyebrows and your eyes flew open, your pupils almost swallowing your irises.

　"You need to… back off... Told you I had a man... I'll tell him to... kick you..."

　Michael laughed, pulling his hand away from your warm skin. He raised both hands in a gesture of peace.

　"Alright, alright. I don't want any trouble."

　He got to his feet and continued on his way to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror, as he reached for some cotton pads to remove your make-up, Michael looked at himself for a moment. His eyes scanned his face carefully and lingered on his nose. You had called it perfect, and it was true that you loved kissing him in that exact spot. Yet he was often embarrassed when you did it... But now that he had heard your drunken words, Michael couldn’t help thinking that perhaps... you were right.

JULY 11, 2026 ; Miami, Florida...

The Miami sun was beating down on your glowing skin, its light dimmed by the oversized sunglasses you shielded it with as you walked. Later today would be England vs Norway, and your boyfriend was most certainly going to be centre-stage, as usual.

It was the most heartwarming thing to watch him succeed so beautifully and admirably on the biggest platform within the sport, and you felt so privileged to be the woman by his side. The woman of the man who millions of other women yearned for, those who could only dream of being in his arms every night.

The World Cup so far had been incredible—you'd enjoyed every moment, and with the exciting state of Jude's team, there were only positives to be celebrated and praises to be made about this period in his career. Enjoyable so it was, except for one small thing. Ridiculous, really, for it truly was small, but there were certain decisions managers made and rules they put into firm place that you just couldn't get on board with. There were the silly decisions they made regarding the events and players on the pitch, there were the criticisms that you believed were much too harshly declared, and then there was what you believed to be the stupidest of them all.

It had been said before—by Ancelotti, by Alonso, even by Arbeloa earlier this year—and now, Thomas Tuchel had been very serious when he'd declared the same thing.

❛England players may have sex with their partners at any time during the World Cup, except on match days.❜

No, of course you didn't need to be put through the mattress by your man every day of the tournament, but Jude Bellingham never made it easy for a lady to be in his presence without her succumbing to a burning arousal, and even though he was your boyfriend of five years, that arousal somehow burned evermore.

Tuchel had thought the statement quite an obvious and sensible one, a good compromise in comparison to the initially considered approach where the players' partners would be entirely banned from visiting the players' hotel rooms. He realised that approach would be going too far, and that psychologically it would actually affect the men more to be forced away from their women. However, he still believed in sexual abstinence on the day of the game, to preserve energy and focus.

You on the other hand, along with several of the other WAGs, believed that to be a nonsense theory.

These were high-level, elite athletes, with stamina greater than most, and after doing so much exercise, dealing with so much adrenaline, also had sexual needs more than most. It would be cruel to deprive them of such a necessary release—you believed it was almost like a form of therapy, surely? A catharsis drawn from their very bloodstream, bodies needing oxytocin and dopamine to calm their restless and excitable hearts. One round of sex wasn't going to do any harm to their roles on the pitch.

And so, with that strong belief in mind, you found yourself cornering your unassuming boyfriend in the recovery room of England's designated private training base.

Jude took his athleticism very seriously, always adhering to rules in the interest of playing as skilfully and as successfully as possible. It always paid off, so he wasn't about to start messing with what had so far been working in his favour.

But you knew him well enough. You knew that your assumption was correct—that ejaculatory release could only be beneficial, because restriction and pent-up sexual frustration could only ever be a negative thing. You felt that you'd be doing your duties as a devoted, supporting girlfriend, if he'd hear you out and allow you to.

You'd been sitting with the other WAGs, watching your men run up and down, stretching their muscles, groaning with the exertion. Your eyes never left the gorgeous artwork that was Jude's body, and you hadn't realised you were quite literally biting your lip at him in public, sighing with need, pupils dilated though hidden by your sunglasses. You were wearing a tiny white summer dress with white kitten heels—likely a little too overdressed for merely attending training, but most of the other girls were with you on that.

And when a break was finally called—fifteen minutes, to be back there immediately afterward—you didn't wait a moment to pounce on him.

As he skipped over to you, all sweaty and slightly breathless, you did something very uncharacteristic. You hugged him despite the sweat, despite your ivory white mini dress, the one you cherished so dearly. Usually, Jude would shower before touching you after training or after a game, and that wasn't because you cared more about your appearance than your boyfriend—it was because he got so sweaty sometimes that it left wet stains on your summer-coloured clothing, and the paparazzi were always waiting around the corner.

Jude was surprised at the way you wrapped your arms around his neck without restraint, not even hesitating to allow his half-drenched shirt to collide with the pristine quality of your dress.

"Hey, baby, what's this?" he chuckled, holding your waist tight as you clung to him.

"Come with me," you whispered, stood up on your tiptoes to reach his ear. “Inside.”

He furrowed his brows in intrigue, wondering if something was wrong; and then you pulled away, took his hand, and strolled off inside the training complex, en route to your destination.

You entered into the recovery room, its purpose for ice baths and hydrotherapy, therefore of no use to anyone at present. And it was when you shut the door behind you, turning to give him that tell-tale smirk, that Jude realised exactly what you were up to.

"Hi, baby," you grinned, waiting for him to say something as he looked you up and down in amusement. Sure enough, your dress was already stained with patches of his sweat.

"I don't even think I need to ask what you're plannin' here."

"No, you don't, because asking wastes time, and we only have fifteen minutes, so c—" You began to walk into the corner you'd been eyeing as the perfect spot, where a wide couch sat before the wall, but Jude took you by the wrist and guided you back to face him.

"Darlin', we're not doin' that in here," he said plainly. His expression was still amused, but he was being serious, because he was still stuck on his refusal to rule-break.

"Why?" you pouted. "You have to hear me out first."

"Alright, whatever—go on," he smirked.

You interlaced both hands with his, and explained your own theory. "So, it's my personal opinion that Tuchel is viewing sexual intercourse in entirely the wrong way."

Jude raised a brow.

"He's saying it's gonna affect your performance, right? That it'll reduce focus and deplete you of energy, or whatever?"

"Orgasms do suck the life out of me sometimes."

You rolled your eyes. "After the fourth round! Not with a quickie. Nobody said we had to fuck all day and night, but I completely disagree with the statement that sex negatively affects performance." Now you stepped forward, dropping one of his hands to run your digits over his collarbone, a sensual smile on your lips. "I think, that really, it can only make a positive difference."

Jude was grinning wide now, entertained by this display of scientific theory governed by nothing other than the empirical evidence of your hormones.

"Do tell," he joked, provoking you to continue.

You giggled. "Well, we all know how difficult sexual frustration is," you sighed, dropping his other hand now and reaching over the crotch of his shorts, where a growing bulge could be felt beneath. "Surely it's unfair for a manager to force his players to deal with such a thing..." As you spoke, you rubbed and squeezed the weight of him, heart racing as you experienced the familiar feeling of his length hardening further under your touch. "And if you're too frustrated... it might only end up backfiring on the team. Tuchel wouldn't want that, would he?"

Jude shook his head, still smirking, because he refused to visibly fold at the way you spoke and fondled him, even while internally he was going insane.

"And you wanna break that rule in here, yeah?" he asked. "In this room?"

"Mhm. Right now, pretty please..." you sung with faux-innocence into his ear, on your tiptoes again to lean into his chest, still kneading your hand over his shorts.

"Pretty please, hm?" he repeated, with a slight mocking tone that sent a deeper rush of arousal through you. Your panties were clinging tight to your glistening folds—you were surely smothered in arousal beneath that fabric.

"Jude..." you whispered, leaning further forward to brush your lips over his neck, breathing in his scent as your tongue darted out within a kiss to the skin.

You heard him hiss, and he felt your reaction, your widening smile just beside his Adam's apple.

“So," he murmured, "first you’re tryna get me to do somethin’ the boss has made illegal, and now you’re tryna get us caught doin’ it too.”

“J…” you beamed innocently, stepping away now and rocking back and forth on your heels. "We won't get caught..."

He shook his head, rolling his eyes with a smile that expressed just how predictable this was. Never would you play by the rules, no matter how high-stakes the game ahead. And again, you truly were a firm believer in your own opposing theory that pre-match sex could only be beneficial to England’s star player. It would excellently boost morale, and that was the most crucial quality in this stage of the competition, right?

Without needing to give another plea, you twirled 180 degrees, before strutting over to the smallest corner of the room, past a row of red light therapy beds. Jude followed in tow.

And there you stood by the plush grey couch, admiring it as the most ideal, most comfortable piece of furniture to have a quickie on. It was almost like it had been placed there for that very purpose. The universe knew to give you the idea that you should enter this specific room, because the act really was what Jude needed, even if he might have fought it initially. Now, he was coming round.

"Sit down, handsome," you smiled, guiding him to do so, and even despite another amused eye roll, he did. He sat up against the back of the couch, settled into the furniture with a demeanour that gave away what words didn't need to. He was on your side now.

You giggled as you straddled him, legs bracketing his strong, muscular thighs. "’m gonna ride you, baby—'n I'll be quick, I promise."

"Better be, sweetheart," he murmured, smacking your ass harshly. You yelped, arching your back and taking that as an incentive to begin rocking over his clothed dick. As you did, you watched him raise his right wrist slightly, checking the time on his watch. "Just under ten minutes now, c'mon. If y' need it that badly, y' gonna have to start speedin' up."

You were grinding down harder now, his dick straining through his boxers, your pussy perfectly prepped in its drenched arousal. There would be no time for foreplay—although it was true that you pretty much always needed it with Jude.

Wasting no more time, you tugged at his waistband, pulling both layers down just enough to free his achingly hard cock. It stood up with a pop, thick veins running all along from base to tip, precum leaking from the slit and down the underside. You almost physically salivated at the sight, as though a dog in heat had met its human form.

"Can't be starin' too long, baby," Jude smirked, rubbing his thumb over your cheek. You were lost in your own world, always amazed by how lucky you were to have this perfect asset waiting for you every single day.

You chuckled, grinning as you pulled your soaked panties to the side and rubbed the weight of him along your dripping sex. The head of his dick provided the perfect friction, and you spent a few moments too long just gliding it up and down your folds, the anticipation of him filling you almost as satisfying as the fullness itself.

Your eyes were clamped shut, revelling in the feeling, but you had a sharp awakening when you felt Jude's hand suddenly slam down on your asscheek again. He was never intentionally too harsh, but your ass was just too pleasing, too pretty to look at...

"C'mon, princess," he ordered, with a raised brow. "Would've been easier if I'd fucked you against that wall, no?"

"No, baby, shut up, 'm fine, just let me—ohhhhh..." Finally, you eased down onto him, hands immediately gripping his shoulders with the impact of his girth stretching your tight walls.

"Aw, that's it..." he both cooed and groaned, hands settling at the curve of your ass to guide your position.

"J, you're so—oh, mmm, God..." You babbled incoherencies while you slowly took every inch, and of course he talked you through it.

"Yeah, that's it, c'mon now, baby... Nearly there..." "Just a little more... Takin' it so well..." "Pretty pussy, squeezin' me so tight..."

His words only made you even more insatiable, and as you finally sunk down, his girth nestled perfectly in your heat, you began to bounce. There really was no time to waste, and you hadn't planned on going slow.

"Oh, yes, fuck, that's my girl," Jude moaned beneath you, gripping your hips and your ass so tight that you were certain there'd be bruises if he kept it up.

"Yeah, you love how I bounce on you like this, baby? Feels so good, J..." you whined as you lifted your hips up and down, chasing your peak. You raised your hands to meet your clothed breasts, kneading over the tissue, but wishing the style of fabric had instead allowed for your man's easy access, because his hands on your bare skin was nothing short of heavenly.

The feeling of him filling you up was another slice of heaven, and on his dick you moaned like a whore, rocking back and forth, making figure-eights with your hips.

"So fuckin' tight for me, sweetheart," Jude muttered under his breath, looking up into your ever-fluttering eyes. "Y'so needy, always thinkin' about gettin' fucked..."

You giggled through another whine, placing your hands on his chest now to help with balance as you surrendered your body to him completely. You rode him with force, high-pitched sounds spilling out of your throat with each alteration in movement, and now it was even clearer to you: this was certainly what every player in this World Cup needed to proceed successfully. What could be more galvanising, more energy-inducing, than the inspiring motivation of a woman's sex? You knew Jude would be thinking about this throughout the rest of the day—you knew he'd get flashbacks during the game—but never did that mean a disruptive distraction. No—you were essentially his muse, his source of stimulation to drive him to success, that last piece of the puzzle on top of all the hard work he put in. As your pussy squeezed his aching length (for the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours, mind you), you ascended toward climax, riding impossibly faster while the outside world became a blur, nothing existing but the two of you...

"Oh, Jude, 'm gonna cum—" you nearly screamed, rubbing circles over your clit now, desperate to reach your peak. Beneath you, Jude was bucking up his hips with an eagerness mirroring yours, and with it he groaned profanities.

"Yeah, baby, fuck—need you to cum for me..."

"I'm so close, J, oh, yes..."

The couch, as sturdy as it was, creaked beneath you, and you bounced your ass down onto him as hard as possible, moaning without restraint as Jude grabbed and smacked at the flesh, wet snapping noises echoing throughout the room and surely through the hall. You leaned down to kiss him as you finally came, his tongue swallowing the extent of your lewd sounds, although you'd already made enough of a noise in the last few minutes.

He was so close too, and with a few more thrusts upward into your sweet spot, his orgasm crashed through his sensitive body.

"Shit, I'm gonna cum, oh—that's it, take it, baby..."

Hot ropes of cum shot up into your womb, filling you wholly as you sighed breathlessly into his neck, collapsing forward.

"J, oh my..."

Jude caught his breath too, blinking rapidly to bring himself back to earth. He'd obviously be fine to play tonight, but would he definitely be fine to resume training with his teammates in—he checked his watch again—just two minutes time?

"Shit, darlin', you've got me fucked up," he murmured in your ear, and you smiled wide, peppering kisses all over his face. He mirrored your expression, relishing in your facial kisses, but internally cursing the fact that he'd have to pull out in a moment. His cock was softened now, but your wet, cosy heat felt too heavenly enveloping him, and he wished the rest of the day could be called off so that he could spend it with only you and your ethereal body. In that room, so perfectly entwined, it really did feel like you were the only two people inhabiting the earth.

In reality however, you weren’t, and in a moment someone would be reminding you of that. While Jude's mind might have been still half-focused on his responsibilities, neither of you expected what came next.

Suddenly, the door creaked open from the opposite end of the room.

"Oh my God—fuck," you both cursed in unison.

Luckily, whoever it was couldn't see you both from that entrance, so, in your shock and panic, you each managed to detach, jump up from the couch and rush over to another corner just in time, fixing yourselves to look presentable.

But there was cum on the couch, and more dripping down your thighs. You'd clean the couch once the person had left, but what were you to do about the sticky mess on your legs? Jude was trying not to laugh, and you kept nudging him, needing to get him to shut up.

"Stop it, you idiot—they'll hear!" you whisper-shouted.

No use, of course; and now the individual was facing you. While earlier you'd praised the universe for granting you the perfect room for sex, you now cursed those same stars for putting you in this horrifying position. Because indeed, the individual facing you was none other than Thomas Tuchel himself.

As he looked you both up and down, you literally almost fainted and threw up at once. The two of you weren't indecent, thankfully, but it was incredibly obvious what you'd been doing. The flustered look on your faces told of that alone. Jude wasn't laughing anymore.

"Had a nice time?" he asked, with a sincerely raised brow.

You both stuttered, and in the awkwardness you decided it had to be Jude to deal with it, because you weren't the one on personal terms with the England manager. Quickly, you rushed into the bathroom just behind you, knowing that no action you made could be more embarrassing than what had just happened, and in there you leaned against the door, clamping your eyes shut in embarrassment.

After a few moments to collect yourself, you then cleaned Jude's cum from your legs, fixed up your hair and your dress, and once player and manager had left the recovery room together, you finally stepped out.

Attending England's training sessions would go on to feel a lot different from then on, and you only hoped that your reckless morning wouldn't make it past those four walls and into a headline.