#les bleus

the off the record masterlist

privacy isn’t the absence of an audience.

it’s the freedom to be yourself.

synopsis after a controversy threatens to overshadow the biggest moment of his career, Michael's team hires you to manage the fallout. there's only one problem though: your new client refuses to talk. somewhere between bad press, missed meetings and everything said off the record, keeping things professional becomes a crisis of its own.

warnings black!fem!reader, no use of y/n, publicist! reader, michael is vulnerable y’all, they be touchy or whatever, they cuteeee

wordcount don't be in my business

a/n their first kiss is loading btw :) I’ll log off a bit for now. I hope you’ll like it !

AUGUST 8TH, 2026 — 5 : 02 PM

YOU SHOULD’VE been home by now. Describing what you were going through at the moment by tiredness would be the biggest understatement : your shoulders were tense, your hands cramping from the long statement you had to write for one of your client.

You were definitely tired. But that didn’t stop you from honoring your meetings. So no, you didn’t go straight home.

Instead, you were standing outside Michael’s apartment building with your laptop bag digging into your shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm.

You checked the address again.

it was correct.

Unfortunately for you.

You didn’t even know why you agreed to this. Well, that meeting was necessary, since you needed to discuss several topics with Michael.

that was not the problem.

it was happening in his house. That was the problem.

You’d planned for an hour. Maybe two if Michael decided to argue with every answer you’d prepared for his upcoming interview.

Which, was a very real possibility.

You sighed, pressing the buzzer.

The intercom crackled.

“Yeah ?”

You blinked.

“Open the door,”

A beat.

“Who’s that ?”

“You know it’s me, michael.”

“I do actually.”

“So why did you say ‘yeah’ ?”

He stayed silent. “Wanted to make sure it was you.”

“You literally buzzed me.”

“I know.”

You closed your eyes. He was already starting.

The door unlocked with a buzz.

“Fourth floor.”

Click.

You smiled despite yourself.

Idiot.

THE ELEVATOR came to a stop with a soft ding.

Fourth floor.

You adjusted the strap of your laptop bag before stepping into the hallway.

Apartment 412.

You knocked twice.

A few seconds passed.

Then the lock clicked.

The door swung open.

“Hi.”

Michael stood in front of you wearing nothing but a pair of white socks, grey sweatpants and a black tank top that looked like it’d been pulled on five minutes ago.

His locks were put up in a ponytail.

Not enough to look intentional.

Just enough to tell you he’d been home all afternoon.

You blinked. This wasn’t the Michael you were used to.

No linen pants.

No Bayern training kit.

No carefully pressed shirt before a press conference.

No cameras.

No photographers.

No reporters waiting outside.

Just Michael.

“Hi.” He stepped aside, holding the door open. “Come in.”

You slipped off your heels without thinking. He didn’t ask you to. You simply did.

For some reason, it always felt wrong to walk across someone else’s home with your shoes on. You set them neatly beside his trainers before stepping inside.

Your eyes wandered around the apartment.

Not because you were snooping.

Because it was impossible not to notice the little things.

A stack of books sat on the coffee table. A PlayStation controller had been abandoned on the couch. A blanket was carelessly draped over one corner, like someone had been using it only minutes earlier.

There was an empty coffee mug beside the television remote.

A hoodie hung over the back of one of the dining chairs.

Nothing looked staged.

Nothing looked like the home of someone people watched every weekend on television.

It simply looked lived in.

Huh.

He really lived here.

Not the footballer.

Not your client.

Just Michael.

“Water ?” His voice pulled you back.

You looked up. “Please.”

He disappeared into the kitchen before you could thank him.

“You still take your coffee black ?”

You frowned.

“How do you know that ?”

“I’ve seen you drink it.”

“Oh.” you said, the floor tiles cold under your feet. “That’s so creepy of you.”

“It isn’t.”

“It kind of is.”

“I just pay attention.”

You opened your laptop on the dining table, shaking your head with a smile you hoped he couldn’t see.

“That’s somehow worse.”

“I’ve been told.”

You heard a cupboard open.

Then another.

“What do you want to eat ?”

You froze.

“Excuse me ? Eat ?”

His voice carried effortlessly from the kitchen, like continuing conversations across different rooms was something he did every day.

“Food.”

“It’s five fifteen.”

“And ?”

“I’ll be gone before dinner time.”

“Okay.”

A pause.

“So what do you want ?”

You stared toward the kitchen. “Michael.”

“What ?”

“I’m not staying for dinner.”

“You say that now.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t, I have work tomorrow anyway.”

“So do I bossy lady.”

“You also live here.”

“I do.”

“So ? It’s easy for you to sa—”

“So we should eat.”

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Somehow, the conversation had drifted completely away from interview prep.

And neither of you had noticed when it happened.

You looked down at your phone as it buzzed in your hand.

No Service.

A second later : Wi-Fi Calling.

Without thinking, you flicked the switch above the screen and put it on silent mode.

You placed it beside your laptop.

Then opened the folder you’d brought with you.

For the first time since you’d met Michael, there werent nobody waiting for an answer. No journalists waiting for a statement.

No notifications demanding your attention.

No colleagues calling to ask for an update.

No cameras.

No audience.

No one watching.

Just the two of you.

And somehow that felt far more dangerous than any press conference ever had.

“OKAY” You said, pulling the folder closer. You flipped it open, coming across pages of preparation for his upcoming interview.

“For Monday’s interview.”

Michael walked back into the room, setting a glass of water beside you before dropping into the chair opposite yours.

“So.”

“So.”

You handed him the first page. “I’ve highlighted the topics they’ll most likely bring up.”

He looked down.

Then immediately looked back up.

“You used colours.”

“They’re called categories.”

“I like the colours.”

You sighed. “Michael.”

“What ?”

“You haven’t read a single word.”

“I was getting there. Bossy.”

“You were looking at the headings.”

“Well, they’re colourful.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is exactly why I wanted to go through it with you.”

“I thought you wanted to spend time with me.”

Your head snapped up.

“What ?”

He waited. Only for him to smiled. Barely. “Professionally.”

“Oooh.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re so irritating.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“From me.”

“Mostly.”

You reached across the table and tapped the paper in front of him. “Read.”

He looked down again.

Silence.

For five seconds.

Ten.

Then :

“Do I have to answer this one ?”

You leaned over slightly. What’s one thing you’ve learned since joining Bayern ?

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t want to ?”

“You do.”

“But what if I don’t ?”

You looked at him. “Michael.”

He looked back at you.

“I genuinely don’t know what to say.”

You blinked. “Really ?”

He nodded softly. “I’ve learned bits of German ?”

You stared at him. “That’s.. a start.”

“I know.”

“See ? That’s exactly the kind of answer people like.”

“I thought people wanted football.”

“They do. But they also want to know you’re a human being.”

He frowned.

“I am one.”

“Barely.”

His lips twitched. “There.”

You pointed at him immediately. “Do that Monday, please.”

“What ?”

“That.”

“What did I do ?”

“You almost smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I breathed.”

“You keep replacing emotions with breathing.”

“They’re similar.”

“They’re really not.”

Another tiny smile.

“There !” You laughed.

“Oh my God, you’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By me.”

“Mostly by you.”

“I don’t—” You rolled your eyes, fighting another smile. “Can we be serious for five minutes ?”

“We’ve been serious.”

“You’ve been difficult.”

“They’re different.”

“They’re really not.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with that maddeningly unreadable expression. “Fine.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Fine ?”

“Fine.”

“You sound like you’re lying.”

“I probably am.”

“Michael.”

“I’m kidding.”

“Were you ?”

“Not really.”

A sigh escaped you. “This is why media training with you takes twice as long as everyone else.”

“I thought you liked spending time with me.”

You looked up. “You’ve used that joke already.”

“I know.”

“And ?”

“I wanted to see if it’d still work.”

“Did it ?”

“You tell me.”

His grin, barely there, came and went before you could properly enjoy it. You hated how accomplished you felt every time you managed to make him smile.

“Right.”

You straightened the papers between you.

“Let’s actually work.”

You flipped another page. “The next section is about the allegations.”

His smile disappeared, immediately. You noticed the exact moment it happened. His shoulders stiffened. His eyes dropped to the page.

Silence settled between you.

It was different this time.

You watched him read one question, then another.

Until his gaze stopped.

He didn’t move for several seconds.

“Michael ?”

He tapped the paper once. “What about this one ?”

You leaned over.

Have you been in contact with the mother of the child since the allegations were made ?

You looked back at him. “ well, it’s very likely they’ll ask.”

“I don’t know what to say to that.”

For the first time that evening, there wasn’t even a hint of teasing in his voice. Just uncertainty.

You softened immediately.

“Okay.”

He kept staring at the page.

“I genuinely don’t know.”

“You don’t have to answer right away.”

“I don’t know how to answer at all.”

You nodded once. “That’s different.”

His eyes finally lifted.

“It is ? I’d don’t see a difference.”

“Yeah, it is.” You reached for the paper, pulling it slightly closer. “If you didn’t want to answer, we’d have a different problem.”

you make a pause.

“But you do.”

“I just don’t know how, honestly.”

“That’s what I’m here for.” Your fingers rested against the edge of the folder.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you reached over and turned the page back. “Forget the answer.”

He frowned.

“What ?”

“Forget what you’re supposed to say.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “You’ve spent the last few weeks telling me not to do that.”

“I know.”

“So which is it ?”

You met his eyes. “I want to know what your answer is. Just me. Tell me about it.”

Silence.

The apartment suddenly felt much quieter. Michael looked back down at the question on that paper. His thumb rubbed absentmindedly against the edge of the paper.

“I haven’t spoken to her.”

He paused.

“Not because I don’t care.”

Another pause.

“I just didn’t know if contacting her would’ve made things worse.”

You didn’t interrupt.

“I kept thinking,” He let out a quiet breath. “Every decision I make becomes someone else’s headline.”

Your chest tightened a bit at that,

“So I waited.”

His jaw flexed.

“And apparently waiting became its own headline.”

You looked at him for a long second.

“There.”

He frowned.

“What ?”

“That’s your answer.”

He looked genuinely confused.

“It is ?”

“Yes, it can be a bit more PR approved but you got it.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said everything.”

He looked unconvinced. “I didn’t explain enough.”

“You don’t have to explain every thought you’ve ever had.”

“But—”

“Michael.”

You waited until he looked at you again. “People don’t connect with perfect answers.”

“They connect with honest ones.”

His eyes searched yours.

“You weren’t trying to avoid responsibility.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You weren’t trying to ignore the situation.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were afraid that whatever you did would make things worse. Right ?”

“Yeah.”

“There.” You tapped the page with your pen.

“That’s the truth.”

He looked down again.

“So ?”

“You don’t need a performance.” He stayed quiet.“You need language.” You picked up your pen and pulled the page closer.

“if,” you murmured as you started writing. “They ask whether you’ve been in contact with anyone involved,”

The pen paused.

“You say…”

You looked up.

“I’ve tried to be careful about every step I’ve taken because there are real people involved. Sometimes, when a situation is this sensitive, acting too quickly can do more harm than good. My priority has always been to handle it responsibly and respectfully.”

Silence.

Michael read it once.

Then again.

His eyes moved to you.

“That sounds like me.”

You smiled.

“Thank god it does. That means I’m doing my job right.”

Another beat.

“I thought PR people just made things up.”

A laugh escaped you. “Well, we do.”

His head tilted.

“You just witnessed the rare occasion where I don’t.”

For the first time since you’d arrived, he smiled. Not the tiny one he’d been trying to hide all evening. Hell, for weeks.

A real one.

Small.

Soft.

Unforced.

But here.

You blinked. “There it is.”

“What again ?”

“That smile.” He immediately schooled his expression.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.”

“I breathed.”

“You smiled.”

“I inhaled with confidence.”

You laughed loud enough that he started laughing too. Neither of you noticed that the interview folder was still open between you.

Or that, somewhere along the way, It had stopped feeling like work.

THE SILENCE THAT followed wasn’t awkward. It was simply something lingering. Something almost appeasing.

You glanced back down at your notes, suddenly far more interested in the highlighted pages than the footballer sitting across from you.

“So,” You cleared your throat. “We survived one difficult question.”

Michael nodded solemnly. “Congratulations to us.”

“You say that like there aren’t another twenty-seven.”

“There are ?”

You flipped another page. “There are thirty-four actually.”

His head dropped back dramatically.

“I’m retiring.”

“You’ve been at Bayern for two years.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t think that’s how contracts work.”

“I’ll send them an apology card.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll make sure Legal never sees that email.”

“I appreciate you for that.” He reached for the stack of papers again, this time actually reading them.

His eyes scanned the next section.

A beat passed.

Then another.

“Do I really have to answer this one ?”

You leaned over to read the highlighted question.

What’s been the biggest adjustment since moving to Munich ?

You blinked. “Yes ?”

He frowned.

“But I already answered that.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did. I said ‘the weather.’”

“Oh right, you did, I remember now.”

“So,”

You looked at him expectantly, he looked at you with the same expression, “So that isn’t enough ?”

“You’ve lived here for over a two years.”

“So ?”

“You’ve experienced more than rain, Michael.”

He considered that.

“I’ve also experienced trains.”

You stared at him. “Michael.”

“What ?”

“You can’t tell an international broadcaster that your biggest life lesson has been discovering German public transport.”

His shoulders lifted in an innocent shrug. “It was confusing as hell.”

“You’ve played Champions League football.”

“And ?”

“The U-Bahn defeated you ? Really ?”

“It nearly did.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. He pointed immediately.

“There.”

“What ?”

“You’re bossy and you’re mocking me.”

“I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“I only exhaled.”

“See, you’ve started doing it too.”

“Doing what ?” You frowned.

“Replacing emotions with breathing.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “I hate that you’re rubbing off on me.”

“I think it’s charming.”

“I think it’s a workplace hazard.”

He grinned.

“There it is again.”

“What ?”

“The smile.”

“I didn’t—”

“You absolutely did.”

“I was being polite, Michael.”

“You smiled.”

“I acknowledged your presence pleasantly.”

“You are exhausting.”

“I’ve heard.”

“From me.”

“Mostly.”

You shook your head, laughing under your breath as you reached for your glass.

Well, it was empty.

And before you could even try to stand up, Michael was already on his feet.

“I’ll get you more.”

“I could’ve get it.”

“You’re a guest.” He was already walking toward the kitchen. You watched him disappear around the corner.

“Thank you,” you called after him.

“No problem.”

His voice floated back from the kitchen as casually as if you’d been doing this for years.

“You want lemon in it ?”

You froze. “How do you know that ?”

A pause.

“You seem like the type of woman to like it.”

You frowned. How could he know about that ? You loved lemon in your water. Now, that felt different.

Not unsettling.

Just unexpected.

He returned a moment later, setting the glass down beside your laptop without another word. Your fingers brushed his for less than a second as you took it.

Barely anything.

A fleeting touch.

Neither of you reacted.

Neither of you mentioned it.

But somehow, the room felt quieter than it had a moment ago.

YOU CAPPED YOUR PEN before sliding the interview notes back into the folder.

“I think that’s enough interview prep for today.”

Michael looked relieved. “Finally.”

“You say that like you weren’t the one who agreed to this meeting.”

“I was kinda misled.”

“You were sent a calendar invite.”

“Exactly.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your smile. “There’s one more thing.”

His shoulders dropped dramatically.

“see, this is what I’m talking about. There’s always “one more thing” with you.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I thought we were done.”

“We’re almost done.”

You reached for another folder. “This one’s easier, I promise.”

He eyed it suspiciously. “I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

That earned you a look. You opened the folder anyway.

“About your socials.”

His expression flattened. “Definitely harder.”

“They’ve been quiet.”

“They were supposed to be.”

“I know.”

For a second, the room grew quieter. Again, the silence wasn’t awkward.

Just aware.

The last few weeks had been enough to justify disappearing. Every photo had become evidence. Every caption had been dissected. Every like had turned into speculation.

Sometimes saying nothing really had been the safest option.

You looked back down at the page.

“But it’s calming down.”

He stayed quiet.

“You don’t have to disappear forever.”

His fingers rested against the table. “I don’t really know what to post.”

“I know.” You say, playing with your pen. “You can start again.”

His eyes lifted.

“Slowly.”

You pointed your pen toward him.

“No cryptic captions.”

“I’ve never posted cryptic captions.”

“Allow me to doubt about that one.”

His mouth twitched. That made you laughed softly before your tone became more professional again.

“You don’t need to explain your life.”

“You don’t owe anyone that.”

“But people also shouldn’t only hear about you when something goes wrong.”

He considered that. “So ?”

“If you want to post something,” You shrugged. “Training, a terrible picture of the sky, whatever.”

He frowned.

“I don’t take pictures of the sky.”

“You’d be surprised how many footballers do.”

“I refuse to become one of them.”

“I appreciate your integrity.”

He let out a quiet laugh. Then you added, “Just send it to me first.”

His head tilted.

“You’ll approve it ?”

“I’ll make sure you’re not accidentally starting another news cycle.”

“I don’t usually do that.”

You gave him a look. fucking liar.

“People started theories around your posts during the World Cup.”

“Fair.”

“I’ll check it.”

He nodded once.

“Okay.”

A pause.

“I can do that.”

Something about how easily he agreed made you glance up. He wasn’t arguing. He wasn’t negotiating. He simply trusted you.

You looked at him differently. Just for a second. And he noticed.

“What ?”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

“You just looked at me weird.”

“I did not.”

“You definitely did.”

“I was thinking.”

“That’s usually when people look at me weird.”

A laugh escaped you. “I was just thinking,”

You closed the folder halfway. “I’ve spent the last weeks teaching you how to talk to journalists.”

He hummed.

“I’ve told you what to say.”

“What not to say.”

“When to smile.”

“When not to.”

Another small smile. “But I haven’t actually asked how you’re doing.” The words slipped out before you had time to stop them.

Neither of you moved.

Michael didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked at you. Really looked at you. Long enough that you almost regretted asking.

Then, he quietly asked. “Off the record ?”

Your lips curved into a small smile. “Off the record.”

He looked at you for another second. As if making sure you meant it. Then he leaned back against the couch.

“I’m tired.”

You frowned. “Physically ?”

He thought about it.

“Mostly.”

He took a pause.

“But not just that.”

You waited. No clipboard. No pen. No notebook. Just you.

“It’s weird.”

“What is ?”

He looked down at his hands. “You spend your whole life wanting people to know who you are.”

Another pause.

“And then one day,”

He let out a sigh. “They think they do.”

You stayed silent, didn’t interrupt.

“They decide what kind of person you are, what you meant, what you were thinking, what you would’ve done.”

His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “And none of them ask.”

You swallowed.

“So,” He looked up again. “Eventually you stop talking.”

The apartment felt impossibly quiet. Because suddenly, everything made sense. The short answers. The interviews. The silences. The way every sentence seemed carefully measured before leaving his mouth.

Michael wasn’t quiet.

He was careful.

You looked at him differently. Not because he’d changed. Because your understanding of him had.

“Does it still bother you ?”

He smiled.

Not happily.

Just softly.

“It used to.”

“And now ?”

“I don’t really expect people to get it anymore.”

Something about that answer hurt. More than it should have. You looked down at your hands.

“I do.”

The words came out before you could think them through. Michael’s head lifted.

“What?”

“I get it.”

Silence.

“I mean,” you laughed awkwardly. “I’m trying to.”

His eyes stayed on yours.

For a long moment. Then :

“That’s nice of you. Thank you.”

No joke. No teasing. Just..thank you.

THE CONVERSATION drifted naturally after that. Away from media training. From interviews. From headlines.

Somewhere between takeout containers spread across the coffee table, a Champions League match replay neither of you were really watching, and an argument over whether pineapple belonged on pizza or not.

Work quietly disappeared from the room.

The folder stayed where you’d left it.

Closed.

Your laptop hadn’t been opened again.

Neither of you seemed particularly interested in changing that.

Next thing you knew, you were curled up on Michael’s couch.

One leg tucked beneath you.

A half-empty pizza box sitting forgotten on the coffee table. He’d somehow stolen sauces from your plate despite ordering the exact same thing.

You’d called him out for it. He’d claimed yours “looked better, for some reason.”

You still weren’t sure how that made any sense. It didn’t. He was trying to annoy you.

“What are even watching ?” You asked, turning to the television, not quite understanding the commotion it had going on.

He frowned at the television.

“I have no idea.”

“You turned it on.”

“I know.”

“So why aren’t you watching it ?”

He looked at you. “We’re talking.”

See, this where you really realized something around nine. Michael wasn’t quiet.

He was private.

There was a huge difference.

The version of him people saw in interviews wasn’t fake. It was just incomplete.

Because the man sitting beside you now talked with his hands from time to time. Made terrible jokes. Interrupted himself halfway through stories because he’d remembered something funnier.

Walked into the kitchen while still talking as if you could somehow hear him perfectly from the living room.

And he smiled. More than anyone on the internet would’ve believed.

Your phone suddenly lit up.

11:47 p.m.

“Oh lord.”

Michael looked over.

“What ?”

“I should,” you looked at the time again. “Probably leave, it’s late.”

His eyes moved to your phone. Then back to you.

“You’ve been here six hours.”

You blinked.

“Six ?”

“You got here at five eight.”

You stared at him.

“Why do you know that ?”

A shrug. “Saw you pull up.”

“You’re so weird.”

“And you’re so nice tonight. Wow.”

“It sounded less weird in your head, didn’t it ?”

“Yeah.”

You laughed, standing to gather your things.Your laptop slid back into your bag.

The folder followed.

For the first time all evening, it actually looked like work again.

Michael walked you to the front door.

You slipped your shoes back on.

He leaned against the wall beside the entrance, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “I’ll see you Monday, right ?”

You looked up.

“Michael.”

“Hm ?”

“I’m not letting you walk into your first interview since,” You gestured vaguely between the two of you. “everything.”

A small smile appeared.

“I figured.”

“Good.”

You reached for the door.

“Drive safe.”

You looked over your shoulder.

“You too.”

“I don’t have to drive, I’m at home, remember ?”

“Right.”

He smiled again. “You do, though.”

There were no cameras waiting outside.

No photographers.

No reporters.

No headlines.

Nothing for you to explain.

Nothing for Michael to deny.

For the first time since you’d met him, everything that had happened that evening belonged entirely to the two of you.

You should’ve found that reassuring.

Instead, halfway home, you realized something considerably worse.

You liked him better off camera.

GO BACK TO FILE 004 — OPEN FILE 006

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