benchwarmer inc.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted softly when you finally picked up on the third ring. “I just touched down. I’m about to head your way.”

“I’m watching film, Dev. I can’t really talk long,” you replied, your voice flat, stripped of its usual melodic rhythm.

“Watching film? Again?” Devin’s brow furrowed, his voice trailing off into a quiet, concerned hum. “You were watching film this morning before practice, beautiful.”

“I’m just trying to be thorough,” you answered, though the edge in your voice suggested you were more frustrated with your team's record than the footage being difficult to parse.

The line went silent for a brief moment as you released a long, heavy sigh, muttering something he couldn’t quite catch about screen-spacing. It wasn’t a secret that the Mercury were not having a season that you were proud of. You frequently vented to him the frustration you felt that your personal success wasn’t translating to success for the team. No one in their right mind would blame you for the 10th place standing; two places short of a playoffs spot if the season were ending today. But Devin knew you chose to shoulder the responsibility of the entire franchise on your shoulders, a burden that often turned you into a hollower version of yourself.

“You good with me coming over still?” Devin asked, making sure you were still in a mood to see him.

“I’m fine,” you replied, your voice sounding distant, as if you were already halfway back into the screen. “Just… yeah. Whatever you want.”

Devin didn’t bother with another phone call to confirm your mood once he parked in your garage 45 minutes later, the silence radiating from the house combined with a lack of light was enough of an answer. He let himself in with his spare key, the interior of the home dim and smelling faintly of incense left burning in some part of the house. He found you in the office with the only light coming from the massive monitor casting a clinical, blue glow over your face. You were swallowed by an oversized black hoodie, the hood pulled up over your head with your eyes locked onto a freeze-frame of a defensive rotation that you had probably analyzed a thousand times.

“You gotta press the play button for the film to work, beautiful,” Devin said, his voice a low, vibrating rumble in the quiet of the room.

You didn’t startle, didn’t even tense your posture, you simply blinked, your eyes slowly shifting from the screen to the man approaching from the doorway. You didn’t move to hug him, barely even leaning in for a kiss he placed on your forehead, his hand cradling your cheek before he pulled your head to rest against his abdomen. Your focus was already drifting back to the screen, your thumbs fiddling with the controls on the black game controller you used to scrub through the footage.

“Hey,” you whispered hoarsely, not acknowledging the fun he poked at you immediately upon entering the office.

But Devin didn’t push. He stepped back and sank into one of the plush, cream-colored couches that lined the perimeter of the office, stretching his long legs out across the rug. He watched you for a few minutes, hearing the repetitive click, click, click of the controller and the rhythmic squeak of sneakers on a hardwood court emanating from the monitor. He tried a few conversational hooks: he asked about the weekly call you had this morning with your parents, mentioned the new wrap on your car that you told him you were considering, and made a light comment about how Toronto was more interesting than he remembered it being. You answered in one-word syllables, your mind clearly far away.

As the minutes ticked by, Devin noticed something that made him narrow his eyes. The footage on the screen shifted every so often, and after a few scrubs he recognized the play. It was a clip from a game against the Lynx three weeks ago. It was the same clip you had been playing over and over the last time he’d visited before his trip. Sure, this particular clip was an example of some of your biggest problems defensively, but the fact that you were still circling the same drain days later told him you weren’t just analyzing film anymore. This was beyond that.

Devin stood up, crossing the 20 feet between you in a handful of steps. He didn’t say a word until he was directly behind you. He leaned over you, his palms pressed flat against the desk on either side of you.

“The play is a wash, baby,” he murmured, his voice vibrating against the shell of your ear. “You’ve analyzed this rotation a million times. You’ve seen the mistakes in judgement. Watching it one more time isn't going to make them play it differently three weeks ago. You can’t take that game back.”

You sighed, chewing your bottom lip, and for a moment, you resisted. You tried to scrub the footage one more time, your thumb hovering over the controller, but Devin didn’t give you the chance. He reached around you, his large hand covering yours on the controller and gently pressing the power button. The blue light vanished, plunging the room into a heavy, sudden darkness that forced you to actually look at him.

“Devin,” you protested, though your objection lacked any sharpness.

“No more film tonight,” Devin decided, his voice shifting into a quiet, authoritative tone. He shifted one hand from the desk to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. “You have food prepped in the fridge, right?”

“Yes,” you affirmed with a nod. You leaned back into your chair, your head tilting back until you could see his face. For the first time in hours, the frantic loop of missed shots and failed defensive stances in your mind slowed down.

“Good. Now, do me a favor,” Devin said, his voice returning to that lazy, honeyed drawl you loved. “Go take a shower. Wash this stress off you and get out of that hoodie. By the time you come back down, I’ll have your dinner plated and waiting. Deal?”

You didn’t argue. The fight that had been propping you up for the last few weeks felt like a battery that had finally hit zero, leaving your limbs heavy and your mind suddenly quiet. You let out a long breath, and with a slow, reluctant movement, you stood up. Before you could walk away, he pulled you into him, his arms wrapping around your waist. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“Just let it go for a few hours,” he whispered, his voice muffled against your skin. You leaned into him, your forehead resting against his chest for a fleeting moment of surrender. you gave a small, tired nod and finally let him steer you toward the stairs.

By the time you were showered, moisturized, and dressed in a set of matching silk pajamas, the heaviness on your mind had finally settled. As you descended the stairs, the distant clinking of silverware and the savory aroma of grilled salmon and asparagus drifted up to meet you, guiding you back into the living space.

You found Devin in the kitchen, leaning over the counter with a focused expression as he carefully plated your meal. He looked relaxed, his shirt tossed into the hamper in your bedroom in exchange for the white tank top exposing his broad shoulders which loosened as he sensed your presence. When you stepped into the kitchen, you walked straight into his back, wrapping your long arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against the center of his shoulder blades.

Devin let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your cheek. “Look at that,” he murmured. “Got you all soft for me off a shower.”

“Can you just kiss me?” you muttered. “I didn’t get a kiss when you walked in.”

Devin turned in your arms, holding your face in his hands to find you pouting. He pecked your bottom lip once, then twice, before deepening the kiss into something slower. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe, but his hands didn’t leave you.

“I tried to kiss you but you had your hood up and shit. I had to tread lightly,” Devin smiled, his thumbs grazing the high points of your cheekbones. He leaned down, pressing another kiss to your nose before finding your lips a few more times. The touch was grounding, pulling you fully out of the mental wreckage of the season and back into the warmth of the present and this moment with him.

He stepped away just enough to guide you toward the living room, carrying your food in one hand and a tumbler full of cold water in the other. “I already poured you some water,” he directed you to sit gently, bringing you into his side once you were comfortable.

Growing up in Paris as kids of immigrant families, your lives weren't just intertwined, they were practically glued together. The streets were a massive concrete jungle. A chaotic melting pot where everyone was bonded by the exact same hustle, the same loud family gatherings, and the same shared struggle. Your families weren't just neighbors; your moms were best friends, and every single Eid was spent together. Trading dishes, sharing traditions, and making memories was just normal life. 

That meant you and Ibou grew up basically attached at the hip. From five years old, kicking a beat up football against the brick walls until the streetlights flickered on, to sitting on the concrete steps sharing cheap pastries after school, you two were inseparable. You were practically childhood lovers—just way too young and completely naive to realize what you were accidentally building between each other.

By the time high school hit, that innocent bond started shifting into something heavy and intense. It was almost dating, literally right there on the edge of becoming everything. Everything was moving so fast. You loved him, he loved you, but you were just teenagers who didn't even know what love actually was yet, let alone how to navigate it while trying to figure out who you were. The tension was hanging in the air during every shared walk home, every late-night phone call whispered into your pillow, and every time his hand accidentally brushed against yours. Neither of you took the real initiative to label it. You kept it modest, hiding behind the safety net of being "really good childhood friends," while spectators constantly watched the two of you and wondered if there was something more or when you guys were finally going to snap and admit it.

Then came the call that changed everything: Ibou got signed to RB Leipzig.

It was his total "made it out" moment. One day he was young playing street ball in Paris, and the next he was moving to Germany to join a stable Bundesliga team. That career move was all he had ever dreamed of since he was a little boy kicking balls against streetlamps, but the cruel flaw was that it meant leaving you behind. It was a quiet, suffocating kind of heartbreak. It wasn't a messy breakup—because you two had never even admitted you were in love—but the painful lingering thought of almost being together tore through both of you. You parted ways with an aching hug, leaving all that unspoken potential hanging in the air, promising to stay in touch as best friends.

Not long after, you had your own breakthrough. You graduated high school and landed an acceptance to a top university in the United States. That was your “made it out” moment—going from a first-gen immigrant kid in the Paris suburbs to an international student across the pond.

Suddenly, the distance wasn't just a train ride away anymore. It was an entire ocean. He was establishing himself in Germany, and you were pulling all-nighters in American university libraries, thousands of miles away from Paris and each other. Still, the connection was pretty stubborn. You kept in touch through the years—wishing each other Happy Eid and Ramadan, leaving hype comments on each other's big social media accomplishments, and catching up whenever you happened to overlap back home in France during summer family gatherings. But life grew loud and demanding. During one of your move ins between college apartments, you changed your phone number, and between lost contacts and insane schedules, the digital line finally snapped. You completely lost touch for years.

Then came a september, years later.

You were in your mid-twenties, locked into a successful, long-term career in the States, and had flown back to Paris for a two-week visit with your family. At the exact same time, Ibou was back in France for an international break with the French national team. Through sheer coincidence and the oddly stubborn, unbreakable ties of your families—who still talked constantly—your moms scheming, coordinated a reunion.

You met up at a small, low-key coffee shop tucked away on a quiet street one unseasonably warm fall morning. The European heat was honestly deadly, and you were sitting under a striped canvas awning, sipping an iced latte, when a massive shadow fell over your metal table.

You looked up, and there he was—all six-foot-four of him, wearing a simple linen shirt and a nervous, radiant smile that instantly wiped away half a decade of radio silence.

"Look at you," Ibou murmured, his voice dropping into that familiar, playful, warm tone as he pulled you out of your chair and into a hug that practically lifted your feet right off the pavement. "Living in the States, big career woman... you really left all of us in the dust, huh?"

"Me?" You laughed into his chest, taking in the scent of his cologne—expensive, subtle, but still undeniably him. "You're the one playing for Liverpool! Since when do big shot Premier League defenders drink basic coffee in Paris?"

"Since my childhood best friend finally surfaced after disappearing off the face of the earth," he teased, sitting down opposite you. His long legs accidentally brushed against yours under the small metal table, sending a jolt straight up your spine, but neither of you pulled back.

The conversation spilled out as effortlessly as it used to on the concrete steps of your old apartment building. You caught him up on your life in America, the grind of your job, and how you traveled back and forth to Paris whenever you could. In return, Ibou opened up about his life in England. He had built a serious name for himself in world football—key defender for Liverpool, Premier League champion, trophies to his name. It was everything he’d ever dreamed of, but his voice carried a quiet, underlying weariness.

"It sounds crazy," Ibou admitted, leaning his chin on his palm and watching you intently as you stirred your drink. "I got the career, the trophies, the money... But honestly? It’s pretty lonely out there. I'm not really into the whole footballer lifestyle—the partying, the escorts, the loud nights out. These days I’m just letting God handle all the things above me. I drive a normal car, stay out of the media, and most of my free time is just watching anime at home or taking solo vacations where I sit by the water."

He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm twenty-seven now, and I’m still trying to find myself, let alone a soulmate. The guys at the club are always telling me to find someone, but... nobody feels right you know? And you can't exactly cuddle with the lads after a tough loss—their wives wouldn't like that very much."

You laughed, but the warmth in his eyes made your throat go dry. "No secret girlfriend hiding anywhere?"

"No," he said, his smile softening as he looked directly into your eyes. "If I ever just need to talk... are you gonna be around? Because nobody feels like home... except when I’m back here. Talking to you."

That single sentence sent a heavy wave of nostalgia crashing over you. Talking to him at that coffee shop instantly rekindled that dormant teenage spark, turning it into a full, burning flame.

Because you were off work for your visit and Ibou was on an international break, those initial two weeks turned into an absolute blur of being attached at the hip again. You two spent practically every single day together. You visited your old childhood spots—walking through the old neighborhoods, pointing out faded graffiti, buying late-night shawarma from the same corner shop, and filling in all the blanks of the missing years.

You talked about your terrible exes, crazy college professors, toxic club managers, and the reality of what living all over Europe was like for him versus living in the States for you. Every touch felt charged. His arm draped casually over your shoulders as you walked down crowded boulevards, his broad hand catching yours when navigating traffic, and the soft, tender way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear when the wind blew.

By the time his EDF training sessions wrapped up and you had to fly back to America, those old childhood feelings hadn't just resurfaced—they had now hit you with full force. You were in the exact same boat as Ibou: locked into your career, not actively searching for love, but completely defenseless against how hard you were falling for your childhood crush all over again.

When you parted ways at the airport, the hug lasted just a second too long. Ibou buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply before whispering, "Don't change your number on me this time. I mean it."

Back in the States, your days were consumed by work, but your mind was stuck on Ibou. He was back in Liverpool, calling you whenever he had a free moment between training sessions.

When summer arrived, it brought a World Cup held right in the Americas. Ibou made sure you had prime tickets to all of France's matches in your city. Seeing him command the pitch under the blinding stadium lights hit entirely differently now. After the games, he'd drag you into the stadium tunnels and private lounges, proudly introducing you to his teammates as his "favorite person from back home." Even though you were technically attending just as his best friend, the entire dynamic felt wildly, intensely romantic—and neither of you did a single thing to stop it. Why would you?

Unfortunately, France took a heartbreaking loss in the semifinals, ending their World Cup run. Ibou was gutted, but since he was already in the States, he decided to stay and spend his remaining off-season weeks with you.

That summer became an absolute dream. You took time off, and together you went on road trips across the country, checking off every bucket-list spot you had ever wanted to visit. You ate at late-night diners, stayed in quiet coastal hotels, and spent endless hours talking in the front seat of the car while driving down empty highways. You realized quickly that this was the man you lowkey knew you would marry if he ever had the want to ask.

Naturally, the topic of relationships came up during one of those late-night drives. You both tiptoed around the subject, casually asking about each other's dating lives, only to confirm that you were both extremely painfully single. Yet, the unsaid tension and the elephant in the room loomed over every single outing.

As the end of the summer crept closer, his time in America was drawing to a devastating close.

Or so you thought…

Over takeout in your apartment one night, Ibou set his fork down and looked at you casually. "So, my transfer from Liverpool to Real Madrid is officially locked in."

"Ibou, that's huge!" you said, smiling brightly. "Madrid?"

"Yeah, big chapter," he grinned, before softening his expression. " Okay listen... before pre-season starts in Spain, I booked a private villa on an island for a week just to reset. But my plus-one had to cancel last minute." He paused, setting his drink down and watching your face carefully. "Come with me."

You blinked, pausing mid-bite. "To an island? Just the two of us?"

"Just us," he confirmed, a shy smirk touching his lips. "To kick back. As friends... obviously. Unless you're too busy?"

You looked at his nervous face and chuckled. "Ibou, only an absolute idiot would turn down a luxury island villa with you."

…

The island was pure, isolated paradise. The villa sat high on a cliffside with an infinity pool that spilled over into the endless ocean horizon. For the first few days, you two just lived in pure bliss—swimming, soaking up the sun, cooking together, and teasing each other endlessly. You even helped take his pictures for his instagram dump. But as the final days of the trip began to tick away, the unspoken romantic weight between you became impossible to ignore.

On your very last night, the ocean breeze was cool against the island heat. You were sitting on the edge of the illuminated pool deck, your legs dangling into the warm, clear water. From the indoor speakers, Drake’s Jungle was playing softly, the slow, atmospheric R&B beat echoing across the open patio.

Ibou came out from the kitchen, setting two drinks on the patio table before sliding down onto the wooden deck right beside you. His broad shoulder pressed firmly against yours, warm and solid. For a long, heavy moment, neither of you said a word, just watching the dark ocean waves crash against the rocks below while the music filled the quiet night.

"You know..." Ibou started softly, his voice lower and huskier than usual. He looked down at his feet in the water, swirling the surface. "When I got on that plane for Leipzig when I was eighteen... my little heart was completely broken. I really thought I was just leaving the love of my life behind in Paris and had to force myself to get over it. I guess the things I couldn't change back then are part of the reason we ended up here."

Your heart did a violent flip in your chest. "Ibou..." you tried to laugh off the tension.

"I'm serious," he said, turning his body to face you fully under the dim patio lights. He reached out, his long, warm fingers wrapping around your hand, lacing his fingers tightly through yours. "We spent all these years pretending we were just best friends, but we both know what was almost there. We were just young… But after this summer... after being with you again..."

He leaned in closer, his dark brown eyes holding yours with intense clarity.

"I'm moving to Madrid for a brand new chapter," he whispered, his thumb softly tracing circles over the back of your hand. "And I refuse to leave for Spain without you in my corner for real this time. So tell me... are you in for the cause? Are you still here for me, like we were back when we were younger?"

"Ibou," you breathed, too stunned to speak as a tear pricked the corner of your eye as a breathless smile broke across your face. "I never stopped being down for you. Not once." You chuckled

A look of pure, overwhelming relief washed over his features, followed by that contagious, beautiful smile you had cherished for decades.

"Good," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Because I was nervous,  I think I waited way too many years for this."

He leaned in, his broad palm coming up to gently cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair as he pulled you into him. His lips met yours in a kiss that was slow, deep, and heavy with years of built-up longing, quiet heartbreak, and unspoken love. You slid your arms around his massive shoulders, pulling him as close as physically possible, while his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest on the poolside deck.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, resting his forehead against yours, he was breathing heavily. His thumb gently wipes your cheek before he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and then another long, lingering kiss to your lips.

"You're mine now," he hummed softly against your mouth, pulling you fully into his lap on the wooden deck. "No more lost numbers. No more 'just friends.' You're coming to Madrid whenever you can too, and I'm flying to the States whenever I get a break."

"Are you bossing me around already?" you giggled, burying your face into the warm crook of his neck as he wrapped his massive arms around you, holding you like he was never going to let go again.

"Yes," he murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making you shiver in his arms. "Absolute command. No buts"

Now, you are officially navigating the chaos of long-distance WAG life with Real Madrid's newest defender. Balancing your own demanding, locked-in career in the States with crazy time-zone differences, late-night FaceTime dates, and flying out to Spain on long weekends wasn't always simple. But every single time you landed at the airport in Madrid, walking out of the terminal to find Ibou leaning against his car with open arms, ready to lift you off your feet and kiss you like no time had ever passed—you knew this long, stubborn road back to each other had been worth every single second.

two years ago, only a month after you and michael had started dating, the two of you had walked past a small gift shop in london.

you had stopped in front of the window and pointed at a fluffy jellycat bunny sitting on a shelf.

“look at him.”

michael looked. “he looks sad,” he said without much conviction.

“he's cute.”

later that afternoon, after you had completely forgotten about it, he had disappeared into a shop while you were at a lingerie store.

when he came back, he had handed you a paper bag and inside sat the little bunny.

“you bought him!” you were nearly crying.

“yeah.”

“why?”

he had shrugged like spending 50 dollars on a plushie was completely normal. “you liked him.”

you had hugged both the bunny and michael immediately and it was how that had become a tradition. every month without fail michael will buy you one plushie.

after two years, there were plushies on shelves, on your bed, some sitting on the dresser and other lined up along the window.

later that evening michael came over and the second he entered your bedroom, his eyes landed on the newest addition sitting on your pillow.

a fluffy little bear he had bought the previous week.

he smiled automatically. “he looks happy.”

“he does. everyone is happy there.”

“that’s good.”

he sat beside you on the bed, immediately surrounded by approximately seventeen plushies. so many that one fell over when he sat. he picked it up and placed it upright again.

you watched him, smiling because after more than two years, he still remembered every month and showed up carrying a gift bag behind his back.

“you know this is insane?” you asked.

“yeah, probably.”

“there are so many,” you laughed. “where am i supposed to put future ones?”

“there,” he pointed toward an empty corner. “or i'll buy another shelf.”

he was completely hopeless. instead of saying that he won't buy plushies anymore, he just found another corner.

that made your heart flutter, nobody had ever paid attention to the little things the way michael did.

most people would have forgotten about a random plushie you pointed at in a shop window but michael had turned it into a tradition that lasted over two years.

every. single. month. of course without missing one. two years of your relationship sitting on shelves.

when you looked back at him, he was already watching you.

you smiled then leaned over and kissed his cheek and he immediately did an embarrassed expression.

you laughed at his face. “don't worry, i was just thinking i love you.”

his expression softened completely, it always did when you said things like that.

“next month’s plushie is already waiting,” it was his way of saying i love you too.

“you already bought it?”

“maybe.”

The fall semester in the States was a brutal mix of presentations, exams, and back-to-back internship shifts. Every time you sat in the library at ungodly hours of the night, staring at a stack of research papers, your mind kept drifting back to last summer—the month you’d spent in Europe, the late-night street food, sight seeing, the hours spent talking on balcony edges until sunrise.

Oh and, of course, Hugo.

Now across the pond, he was in Liverpool, doing what he did best. Playing Premier League football, living a flashy lifestyle surrounded by nice cars, night outs, and constant noise from the media. It was a world you had zero interest in being a part of. Neither of you had been looking for a relationship—you were laser-focused on building your own career, and he was living fast in the spotlight. A real relationship between you two made no sense. It would be toxic, messy, and completely impractical…you tried

Yet, you couldn't stop thinking about him, and deep down, you knew he was doing the exact same thing. You were like magnets—constantly pulling each other back in, even with thousands of miles lying between you.

Then came the second semester. As finals week approached, bringing the usual chaotic stacks of projects and exams, Hugo got an injury. It wasn't career-ending, but it meant no international duty for him that summer, no playing for his country, just mandatory rest.

His first text arrived on a Tuesday night. It started off completely innocent, just checking in on your finals. But within days, the banter turned serious, the unspoken tension revived, and before you even had time to fully process it, he sent a screenshot.

A flight confirmation to your airport in the States..oh

It was actually happening.

Finals ended, the Premier League wrapped up, and on a warm, sunlit summer morning, you woke up in your own room and turned over to see Hugo sleeping right next to you. Shit. It was completely unreal.

What followed was the most perfect summer ever. You kept things lowkey of course, quietly bringing him into your world. You took him to backyard cookouts and pool parties where he ate cheap burgers off paper plates, hit up local beaches, and hid in quiet bars to catch World Cup matches together. You guys even took a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, spending hazy, sun-drenhed days wandering around the island together.

It was everything you needed after the school year you just had, all with Hugo, all technically as "friends". Sometimes a little more. You enjoyed each other in the present, keeping it light and meaningful, being nice to each other ,sometimes too nice, without forcing a label on something that would only break under pressure.

When summer finally came to an end, it left a sour taste in your mouth. You could tell Hugo felt it, too. Neither of you liked the reality of saying goodbye. But a real relationship? A real real relationship? You didn't want a boyfriend, and it's clear he didn't need a girlfriend right now. It was too toxic to even attempt again, but being able to just enjoy each other's company while it lasted was fulfilling enough.

Preseason training was around the corner for him, and your upcoming fall classes were calling for you.

At the airport drop-off, the silence in the car was heavy. When it was time to say goodbye, you stepped into a hug. You both held on just a little longer than necessary—fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, he held his breath for a few extra seconds before pulling away.

No dramatic promises. No labels. Nothing