valarrtheyoungprince

Jace only said it because Valarr had been talking about you for twenty straight minutes.

Not talking about you in any meaningful sense, of course. Valarr would never admit to doing that. He was complaining. There was apparently a difference.

“She said she would be there by nine,” Valarr said, pulling tape around his wrist. “Then she arrived at nine twenty.”

Jace sat two lockers down, lacing his boots. “Tragic.”

“She knew we had recovery.”

“Perhaps she has a life.”

“She does have a life.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“There is no problem.”

Jace looked across the dressing room. Garlan had already lowered his head to hide a smile. Valarr continued wrapping the tape too tightly.

“She sent a message saying she was leaving the office. It takes twenty-five minutes from the office.”

“Maybe there was traffic.”

“There wasn’t.”

“You checked?”

Valarr did not answer.

Jace laughed under his breath. “You checked the traffic.”

“I was making sure nothing had happened.”

“Oh right, just because she was twenty minutes late.”

“She is never late.”

Garlan looked up. “She is late often.”

“Not when she is coming here.”

The certainty in Valarr’s voice made Jace pause.

There it was again. That unconscious claim. Not quite romantic enough for Valarr to recognize. Far too intimate for anyone else to mistake.

You were his best friend. Valarr said it constantly.

Whenever anyone asked who you were. Whenever photographs caught you leaving his apartment. Whenever a journalist questioned why you attended every match. Whenever one of the team teased him about the way he searched for you after scoring.

His best friend.

As though the phrase explained why he became impossible when you failed to answer. As though friendship naturally involved half your wardrobe living in his home and half of his living in yours. As though every man in Westeros looked at his closest friend the way Valarr looked at you.

Jace tied his boot and sat back. “She’s pretty.”

Valarr’s hands stopped. Only for a second.Then he pulled the tape harder.

"I know.”

Jace’s brows rose.

Valarr glanced at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You said it like you were informing me of something.”

“I was making an observation.”

“Why?”

Jace shrugged. “I have eyes.”

Valarr’s expression changed slightly. Not anger. Not yet. A tightening around the mouth. A new watchfulness.

“She is my best friend.”

Jace nodded solemnly. “I am aware.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“So why are you telling me she is pretty?”

Jace looked at Garlan. Garlan immediately stood. “I am not involved.”

“Oh no, you don't. You're already involved,” Jace said.

“I reject that.” He picked up his boots and moved to another part of the dressing room.

Jace turned back to Valarr. “I was thinking I might ask her out.”

Valarr stared at him. Jace nearly smiled.

The reaction was better than expected. The roll of tape remained caught between both hands.

“For what?”

Jace blinked. “Dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because people need food.”

Valarr’s eyes narrowed. “With everyone?”

“No.”

“With who?”

“With her.”

Valarr looked around as though Jace had left out an essential part of the sentence.

“And?”

“And me.”

“Alone?”

Jace had to bite the inside of his cheek. “Yes, Valarr. That is generally how a date works.”

The word settled between them. Valarr’s face emptied. Jace watched the realization move slowly through him.

Dinner.

You.

Jace.

Alone.

A date.

Valarr looked down at the tape. “She wouldn’t.”

Jace leaned back against his locker.

“She wouldn’t eat dinner?”

“She would not go out with you.”

“Why not?”

“You are not her type.”

Jace’s mouth twitched. “What is her type?”

Valarr opened his mouth. Stopped. Jace waited.

Valarr knew every man you had ever dated. He had hated all of them for entirely different reasons.

One had been too loud. One too quiet. One too ambitious. One insufficiently ambitious. One had worn too much cologne. Another had touched your back in a restaurant.

Valarr could describe everything you disliked. He could not explain what you liked without placing himself at the center of it.

“She doesn’t like footballers,” he said.

Jace laughed. “She has built her entire social life around footballers.”

“No, she tolerates footballers.”

“no, maybe a he tolerates you.”

“That is different.”

“How?”

Valarr looked at him. Jace could almost see the answer forming.

Because I am me.

Because she is mine.

Because she has always been beside me.

Instead, Valarr shoved the roll of tape into his locker. “She has work.”

“So do I.”

“She is busy.”

“I will ask when she is free.”

“You travel.”

“So does she.”

“She hates crowded restaurants.”

“I know quiet ones.”

“You don’t know what she likes.”

Jace smiled now. “Then give me her number. I’ll ask.”

Valarr’s head turned slowly.

“No.” The answer was immediate. Flat.

Jace crossed his arms. “No?”

“You do not need her number.”

“I do if I want to invite her somewhere.”

“You have social media.”

“I would rather not ask your best friend on a date through a public account like a sixteen-year-old.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened.

“You are not asking her on a date.”

Jace let the silence stretch.

“Why?”

“Because she isn’t interested.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it is true.”

“Did she tell you?”

“I know her.”

Jace laughed. That seemed to anger Valarr more.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You are laughing.”

“I am impressed.”

“With what?”

“With how completely you have convinced yourself this is normal.”

Valarr stood. “Give it a rest.”

Jace held up both hands. “Fine. Don’t give me the number. I’ll ask her myself.”

Valarr slammed his locker closed. The sound rang through the room. Several players looked over. Jace hid his smile by reaching for his water bottle.

The point had been made. Or so he thought.

He had expected Valarr to sulk for ten minutes. Perhaps snap at him during warmup. He had not expected the entire training session to become a prolonged act of violence disguised as football.

The first tackle came seven minutes into practice.

It was technically clean.

Technically.

Jace received the ball near the center circle and turned.

Valarr came through his side with enough force to send both of them skidding across the grass.

The whistle cut through the cold morning. Jace rolled onto his back. Valarr got up immediately and walked away.

Their coach shouted after him. “Targaryen!”

Valarr lifted one hand without turning. Jace sat up.

Garlan jogged over. “You created this.”

“I did not know he would attempt murder.”

Valarr glanced back. Jace smiled at him and that was a mistake.

The second tackle arrived twelve minutes later. This one was late. Not dangerously enough for the coach to end training. Late enough that Jace felt studs scrape the side of his boot.

He spun around. “What is wrong with you?”

Valarr walked backward, eyes cold. “Play faster.”

“I had released the ball.”

“Then move.” Jace stared.

Valarr turned away.

The third time, Jace was running into the box during an attacking drill.

Valarr was supposed to track the opposite midfielder.

Instead, he abandoned his position and shouldered Jace off the ball hard enough that the coach stopped the exercise.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Valarr picked up the ball and tossed it toward the assistant. “Defending.”

“You are on the same side.”

“He was in the way.”

Jace laughed in disbelief.

“I was making the run.”

“It was a bad run.”

“It was exactly the run we were told to make.”

Valarr looked at him.

“You telegraphed it.”

Jace stepped closer. “Are you going to behave like this every time I mention her?”

Valarr’s expression sharpened. “Mention who?”

Jace almost admired the audacity. “Your best friend.”

“Do not bring her into training.”

“You brought her into training when you tried to remove my ankle.”

“I only went for the the ball.”

“You nearly touched bone.”

Their coach moved between them. “That is enough.”

Valarr turned away first.

He jogged toward the next drill with the stiff, controlled movements of someone pretending not to be furious.

Jace watched him go.

Garlan came up beside him. “You should stop.”

“I have barely started.”

“You have proven the point.”

“No. He is jealous.”

“We knew that.”

“Well, he clearly does not.”

“He still will not know after this. He will decide you have an irritating face.”

Jace rubbed the side of his boot.

“He has always thought that.”

Across the pitch, Valarr looked over.

Jace waved.

Valarr turned away.

//

The cold shoulder began after practice.

Valarr stopped speaking to Jace unless football required it. Instead, he behaved as though Jace had ceased to exist. When Jace sat beside him at lunch, Valarr moved his plate. When Jace asked whether the team dinner began at seven or eight, Valarr answered Garlan, who had not asked. When Jace passed him in the corridor, Valarr looked through him.

It would have been more convincing if Valarr did not watch Jace every time you visited. You came to the training ground two days later to return the coat Valarr had left at your apartment.

Jace saw you first and crossed the lobby before Valarr emerged from the treatment room.

“Hello.” You smiled.

“Hi.”

Jace liked you. Not in the way he had implied to Valarr. He did think you were beautiful. Anyone with eyes did.

But mostly, he liked the way you never indulged the team’s egos. The way you spoke to Valarr as though he were still the boy who kicked footballs over your garden wall.

He took the coat from your arm. “Is that his?”

“He left it at mine.”

“Of course he did.”

You looked toward the corridor. “He said he was finishing treatment.”

“He’ll be out soon.” Jace glanced toward the closed door.

Then back at you. “I have been instructed to inform you that I am not your type.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“Valarr said so.”

Your expression shifted from confusion to understanding. “Oh.”

Only that. But your cheeks warmed.

Jace noticed. So did Valarr.

He had stepped into the corridor in time to see you smiling at Jace. Jace holding his coat. The two of you standing too close for Valarr’s liking, though by any reasonable standard you were not close at all.

Valarr crossed the lobby.

He took the coat directly from Jace’s hands. “You could have left it at reception.”

You looked at him. “A thank you would be nice.”

His gaze moved over your face. Then back to Jace. “What are you talking about?”

Jace opened his mouth. Valarr’s eyes warned him. You noticed that too.

“Apparently, I am not Jace’s type,” you said.

“The opposite,” Jace corrected. “He said I am not yours.”

Valarr’s jaw shifted.

You folded your arms. “And how would he know?”

“I do know.”

You looked at Valarr. “What is my type?”

The same question. Again, he had no answer that did not expose him. His eyes moved over you. Slowly.

Jace could practically hear the thoughts Valarr refused to speak.

Someone who knows you.

Someone who remembers your coffee.

Someone you can call at night.

Someone you already love.

Valarr looked away. “Not him.”

Jace laughed. Valarr’s gaze snapped toward him. You watched the exchange.

Suspicion entered your expression. “What is happening?”

“Nothing,” Valarr said.

“Valarr.”

“Jace has developed an interest in making himself irritating.”

“I asked whether he would give me your number.”

You blinked.

Valarr turned toward Jace. The coldness in his expression could have frozen the lobby windows.

“You already have her number.”

Jace did not. But the correction arrived too late.

You caught it. “Why were you asking him for it?”

Jace shrugged. “To ask you out.”

Valarr’s grip tightened around the coat. You looked at Jace. Then Valarr.

Jace watched you understand.

Not the joke.

The jealousy.

A faint smile touched your mouth. “Were you?”

“I was considering dinner.”

Valarr stepped closer. “You have plans.”

You turned toward him. “Do I?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

“With me.”

You tilted your head. “Where are you taking me?”

Jace bit the inside of his cheek again.

Valarr’s face betrayed the brief panic of a man who had invented plans and now had to create them in real time.

“Dinner.”

“Where?”

“The place you like.”

“Which place?”

“The—”

He stopped.

You waited.

Jace waited.

Valarr looked furious with both of you.

Finally, you rescued him. “You are behaving strangely.”

“I am not.”

Jace shook his head. “He told Garlan to tell me the water bottles were in the equipment room while I was standing beside him.”

Valarr looked at Jace. “No one asked you.”

You laughed. Valarr’s attention returned to you immediately. The sound softened something in him before he remembered why he was angry.

Jace saw it.

There. The entire point. Valarr could pretend all he liked, but your smallest reaction rearranged him.

Jace smiled. “I’ll ask you properly another time.”

Valarr’s expression darkened.

You looked amused. “I look forward to it.”

“You do not,” Valarr said.

Your eyes moved to him. “Would you stop answering for me?”

He went silent. Jace took pity on him. For now.

“I have a meeting,” he said. “Good to see you.”

He walked away. Valarr watched until he disappeared around the corner.

Then he turned back to you. “You are not going out with him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I was.”

“You said you looked forward to it.”

“I was teasing you.”

Valarr’s shoulders lowered slightly. You saw the relief.

Your expression changed. “Why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t.” The answer came too quickly.

You stared at him. Valarr held out the coat as though returning it to you might end the conversation.

“You brought this for me.”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

He leaned down to kiss your cheek.

Normal.

Familiar.

But his mouth landed closer to the corner of yours than usual.

Both of you stilled. Valarr pulled back. For a second, his eyes dropped to your lips.

Then he stepped away. “I have training.”

“You finished training.”

“Meeting.”

“Jace just said he has the meeting.”

“I have a different one.”

You looked unconvinced.

Valarr retreated down the corridor before you could ask anything else.

//

By match day, Valarr had convinced himself he had recovered.

Jace’s comment had been a joke. You had been teasing. Nothing had changed.

Then Jace passed you outside the players’ entrance before kickoff and stopped to speak. Valarr saw it from the team bus. You wore the scarf he had given you years ago. Jace leaned close to hear you over the crowd. You touched his arm while laughing.

Valarr’s entire body went rigid.

Garlan, sitting across the aisle, followed his stare. “No.”

Valarr did not look at him. “No what?”

“Whatever you are about to do.”

Valarr stood before the bus had fully stopped. The driver swore. The coach shouted his name. Valarr ignored both and stepped down.

By the time he reached the entrance, you had already gone inside. Jace remained near the barrier signing a child’s programme.

Valarr stopped beside him. “What did she say?”

Jace finished the autograph. “Good morning.”

“What did she say?”

“She wished me luck.”

“That is all?”

“She also said she liked my jacket.”

Valarr looked at the jacket.

It was ordinary. Ugly, in his opinion.

“You have worn that before.”

“Yes.”

“She has never commented.”

“Perhaps she only recently noticed how handsome I am.”

Valarr walked away.

Jace grinned after him.

The joke had gone too far.

He knew that.

He also knew Valarr deserved every second of discomfort.

//

During the match, Valarr refused to pass to him.

At first, it was subtle. Jace made a run down the right. Valarr turned inside instead.

The next time, Jace was open near the edge of the box. Valarr attempted a shot through two defenders. It was blocked.

Their manager shouted from the technical area. “Move the ball!”

Valarr lifted a hand.

Five minutes later, Jace intercepted possession and played it toward him. Valarr returned the pass to Garlan instead of sending Jace through on goal.

Jace stared at him. Valarr avoided his eyes.

By the thirty-fifth minute, it was no longer subtle. Jace stood completely open near the penalty spot.

Valarr saw him. Jace knew he saw him.

Valarr attempted an impossible cross toward the far post.

The ball went out.

The crowd groaned.

Jace walked toward him. “What are you doing?”

“Playing.”

“You are deliberately avoiding me.”

“You were marked.”

“There was no one within five yards.”

“You hesitated.”

“I was waiting for the pass.”

Valarr moved away. Jace caught his arm.

Valarr immediately pulled free. “Do not touch me.”

Jace laughed once in disbelief. “You are risking the match because I called her pretty.”

Valarr stepped closer. The referee looked toward them.

Jace lowered his voice. “This is pathetic.”

“Then stop talking.”

“You are the one who has not stopped thinking about it.”

Valarr’s eyes flashed. The referee warned them both to move. They separated.

United went into halftime scoreless.

In the dressing room, the manager tore into Valarr for ignoring the right side.

Valarr said nothing.

Jace watched him sit beneath the tactics board, jaw locked, eyes moving once toward the phone hidden in his locker.

You were in the stadium. Jace knew because he had seen you. Valarr knew because he had checked your seat during warmup. Yet he still looked unsettled. It was not enough that you were there. Valarr wanted to know who had your attention.

That was the part he had not yet understood.

//

The second half improved only because the manager threatened to substitute him.

Valarr passed to Jace twice. Both passes were unnecessarily hard. Jace controlled them anyway.

In the sixty-eighth minute, United won a corner. The clearance fell outside the box. Jace collected it and sent it back toward Valarr.

Valarr scored.

The crowd erupted.

His body turned toward your section automatically.

He found you.

You were standing.

Smiling.

Then someone beside you leaned over the barrier. Jace’s younger brother, Lucerys had brought you down near the family area. You looked toward the pitch and pointed at Jace.

It was probably nothing.

Perhaps you were acknowledging the assist.

Perhaps you were simply speaking to someone beside you.

Valarr saw only your smile connected to Jace’s name.

His celebration faltered.

Jace reached him first. “You’re welcome.”

Valarr shoved his shoulder away.

Not hard enough to draw the referee.

Hard enough that Jace stopped smiling. “What is your problem?”

“Nothing.”

“You just scored.”

“I know.”

“And you look furious.”

Valarr turned back toward halfway. Jace followed. The rest of the match passed in brittle silence.

United won one-nil.

The moment the whistle blew, Valarr went looking for you.

He found you near the tunnel speaking to Jace. Again.

Jace had one hand resting against the wall beside your shoulder. Not touching you.

Close enough.

You were laughing. Valarr’s vision narrowed.

He crossed the corridor. “What are you doing?”

You both turned. Your smile faded.

Jace looked almost bored. “Talking.”

“To her?”

You stared at Valarr.

“Yes,” Jace said slowly. “That is generally how talking works.”

Valarr ignored him. “You were waiting for me.”

“I am waiting for you.”

“Then why are you with him?” The question came sharper than he intended.

Your expression closed. “I’m allowed to speak to your teammates.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You are acting like it.” Jace watched Valarr’s face.

The adrenaline. The jealousy. The panic hidden beneath both.

Valarr looked at him. “You need to go.”

Jace’s eyebrows rose.

“She does not need you to dismiss people for her.”

“I am speaking to you.”

“I know.”

“Then go.”

You stepped between the words before they became something worse. “Valarr, stop.”

The sound of your voice should have calmed him.

Usually, it did.

This time, hearing you defend Jace only sharpened everything.

“Did he ask you out?”

You stared.

Jace looked at the ceiling. “Are you serious?”

Valarr did not look away from you. “Did he?”

“No.”

“Were you waiting for him to?”

Your face changed.

Hurt first.

Then anger.

Jace stepped forward. “All right. Enough.”

Valarr turned on him. “You started this.”

“Yes.” Jace’s voice became flat.

“I made a joke because I was tired of watching you call her your best friend while behaving like every man who looks at her is stealing something from you.”

The corridor went silent.

You looked at Jace.

Then Valarr.

Valarr’s chest rose and fell.

“I am not—”

“You tackled me three times in training.”

“That was football.”

“You refused to pass to me during a league match.”

“You were not in position.”

“I asked for her number and you behaved like I requested a key to your house.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened.

Jace stepped closer. “I said she was pretty and you have barely spoken to me for a week.”

Valarr glanced toward you.

You were watching him now. Really watching. Every reaction Jace listed reflected in your face.

Jace continued, quieter. “I do not want to date her.”

Valarr went still.

You blinked.

Jace looked at you apologetically. “You are beautiful. And I would absolutely buy you dinner if you wanted one. But I said it because I wanted to see what he would do.”

You folded your arms. “And?”

Jace looked toward Valarr. “This.”

Valarr’s face hardened. “You think this proves something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

Jace almost laughed, but there was no humor left in it “Think about how much it affected you.”

Valarr said nothing.

“You could not train properly. You could not play properly. You could not watch us have a two-minute conversation without storming over here.”

Jace gestured toward you. “She has not agreed to anything. I have not touched her. Nothing has happened.”

His eyes held Valarr’s. “And you have been losing your mind over the possibility.”

Valarr’s breathing slowed. Not because he was calmer. Because the words had reached somewhere deeper.

Jace stepped back. “So ask yourself why.”

Valarr looked at you. You stood only a few feet away. The same scarf. The same familiar face he searched for after every match.

Nothing about you had changed.

Only the possibility that you might turn toward someone else. The thought had corrupted an entire week. Made him reckless.

Petty.

Furious.

Afraid.

His gaze moved to your mouth.

Then your hands.

Then back to your eyes.

You looked uncertain now.

Almost hopeful.

That frightened him more than Jace’s joke had.

“Valarr?” you said.

He had heard you say his name thousands of times.

This time it sounded like a question he could no longer avoid.

Jace walked away.

Neither of you stopped him.

Valarr remained in the corridor with the match still burning through his body and the truth beginning to take shape.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But enough.

You were not simply his best friend.

By the time Valarr Targaryen looked toward your seat for the fifth time, the stadium had already begun chanting his name.

Seventy thousand voices rolled down from the stands in violent, rhythmic waves.

Val-arr. Val-arr. Val-arr.

Floodlights burned white against the November dark. The pitch shone beneath them, cut into pristine stripes and wet enough that the studs of his boots left brief black wounds in the grass. Camera operators moved along the touchline with lenses trained on him. The giant screens above the north stand displayed his face in ruthless clarity: light brown hair sleeked back with water and gel, mouth set in concentration, the sharp planes of his features made even more striking by the black and red of King’s Landing United.

The commentators were already speaking about him.

They always were.

The most expensive forward in Westeros football.

The golden boy.

The player who had transformed United’s attack within a single season.

The man who had scored in six consecutive matches and carried the club through an injury crisis with the kind of composure pundits liked to call inevitable.

Valarr heard none of it.

He was staring at an empty seat.

Section 112. Row F. Seat 18.

Your usual place.

His gaze moved away only when the assistant coach shouted his name.

“Valarr.”

He turned.

“You listening?”

“Of course.”

The coach’s expression suggested otherwise.

Around him, his teammates stretched, exchanged short passes, adjusted tape, and performed the private rituals footballers claimed were not superstition. Jace Velaryon bounced twice on his toes before every kickoff. Daven Lannister retied his right boot even when the laces were already tight. Garlan Tyrell touched the grass and then his chest.

Valarr rubbed his thumb beneath the white tape around his left wrist.

The thin thread hidden under it had been worn smooth over the years. Once, it had been red and black. Now it was faded to something between rust and brown, the knots tightened by sweat, rain, blood, and repeated repair.

The sponsorship representative hated it.

The club’s kit manager had once suggested replacing it with a clean replica.

Valarr had stared at him until he stopped speaking.

His fingers found the smallest knot.

Still there.

You were not.

The final warmup began.

Players moved through sharp passing patterns while the stadium announcer read the lineups. Valarr collected the ball at his feet, opened his body, and sent it toward Garlan with enough force that the midfielder had to step backward to control it.

“Easy,” Garlan muttered.

Valarr ignored him.

He looked toward the tunnel.

No sign of you.

You were always late by precisely enough to annoy him and never late enough to miss kickoff. You complained that his stadium security made attending a match feel like entering a foreign embassy. You refused the private entrance he had arranged because, according to you, walking through the ordinary gates was part of the experience.

He had told you that being crushed against thousands of drunk supporters should not constitute an experience.

You had told him to stop being dramatic.

Then you had arrived at your seat with seven minutes to spare and waved at him as though you had not left him checking the tunnel every thirty seconds.

Tonight, kickoff was three minutes away.

Your seat remained empty.

A ball struck his ankle and Valarr looked down.

Jace stood several feet away, hands on his hips. “She coming?”

Valarr trapped the ball beneath his boot.

“I don’t know.” The answer came out sharper than he intended.

Jace lifted both eyebrows.

“All right.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’ve looked at her seat more times than you’ve looked at the opposition.”

“I’m checking the stand.”

“For structural damage?”

Valarr sent the ball back hard enough that Jace caught it against his shin with a curse.

“Fuck off.”

Jace grinned and jogged away.

The players were called toward the center circle.

Valarr took his place beside the opposing captain. The referee performed the coin toss. The crowd rose louder, scarves lifted above heads, flashes of red and black filling the stands.

He looked once more.

Empty.

His jaw tightened.

The whistle blew.

For the first ten minutes, he told himself it made no difference.

You were not part of the tactical plan.

You were not responsible for the opposing back line, the narrow press, or the way Storm’s End had crowded the midfield. You had nothing to do with his first touch or the timing of his runs.

He knew that.

He had played finals in foreign countries with hostile crowds screaming abuse every time he neared the ball. He had played through ankle pain, fever, transfer speculation, family scandals, and the anniversary of his grandfather’s death. He had scored penalties while entire stadiums prayed he would miss.

One empty seat should not matter.

In the twelfth minute, he mistimed a run and was caught offside.

In the seventeenth, he lost possession near the halfway line and Storm’s End broke on the counter.

In the twenty-third, he shot from an impossible angle instead of passing to Garlan, who had acres of space inside the box.

Garlan threw out his arms.

Valarr turned away.

The manager shouted from the technical area.

“Keep the width, Targaryen!” Valarr did not acknowledge him.

In the thirty-first minute, the referee ignored a challenge at the edge of the penalty area.

Valarr spun around. “That’s a foul.”

The referee jogged backward. “Play on.”

“He took my leg.”

“You stayed on your feet.”

“So I’m punished for not falling?”

“Enough.”

Valarr followed him for several steps. “That’s twice now.”

A hand caught the back of his shirt. Jace pulled him away before the referee could reach for a card.

“Stop.”

“He’s blind.”

“He’s reaching for his pocket.”

“Then he can book me.”

“He will.”

Valarr dragged his shirt free.

The crowd had shifted. He could feel it in the low, uneasy noise spreading through the stands. United supporters adored him, but their adoration came with expectations. They knew what he looked like when he was about to take over a match.

They also knew what he looked like when something had crawled beneath his skin.

Tonight, he was visibly unraveling.

The ball went out of play near the west stand. While Storm’s End prepared for the throw-in, Valarr turned toward Section 112 again.

Empty.

He rubbed his wrist.

A memory pressed at the edge of his thoughts—rainwater dripping from a corrugated academy roof, cold hands fumbling with thread, your mouth pinched in concentration—but he pushed it away before it could fully form.

Not now.

//

The first half ended scoreless.

Valarr walked into the tunnel without looking toward the stands again. The dressing room door had barely shut before the manager began shouting.

“You’re dropping too deep, forcing the pass, and pressing without the rest of the line.”

Valarr sat at his place and began loosening his boot. “I know.”

“You know?”

“I said I know.”

The room went quiet.

His manager, Harrold Westerling, had coached football longer than Valarr had been alive. He was one of the few people in the club who did not care about Valarr’s salary, family name, endorsements, or market value.

He stepped closer. “Then fix it.”

Valarr pulled off the boot and dropped it to the floor.

Westerling continued through the tactical adjustments. Storm’s End’s right-back was carrying an injury. Their central midfielder had begun sitting too deep. United needed faster switches of play and more patience around the box.

Valarr listened this time.

Mostly.

His phone was locked in the equipment cabinet with the others. He could not check whether you had messaged him.

You might be ill.

There might have been trouble at work.

Your train could have stopped.

You might have decided not to come.

That possibility bothered him most.

Not because you owed him attendance. He knew you did not. He had told you so repeatedly, especially after you accused him of behaving as if the fixture list should determine your entire calendar.

But this was the quarterfinal.

You knew what it meant.

You knew how badly he wanted the Westeros Cup. You knew he had watched the tournament as a child from the hallway outside his father’s study because football had not been allowed during family dinners. You knew he had kept a torn photograph of the trophy inside his academy locker.

You had never missed a Westeros knockout match.

Until tonight.

Jace dropped onto the bench beside him. “You’re being weird.”

Valarr took the fresh shirt offered by the kit assistant. “I’m fine.”

“You nearly got booked arguing over a shoulder challenge.”

“It was a foul.”

“It was barely contact.”

Valarr pulled the shirt over his head.

Jace lowered his voice. “Did you two fight?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Valarr gave him a flat look.

Jace held up his hands. “Fine. None of my business.”

“It isn’t.”

“Though if she doesn’t show up, perhaps tell your face.”

Valarr looked away before he could say something that would turn into a dressing-room story repeated for months.

The second half began with United playing toward the south stand.

Valarr forced himself back into the match.

He stayed higher. He stopped chasing the ball into midfield. He played one-touch passes and waited for the spaces Westerling had promised would open.

United improved.

Still, something in him remained wound too tightly.

In the fifty-third minute, Garlan won the ball near the center circle and drove forward. Valarr moved between the center-backs. The pass came early, bending behind the defensive line.

He reached it.

One touch to settle.

Another to shift onto his right foot.

The goalkeeper rushed.

Valarr struck low toward the far corner.

The shot went inches wide.

The stadium groaned.

He stood inside the box, hands on his hips, and tipped his head back.

Then, before turning toward midfield, he looked toward Section 112.

Someone was moving along Row F.

You.

You were half bent as you apologized your way past the seated supporters, coat unbuttoned, hair windblown, one hand clutching your bag against your body. A steward leaned down to point toward your seat. You nodded, breathless, and continued shuffling sideways.

Valarr stopped walking.

The noise of the stadium seemed to recede for one impossible second.

You reached Seat 18 and sat. Then, as if you could feel him looking, you lifted your head. Your eyes found him. They always did.

You raised one hand in apology.

Valarr stared.

Your face was flushed from running. A strand of hair had caught against your mouth. You brushed it away and mouthed something he could not hear from the pitch.

Sorry.

His lungs unlocked.

Jace passed him on the way back toward the halfway line.

“There she is.”

Valarr shoved his shoulder.

Not hard.

Jace laughed.

The game restarted.

Everything sharpened.

The space between defenders. The movement of Garlan’s hips before he passed. The moment Storm’s End’s midfielder turned his head and lost sight of the runner behind him.

Valarr’s shoulders lowered. His breathing steadied.

In the fifty-eighth minute, he received the ball with his back to goal, rolled away from one defender, and drew a foul.

In the sixty-first, he flicked a pass through two players and sent Jace into the box.

In the sixty-fourth, he nearly scored from the resulting corner.

United pressed higher.

Storm’s End began retreating.

The goal came in the sixty-ninth minute.

Garlan took possession on the left and drove inward. Valarr started toward the near post, dragging the center-back with him, then stopped abruptly and cut behind.

Garlan saw him.

The pass arrived between three defenders.

Valarr met it first time.

The sound of his boot striking the ball was clean and hard, almost lost beneath the roar that followed.

The shot rose beyond the goalkeeper’s hand and hit the underside of the crossbar before crossing the line.

For half a heartbeat, the entire stadium inhaled.

Then it detonated.

Valarr wheeled away from goal.

Garlan ran toward him with both arms spread. Jace was shouting. The supporters behind the net surged against the barriers, scarves and fists lifted into the night.

Valarr ignored all of them.

He turned toward Section 112.

He found you among thousands. Your hands were pressed over your mouth. His teammates were nearly on him when he raised his left hand.

He tapped two fingers against his heart.

Once.

Then pointed directly at you.

The stadium screamed louder.

You lowered your eyes.

You always did.

Around you, supporters grabbed one another, yelling about the famous celebration, the mystery person, the ritual Valarr Targaryen had performed after important goals since his first senior season.

The commentators would be discussing it again.

They would slow the footage down.

They would trace the angle of his arm and speculate about where he had pointed.

They would ask whether it was for his mother, his late grandfather, a private sponsor, an old coach, a superstition, a secret lover.

You knew the truth.

Valarr had told it to you once in the rain, when he was sixteen and furious with the world.

The first one is always yours.

But the memory did not arrive fully.

Not yet.

His teammates crashed into him.

Garlan hooked an arm around his neck. Jace struck the back of his head with an open palm.

“Now can you play football?”

Valarr shoved him off, laughing despite himself.

As they jogged back to the center circle, he glanced at you again.

You were still watching him.

This time, you did not look away.

//

United won two-nil.

Valarr scored the first and assisted the second, a low cutback Jace tapped in from six yards. By the final whistle, the bad first half had become little more than a talking point for the post-match analysts.

The cameras followed Valarr off the pitch. A presenter intercepted him near the tunnel.

“Valarr, difficult opening forty-five minutes, but a very different performance after the break. What changed?”

He glanced toward the stand. You were no longer in your seat.

“Adjusted our shape,” he answered.

The presenter smiled. “Your manager’s instructions?”

“Among other things.”

“And that celebration again. The supporters are desperate to know who you’re pointing to.”

Valarr accepted the player-of-the-match award from an assistant.

“They’ve been desperate for years.”

“Will you finally tell us?”

“No.”

He said it with enough charm that the presenter laughed rather than pushed.

“Someone special?”

Valarr’s grip tightened briefly around the small glass trophy.

“Yes.”

The word left before he could reconsider it.

The presenter’s eyebrows rose.

Behind the camera, a producer made an excited gesture.

Valarr corrected too late.

“A supporter.”

“One particular supporter?”

“The interview’s about the match, isn’t it?”

He smiled then—the polished one, easy and bright, the expression used in advertisements and press conferences when he wanted to reveal nothing.

You would recognize it immediately.

The presenter moved on to the quarterfinal draw. Valarr answered without listening to himself. When the interview ended, he walked down the tunnel, passed the mixed zone, and ignored three reporters calling his name.

His phone waited in his locker. The moment he unlocked it, he saw six messages from you.

I’m sorry.

The train stopped outside Blackwater.

I know you’re going to be unbearable about this.

You looked furious.

Good goal.

Then, sent three minutes later:

Very good goal.

Valarr sat down on the bench.

He typed:

Where are you?

The reply came immediately.

Hospitality corridor. They won’t let me downstairs because apparently my pass is wrong.

His head lifted.

He stood so quickly that the player beside him had to pull his legs out of the way.

“Where are you going?” Jace asked.

Valarr grabbed a sweatshirt.

“To sort something.”

Jace looked at the phone in his hand and made an exaggerated kissing sound.

Two other players joined in.

Valarr did not bother responding.

He left before they could see him smile.

//

You were arguing politely with a security guard when Valarr found you.

You had buttoned your coat now, though one side was fastened incorrectly. Your hair was still disordered from the wind. There were damp marks along the hem of your trousers, and one of your shoelaces had come undone.

“You’re not listening,” you were saying. “I’ve had this pass for months.”

“It’s showing as restricted access.”

“It has never shown as restricted access before.”

“I can’t override the system.”

“You don’t need to override it. You need to look at the name.”

“Names don’t determine access.”

“This one might.”

The guard saw Valarr first.

His entire posture changed.

“Mr. Targaryen.”

You turned.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke.

Valarr had showered quickly. His hair was damp, the ends curling slightly at his neck. He wore black training trousers and a club sweatshirt, the hood flattened against his back. The white tape remained around his wrist.

There was a red mark along his jaw where another player’s shoulder had caught him.

Your eyes went to it before his face.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re late,” he said.

You looked at him.

“Hello to you too.”

“You missed the first half.”

“I noticed.”

“You could have called.”

“I was underground.”

“You could have called before.”

“I did not know the train planned to stop for forty minutes.”

His gaze moved over you again, quick and searching, as though confirming you had arrived intact.

“Why is your coat buttoned like that?”

You looked down.

“It isn’t.”

“It is.”

He stepped closer and began undoing the buttons.

The security guard looked away.

You caught Valarr’s wrist.

“I can dress myself.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

“You have just played ninety minutes of football. Surely you have something else to do.”

“No.”

“You have interviews.”

“Finished.”

“Recovery.”

“Later.”

“A team meeting.”

“Tomorrow.”

“You always have something.”

Valarr corrected the alignment of your coat and fastened the buttons properly. His fingers moved with the ease of someone who had touched your clothing a thousand times. He brushed a piece of lint from your collar and then, with the same absent familiarity, tucked the loose strand of hair behind your ear.

The gesture lasted half a second too long.

Your hand fell from his wrist.

His eyes met yours.

The corridor seemed suddenly narrow.

Valarr stepped back first.

“Your pass,” he said to the guard.

The man handed it over immediately. Valarr examined the card. The access strip had expired two days earlier.

He frowned. “I told them to renew this for the season.”

“I can issue a temporary pass,” the guard said.

“It should be permanent.”

You reached for it. “It doesn’t matter.”

Valarr moved the pass out of reach. “It does.”

“Not everything needs to become an international incident.”

“You were standing in a corridor arguing with security.”

“I was handling it.”

“You call that handling it?”

“I had almost worn him down.”

The guard coughed into his fist.

Valarr finally gave you the pass, though his expression promised someone in administration would receive an unpleasant call before morning.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“Inside.”

“I should go home.”

“No.”

You stared at him.

“No?”

“You owe me dinner.”

“For what?”

“Arriving after halftime.”

“I crossed half the city to get here.”

“You missed my worst half of the season.”

“Perhaps I was protecting my peace.”

His mouth twitched. Then his gaze sharpened again. “Why didn’t you tell me the train had stopped?”

“You were playing.”

“I wasn’t playing before kickoff.”

“You were preparing.”

“You still could have told me.”

The frustration in his voice was disproportionate enough that you glanced toward the guard.

Valarr saw the glance and lowered his tone.

“I thought something happened.”

Something shifted inside you. “You thought something happened?”

“You weren’t there.”

“That is not usually considered an emergency.”

“For you, perhaps.”

The words settled between you.

Valarr looked away.

From farther down the corridor came the sound of approaching staff members and rolling equipment cases. The private stillness broke.

You bent to retie your shoelace.

Valarr moved before you could.

He crouched in front of you, one knee against the concrete floor, and caught the loose laces between his fingers.

You froze. “Valarr.”

“You’ll trip.”

“I am capable of tying my shoe.”

“You said that about the coat.”

Several club employees passed.

One smiled.

Another looked at you, then at Valarr kneeling at your feet, and quickly hid her expression.

Heat climbed your neck.

Valarr double-knotted the lace.

He had done the same thing when you were nine after you had fallen running behind him through the gardens. He had complained the entire time about your inability to keep up, then slowed his pace for the rest of the afternoon.

The memory arrived so briefly that you almost missed it.

Mud on his knees.

Grass stains on your palms.

A football disappearing over the estate wall.

His voice shouting your name from the other side.

Valarr stood.

“You’re staring.”

“I’m remembering how insufferable you were as a child.”

“Were?”

“You’ve grown worse.”

His hand settled at the small of your back as another equipment case rolled past. He guided you toward the dressing-room corridor without thinking.

You let him.

That was the problem.

You had been letting him for years.

//

The players’ dining room had mostly emptied by the time Valarr brought you inside.

A nutritionist had left covered plates under heat lamps. Recovery drinks stood in neat rows along the counter. Two televisions replayed match highlights without sound.

You sat at a table near the windows while Valarr disappeared into the kitchen area.

“You are not supposed to serve yourself,” you called.

“I work here.”

“That is not how professional kitchens operate.”

He returned carrying two plates.

One held grilled chicken, rice, vegetables, and the exact sauce he always claimed tasted like medicinal herbs.

The other held pasta.

He placed the pasta in front of you.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You texted me at noon complaining that a meeting ran through lunch.”

You looked up. “You remembered that?”

Valarr pulled out the chair beside yours rather than the one across from you.

“I remember things.”

“Only when they concern you.”

“That meeting didn’t concern me.”

“You complained through the entire voice note that I might miss kickoff.”

“That concerned me.” You tried not to smile.

He took your fork, twisted pasta around it, and held it toward you.

You stared at him. “Absolutely not.”

“Eat.”

“I am not five.”

“You’re behaving like it.”

“So are you.”

Valarr ate the forkful himself.

You reached for the utensil.

He moved it away.

“Say the goal was good.”

“I already did.”

“You said good. Then very good.”

“That is generous praise.”

“It went off the crossbar.”

“Almost missed.”

His eyes narrowed.

You took the fork from his hand while he was distracted.

“The second-half movement was better,” you said.

Valarr leaned back.

“Better.”

“You kept dropping too deep in the first half.”

He was silent.

You looked at him.

“What?”

“That’s what Westerling said.”

“Westerling is very intelligent.”

“You think you’re funny.”

“I think you were trying to force the match.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

Valarr stabbed at his rice.

You watched him for a moment.

“Were you angry because I was late?”

“No.”

“Valarr.”

“I wasn’t angry.”

“You argued with the referee for two minutes.”

“He was incompetent.”

“You ignored three overlaps.”

“The timing was wrong.”

“You shot when Garlan was open.”

“He would have missed.”

On the screen, the broadcast replayed his goal. The camera followed him as he turned away from his teammates and pointed toward the crowd.

Your eyes moved to the television.

Valarr’s did not.

He was watching you.

“You still do it,” you said quietly.

“What?”

“You know what.” He looked toward the screen at last.

The replay changed to a close view of his face after the goal, fierce and bright with adrenaline.

He reached under the table and rested his hand on your knee. It might have been accidental if he had not done it so often.

At restaurants when photographers appeared.

In cars when traffic became unbearable.

During family dinners when his father began discussing the business.

Under hospital lights while waiting for scans.

His palm was warm through the fabric of your trousers. His thumb moved once, an absent stroke near the inside of your knee.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asked.

You swallowed.

Because you date women whose photographs appear beside yours in magazines.

Because the commentators call it a mystery and you let them.

Because each time you point at me, I remember being sixteen and cold and stupidly in love with you.

Because I do not know how much longer I can pretend it means less than it does.

Instead, you said, “People are beginning to think you’re in a cult.”

“That would improve my reputation.”

“You are already worshipped by half the country.”

“The wrong half.”

His hand remained on your knee.

The door opened behind you.

Jace entered with Garlan and two members of the coaching staff. He spotted the two of you and smiled slowly.

“There they are.”

Valarr did not remove his hand.

You did.

You reached for your glass as casually as possible.

Jace came to the table.

“Nice of you to arrive.”

“I was delayed.”

“You should have seen him.”

Valarr looked up. “Velaryon.”

“What? She deserves to know.”

“Know what?”

Jace pulled out the chair across from you. “He spent the entire first half playing like someone had stolen his dog.”

“I did not.”

“He nearly fought the referee.”

“The referee deserved it.”

“He asked the assistant manager during warmup whether the hospitality entrances had changed.”

Your gaze moved to Valarr.

Valarr stared at Jace with open threat.

Jace continued cheerfully. “Then you arrived, and suddenly he remembered he’s the best player in Westeros.”

“I was adjusting to the match.”

“Of course.”

Garlan sat beside Jace.

“To be fair, we all noticed.”

Valarr pushed back from the table.

“Do either of you have somewhere else to be?”

“No,” Jace said. “Team bus leaves in twenty minutes.”

“I’m not taking the bus.”

“You never do when she’s here.”

A small silence followed.

Not awkward. Worse.

Knowing.

You gathered your coat from the back of the chair.

“I should leave.”

Valarr stood immediately.

“I’ll drive you.”

“You have recovery.”

“I’ll do it at home.”

“You should go with the team.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You do.”

His expression changed.

You knew every version of his face.

The public smile.

The arrogant tilt of his mouth after scoring.

The cold stillness he used with executives.

The fury that tightened his jaw after a defeat.

This was something quieter.

The look he gave you whenever you placed distance where he had not expected it.

“You’re leaving?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s late.”

“You always stay after Westeros matches.”

“I have work in the morning.”

“You had work this morning.”

“That is generally how employment functions.”

“I’ll stay at yours.”

The words came easily, without hesitation or request.

Jace looked down at the table. Garlan became very interested in his recovery drink.

You tightened your hold on the coat. “You have your own apartment.”

“It’s forty minutes from here.”

“Mine is thirty-five.”

“Exactly.”

“That is not an argument.”

“I sleep better at yours.”

No one spoke.

Valarr seemed unaware of what he had admitted.

Or perhaps only unaware of how it sounded.

You looked at him.

He looked back, impatience beginning to edge his expression, as if the conclusion were obvious and you were deliberately refusing to see it.

You knew what would happen if you agreed.

He would follow you home.

He would drop his training bag beside the door, though you had asked him a hundred times not to block the entrance. He would shower in your bathroom and leave a towel on the floor. He would wear the old grey shirt he kept in your wardrobe and complain there was nothing to eat while opening cupboards he knew as well as you did.

He would lie across your sofa with his head in your lap.

He would fall asleep while you answered emails.

At some point in the night, he would reach for you without waking.

You would remain still, because moving away always felt crueler than letting him hold you.

In the morning, he would steal your coffee and kiss your temple as though it meant nothing.

Then he would leave for training.

And you would spend the rest of the day trying to remember that friendship was enough.

“I have an early meeting,” you said.

“I’ll be quiet.”

“You’re never quiet.”

“I can be.”

“You talk in your sleep after matches.”

“I do not.”

“You were giving tactical instructions to my sofa cushions last time.”

Jace covered a laugh with a cough.

Valarr ignored him.

“I won’t bother you.”

That was not possible.

He had been bothering you since childhood.

First by kicking footballs over a garden wall.

Then by waiting on the other side until you returned them.

Then by becoming the one person in your life you had never learned how to refuse.

You exhaled.

“One night.”

His shoulders loosened.

The change was small enough that no one who did not know him would have seen it.

Everyone at the table saw it. Jace looked at Garlan. Garlan looked at the ceiling.

Valarr took your coat from your hands and held it open for you. You slid your arms into the sleeves. His fingers settled briefly at the back of your neck, brushing beneath your hair as he adjusted the collar.

“Good,” he said.

Like he had won something.

Perhaps he had.

//

He fell asleep in the car.

Valarr’s driver took the river road while rain streaked the windows and the city moved around you in blurred reflections. Valarr sat beside you in the back seat, knees spread because he had never learned how to occupy a reasonable amount of space.

For the first ten minutes, he answered messages from his agent.

Then the phone slipped lower in his hand.

His head tipped toward the window.

You watched him fight sleep with the same stubbornness he brought to everything else.

“You can close your eyes,” you said.

“I’m awake.”

“You are not.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Oh right, and your thinking has begun to snore.”

His eyes opened.

“I don’t snore.”

“You do after night matches.”

He looked offended.

Then he shifted closer.

His head came down on your shoulder.

The movement was so practiced that neither of you acknowledged it.

His hair was still slightly damp. You could smell his shampoo beneath the clean, sharp scent of the club soap. His body remained warm from exertion, even through the sweatshirt.

You stared out the window.

Valarr’s hand rested on the seat between you. His fingers flexed once. Then found yours. He did not lace them together. He simply curled his hand around two of your fingers, as though checking that you were there.

Within minutes, his breathing deepened.

The city passed.

You looked down.

The tape at his wrist had loosened near the edge. Beneath it, a faded thread showed against his skin.

You touched it lightly.

Rain struck the windows.

For one moment, it was not rain against glass but rain against the roof of an academy shelter years earlier.

Valarr at sixteen, soaked through and pretending he was not afraid.

You sitting beside him with red and black thread wrapped around your fingers.

His trial the next morning.

His family refusing to attend.

His knee bouncing restlessly beneath the bench.

You tying the bracelet around his wrist.

He had looked down at it with disdain.

“What is this?”

“Protection.”

“It’s thread.”

“Very observant.”

“It looks childish.”

“So do you when you sulk.”

“I’m not wearing this.”

“You are.”

“Why?”

“Because I made it.”

“That is not a reason.”

“It is the only reason you’re getting.”

He had complained until the knot was secure. Then he had held his wrist beneath the weak academy light and turned it once, studying the colors.

The next morning, you saw it beneath his sleeve before he stepped onto the pitch. He never removed it again.

Valarr shifted in his sleep. His fingers tightened around yours.

The memory dissolved.

You looked at his face, softened by exhaustion.

The red mark on his jaw would bruise by morning. There was tension between his brows even in sleep. He had played ninety minutes, scored, faced cameras, answered questions, and stood beneath the weight of thousands of expectations.

Now he slept against you like the boy who used to climb through your bedroom window after fights with his father.

The driver turned onto your street.

You should have woken him. You did not.

For another minute, you let yourself remain still beneath the familiar weight of him.

Then Valarr murmured your name in his sleep.

Not loudly.

Not clearly.

But with the certainty of someone reaching for the one thing he expected to find.

Your chest tightened.

You turned your face toward the dark window before he could wake and see it.

Outside, the city continued moving.

Inside the car, his hand remained wrapped around yours.

And beneath the loosening tape at his wrist, the old thread bracelet held.

//