Chapter Text
Cars, trucks, buses, and other large vehicles sped by under the watchful eye of Jude Bellingham, Borussia Dortmund's brand-new midfielder. He was sitting in a reclining, coffee-colored leather seat inside the bus that was taking him to Duisburg; the seat next to him was empty. He had just been signed by the team for the modest sum of £23 million. Quite remarkable for a kid of just seventeen.
It certainly wasn't the first match he had ever played, nor was it his first time being part of a group. Yet, it always felt the same leaving one team for another; just as he had gotten used to his teammates, he was already being sold and moved on. Not that he could complain, of course—that is simply the world of football.
Nevertheless, this was his very first match for Borussia Dortmund, and it would be against Duisburg. He was well aware that he was in a squad packed with sensational players like Mats Hummels, Marco Reus, and the Norwegian Erling Haaland, and he certainly wanted to make a good impression.
Completely lost in his music, he didn't realize someone was trying to talk to him until a hand gently touched his shoulder. Jude snapped his head around, and the hand retracted as if it had been burned. He immediately pulled the earbuds out of his ears and took a long look at the boy standing right in front of him. It was impossible not to recognize him.
Erling Haaland.
The Norwegian striker who struck fear into his opponents with his incredible, towering stature alone.
“Jude, do you want to come with us?” Erling said in a gentle tone that contrasted sharply with his threatening figure.
“No, thank you… I prefer sitting here.”
“Oh… sure.”
Haaland seemed almost hurt by the rejection, but he didn’t leave.
“Can I sit next to you? I don’t want to see you alone for the whole trip.”
A long silence followed before Jude realized what he was being asked and nodded slowly.
Haaland hesitated for just a moment before sitting down next to him. It was clear that he was trying to start a conversation, but it wasn’t very easy.
“Your English is perfect. Impressive. You’re Norwegian, aren’t you?” Jude finally said something , breaking the embarrassing silence. Even though it was a pretty stupid question—he knew perfectly well that Erling was Norwegian. I mean, who didn't?
Erling grinned, then replied, “Exactly. You’re well-informed, Bellingham.”
Jude felt himself blush for some stupid reason. “Yeah—I mean, you’re pretty famous, so you know...” His words stumbled over each other; he felt so fucking stupid.
Haaland cracked a smile, curving his pink lips upward, and simply nodded.
The conversation stopped there, and the rest of the trip went by quietly. Jude put his earbuds back in, while Haaland used his phone to send some messages and play mobile games.
Then, the bus stopped.
They had arrived.
Erling and Jude grabbed their phones and headphones before getting up and leaving the bus with the other guys.
“How was the trip?” Haaland asked casually as they walked. It was pretty obvious that he was looking for any excuse to talk to Jude.
“Good, thanks.” Jude looked into Erling’s eyes for a split second, then immediately looked away.
They walked through the stadium’s entrance, where the coach stopped to address the team. “So, the pitch is pristine and the weather is perfect. This plays in our favor. Take a moment to do a pitch walk, and then I want you in the dressing room. Hurry up.”
Without waiting a moment longer, they headed to the pitch. Just as the coach had said, the field was perfect: slightly damp, glistening, and velvety. The weather was beautiful, too: cool, breezy, and crisp. It promised to be a great game.
“Get in the dressing room and change, quickly,” the coach said shortly after, gesturing toward the locker room before turning back to talk with his assistant.
The air inside was damp and heavy. The boys were already taking over the benches, starting to undress. Soon, the dead silence was filled by the lively chatter of the players in broken English: a few comments about the pitch, some quick jokes that left amused smiles, and predictions about the match.
Jude wasn’t involved in the banter; his only focus was his kit. He pulled on the yellow shirt with his surname and the number 22 printed on the back. He didn't mind it—not that he really cared. While he was tying his boots, his eyes fell on a massive figure standing right in front of him.
Erling.
He was wearing nothing but his black kit shorts, bare-chested, his short platinum-blonde hair held back by a headband to keep it off his forehead.
Jude shook his head quickly and firmly before focusing back on his boots.
Suddenly, the coach burst into the dressing room, throwing the door wide open. “Boys, are you ready? Hurry up and get warmed up.” He glanced down to check his watch. “You’re playing in about forty minutes. Move it. We have no time to lose.”
The match had been a crushing victory for Dortmund.
5-0.
Jude had scored in the thirtieth minute, proving his talent. What he had hoped for so much had actually happened: he had made an incredible impression on the team.
The game had just ended, and while his teammates were celebrating back in the dressing room, Jude had been held back by journalists for a few post-match interviews.
When he finally got away from the reporters—not that he minded the attention, but he was exhausted and couldn't wait to rest—he headed back to the locker room to change. On his way, he passed his teammates who were heading out, greeting him with a nod or a pat on the back, and then he finally stepped inside. At first, the dim lights made it hard to see anything, but at a sudden noise, he spun around. To his great surprise, he found Erling sitting right there, already dressed.
“Are you waiting for me?” Bellingham asked, unable to stop himself.
“Yeah. Great game, by the way,” Haaland replied with a half-smile.
Jude didn't say a word. He just nodded slightly before undressing and stepping into the shower.
“Alright. See you on the bus. See ya,” Haaland said, passing by him and brushing a light pat on Jude's bare shoulder that felt much more like a caress.