Chapter Text
The final whistle blew three times. Sharp, definitive, and crushing.
The World Cup dream was over for Norway. They were out.
Erling Haaland sat listlessly on his team's bench, elbows resting on his knees with his head bowed low. He wasn't even on the pitch when that final whistle sounded. Toward the end of the second half, with Norway trailing 2-1 and desperately chasing an equalizer, the substitution board had lit up. His number was displayed right there. He was pulled out.
It was the bitterest pill he had to swallow tonight in Miami.
His statistics today were completely abysmal, a far cry from the robotic standards he usually delivered. Throughout the match, he had been entirely isolated. The England backline, ruthlessly led by Stones and Guéhi, completely cut off the supply lines to him. Every time he tried to make a move, the English players were always there, closing down passing lanes or marking him tightly without mercy. Erling was left frustrated, barely touching the ball, and it ended up being a match he neither wanted nor expected. All around him, the pitch instantly transformed into a swirling storm of euphoria for the white-and-red side.
But Erling didn't let himself sink into despair on the bench. He was Erling Haaland. His competitive spirit might be wounded, but his respect for the game was far greater.
Erling stood up, straightening his massive frame, and stepped onto the pitch. With a professional smile and warm embraces, he approached his Manchester City teammates clad in the white-and-red England jerseys. He shook hands with John Stones, gave a hard pat on Marc Guéhi’s shoulder, and hugged Nico O'Reilly, congratulating them on reaching the final with the genuine sincerity of a friend.
Yet, his eyes kept searching for one specific figure who had controlled the entire rhythm of England's game tonight. The one and only, Jude fucking Bellingham. His Jude, who had scored two goals tonight. Two! That was the entirety of the goals England scored tonight. Erling felt a conflicting urge to praise him the loudest and choke him (lovingly, of course) for breaching their defense so elegantly. But of course, he didn't do it. He had wanted Jude to fight him with everything he had, and Jude did exactly that.
Watching Jude storm the ball and send it into the back of the net had made the blonde striker starve to charge the ball and score too, but only God knew how he could barely get the ball tonight. Well, shit. No hitting the drums and doing rows tonight, Erling thought.
Jude Bellingham had also just been substituted near the end of the match, walking off to a roaring ovation after scoring the two decisive goals for England's victory. The moment the final whistle blew, Jude immediately stepped onto the pitch to celebrate his team's win. However, the moment he spotted the towering blonde figure shaking hands with the English players, Jude broke away from the crowd and walked straight toward Erling.
There was no mocking smile on Jude’s face. Although Jude was thrilled with the victory, a part of him felt a heavy, bittersweet ache knowing that his triumph came at the expense of his Erling's defeat. Jude knew exactly how difficult the match had been for Erling, just as it had been equally brutal for England to finally wear down the stubborn Vikings. And Erling knew exactly that Jude was the reason behind all that difficulty.
"You really kept your word from the tunnel, huh?" Erling spoke first as Jude stood before him, a genuine, soft laugh escaping his lips.
Jude didn't answer with words. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them, and wrapped his arms around Erling’s massive frame. A tight hug right in the center of the Miami pitch, in front of tens of thousands of eyes and the non-stop flashing of cameras.
This time, Erling hugged back without hesitation. He bowed his head, burying his face for a moment in the crook of Jude’s neck, feeling the familiar warmth that instantly melted away the lingering frustration of the second half. On the pitch, they could shut each other down, but inside this embrace, the outside world seemed to slow down.
There was a small part in the corner of Erling’s heart that felt a quiet swell of pride. If someone absolutely had to stop him and march into the World Cup final, he was glad it was his Judey.
Jude patted Erling’s back a few times before slowly unraveling their embrace. Jude's hand lingered on Erling’s waist for a few seconds, giving a small, secret squeeze. A supportive, personal touch understood only by the two of them.
"You made us work like hell today, Erling. It's not easy holding back the Vikings," Jude said with a smile on his lips, his eyes locking directly onto Erling’s blue ones.
Erling snorted softly, a playful smile beginning to replace the heavy disappointment. "Yeah. It must have been you and the Manchester guys leaking all my tricks," he countered, nudging Jude's shoulder lightly.
Jude laughed softly, a familiar sound that never failed to send a subtle vibration through Erling's radar. "What tricks? You literally just see the ball, charge, and kick."
"Hey, that's called world-class instinct, Judey. You're not much different yourself," Erling chimed in, pretending to be offended even as his thumb secretly brushed against Jude's wrist, which was still within close reach. The touch was brief, almost invisible to any zooming camera, but it was enough to send a familiar, warm spark through him. "But seriously... Those two goals? Damn, you really didn't give us any room to breathe. And the weather here is already hot enough to breathe in, you don't need to go ahead and steal my breath too."
"God..." His lame flirting was met with a groan, naturally followed by a playful, quick shove from Jude.
"But seriously, it was good to share the pitch with you again," Jude replied, his voice softening into an intonation reserved strictly for the giant in front of him. His eyes intensely scanned Erling's face, making sure the man was truly alright after the loss. "I'm also one step closer to winning, Erling. And since you can't bring it home..." Jude trailed off, deliberately raising an eyebrow in a challenging manner Erling knew all too well.
Erling forced his trademark slight smirk back to its full glory. He leaned in slightly, narrowing the remaining distance between them until the scent of Jude’s sweat-mingled cologne was unmistakably clear. "Then bring that trophy home, Judey. Afterwards, let's have dinner. My treat. And after that, we can have some fun."
Jude smiled, clearly understanding the subtle hint in Erling’s tone. His fingers gave one last squeeze to Erling’s waist before finally letting go of their connection completely.
As Jude turned to rejoin his shouting, celebrating team, Erling remained standing there, watching Jude's retreating back. He wondered if that parting squeeze was a warning for Erling to behave, or a secret 'yes.'
The Norwegian's instinct told him it was a secret 'yes.' And Erling Haaland was a man who was entirely secure and confident in his instincts.
The disappointment of missing out on the final was certainly still there, but the warmth in his chest made his walk toward the stadium tunnel feel much lighter.
That night, Erling Haaland posted a new story on Snapchat (one of his newest routines lately) with the caption: “wishing luck to all my mates still competing. May the best win!”
Right after, he sent a short text to Jude.
Erling: Good luck, Judey. Can’t wait 4 the dinner later ;)
Only Erling himself knew that he was actually rooting for England. Well, and maybe Jude knew it too.
But that was highly classified between them.