Chapter Text
The room was dark; the blonde striker sat still, watching the city from the large floor-to-ceiling window. He had been stuck on the same thought since he watched England defeat Mexico days ago—the same thought he’d had since he and Jude stopped talking, the same thought that had plagued him since the World Cup started. It was as if his mind were a little hamster that wouldn't stop running on its wheel, and Jude Bellingham was that damn wheel.
He tried to focus on his breathing, the rhythmic inhale and exhale that usually calmed the storm before a match, but the air felt thin. Every time he closed his eyes, the silence of the room amplified the ticking of his watch—a relentless countdown he couldn't stop. He wasn't just anxious about the game; he was mourning a loss that no one else could see, a fracture in his world that had begun a long time ago.
Maybe, just maybe, Erling Haaland was sitting in his hotel room, overthinking tomorrow's match: England vs. Norway. He never thought this game would come, or perhaps he did, because he had so much confidence in his team and didn't doubt they could make it all the way to the quarter-finals. And by the way England played, it was obvious they were more than prepared to advance in the World Cup. Truth be told, this match was expected; there were surprises along the way, yes, but in a way, Erling knew it was going to happen. The problem wasn't the match itself, but the fact that, deep down, he didn't want it to happen. Facing England meant facing Jude, and that changed all the rules of the game.
He forced himself to look away from the glass and collapsed onto the bed, feeling the weight of expectation in every muscle of his body. He close his eyes, but the image of Jude celebrating that goal against Mexico remained there, vivid and frustratingly bright. It wasn't envy; it was something more complex—a mix of pride for his friend and a sharp void caused by the silence that had settled between them. He tried to sleep, or at least to stop thinking about the smile Jude wore every time he scored and ran straight to him.
He remembered the confidence with which Jude would sprint toward him after scoring a goal, jumping into his arms—feet firmly on the ground, chests colliding in a moment later—to celebrate. He recalled the way Jude would shout, “Did you see me, mate?” or “We did it, Erling, you’re amazing.” He couldn't help but recall the time Jude collapsed on the pitch after a win, his legs giving out from the sheer effort, and Erling had rushed over to check on him. When Jude had looked up from the grass, his smile was as bright as the sun, making it impossible for the blonde one not to pull him into a into a fierce embrace.
It was hard to admit that the distance didn't hurt—or rather, that it hurt too much to acknowledge. It was even harder to accept his own responsibility in it.
He remembered the arguments, the missed calls, and the way pride had slowly built a wall that neither of them knew how to climb. He had been so focused on being the best, on being a machine of goals and statistics, that he hadn't noticed he was losing the only person who understood the human behind the jersey. But tomorrow, that silence would stop being abstract and become something tangible. Tomorrow, there would be no texts, no private jokes, and no shared laughter. Just ninety minutes of tactical warfare where the goal would be to ignore that, on the other side of the field, was the only person who truly knew how to break his defenses.
The silence of the room, once comforting, now felt like a suffocating shroud. He pulled his phone from the nightstand, the screen illuminating his face in the darkness. His thumb hovered over the chat—no new messages, just the history of a connection that had gone cold.
He typed “Hey, good luck tomorrow,” but erased it. He tried again, “See you tomorrow, mate,” and erased it once more. He tried a final time, his fingers trembling slightly, “I miss us,” but the weight of his own pride forced him to delete that, too. He tossed the phone aside, letting it clatter against the wood, unable to bridge the gap he had helped create.
Erling stared at the ceiling, the shadows of the room dancing like the ghosts of better days. He knew he wouldn't sleep, not tonight. Tomorrow, the world would see a battle between two titans, but for him, it would just be the hardest match he’d ever played: the one where he had to pretend that his heart wasn't breaking with every step he took away from his friend.
It wasn't as if they had never played against each other; they were in different clubs, after all, and they had crossed paths on the pitch before. But this—this looming match—was different. It carried a bitter aftertaste, a heaviness in his chest that no tactical analysis could explain. It was the realization that this wasn't just another game of football; it was the final threshold of their silence, the moment where the distance they had built would finally become impossible to ignore.
The morning sun crept through the curtains like an unwanted guest, harsh and unrelenting. Erling barely felt the shift from darkness to light; his sleep had been nothing more than a series of fragmented dreams, most of them ending in the same way: a whistle blowing, a field separating them, and Jude walking away without looking back.
He forced himself out of bed, his muscles stiff, feeling the phantom weight of the upcoming match in his joints. He didn't bother checking his phone again; he knew it would be empty. Instead, he went to the television, clicking through the channels until the inevitable appeared: the sports news. The screen was filled with split-screen images of his own face next to Jude’s, headlines about "The Battle of the Titans" and "Haaland vs. Bellingham: The Final Showdown."
He turned the volume down, letting the visual noise wash over him. It felt surreal to see their friendship—or whatever was left of it—being dissected by analysts who had no idea about the silence, the missed calls, or the pride that had turned them into strangers.
A sharp, rhythmic rapping at his door broke the trance.
‘‘Erling! Kom igjen, kompis, frokosten starter om ti. Ikke si at du fortsatt ligger i sengen.’’ Martin called out from the hallway, his voice muffled by the wood. (Erling! Come on, mate, breakfast starts in ten. Don't tell me you're still in bed)
Erling let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "Ja, jeg er oppe! Gi meg et øyeblikk." he shouted back. (Yeah, I'm up! Give me a minute.)
He moved with the robotic grace of a professional. By the time he reached the team dining area, the atmosphere was thick with the usual pre-match energy. He sat down, staring at his plate, until Martin and Sander pulled up chairs.
"Erling, du ser ut som om du har sett et gjenferd," Martin said, nudging him lightly with his elbow. "Er du klar for i morgen?" (Erling, you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Are you ready for today?)
Erling blinked, breaking his trance. He forced a smirk, the kind that usually fooled the cameras. "Jeg er klar, Martin. Det er bare en kamp, ikke sant?" (I'm ready, Martin. It’s just a match, isn’t it?)
Sander leaned in, his expression harsh. "Bare en kamp? Ikke spill dum. Vi trenger at du er skarp. Sist gang du var slik, fikk du ikke en eneste pasning fordi du ikke beveget deg riktig. Hvis hodet ditt ikke er her, kommer vi til å tape." (Just a match? Don’t play dumb. We need you sharp. Last time you were like this, you didn't get a single pass because you weren't moving right. If your head isn't here, we’re going to lose.)
Erling didn't answer, his jaw tightening. They weren't wrong.
The private training facility was a sanctuary of silence compared to the media circus outside. The grass was freshly cut, the air crisp, and the Norwegian staff kept the perimeter tight. But for Erling, the pitch didn't feel like a refuge today; it felt like a fucking trap. During the tactical drills, his movements were jagged. He missed a simple pass from Ødegaard, his first touch uncharacteristically heavy. The ball rolled away, a stark reminder of his lack of focus.
Martin walked over, looking furious. "Erling, hva i helvete? Hvis du ikke begynner å løpe, får du ikke ballen. Vi kan ikke spille med en mann mindre!" (Erling, what the hell? If you don’t start running, you’re not getting the ball. We can’t play with a man down!)
"Jeg prøver, Martin!" Erling snapped back, his voice raw. (I’m trying, Martin!)
"Prøv hardere!" Sander barked from across the pitch. "Vi er lei av at du er i din egen verden. Enten er du her med oss, eller så kan du bli igjen på hotellet." (Try harder! We’re tired of you being in your own world. Either you’re here with us, or you can stay at the hotel.)
By the time the bus returned them to the hotel, the air was suffocating. Erling retreated to his room and slammed the door shut. He didn't even turn on the lights. He paced the small space like a caged animal, his breathing ragged.
"Ditt forbannede hode," he whispered to the empty room, hitting his fist against his palm. "Fokuser." (You damn head. Focus.)
He stood before the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His reflection looked back at him—a stranger. You are Haaland, he told himself, but the words felt hollow. The frustration was a physical weight, burning in his chest. Every misplaced pass today wasn't just a mistake; it was evidence of how much Jude had managed to dismantle his focus. He was failing his team, failing his country, and most of all, failing to be the man he needed to be for this match.
A knock at the door signaled that it was time to leave for the stadium. Erling stood up and moved to his suitcase. He pulled out his pre-match gear, his movements methodical and detached. He changed in silence, the rustle of the fabric the only sound in the room. He stood before the mirror and grabbed his hair tie, pulling his blonde locks back into a tight bun. He did it with precise, forceful motions, winding the elastic around his hair as if he were binding his own thoughts, trying to lock away every memory of a shared past. He adjusted the collar of his shirt, stared at his reflection, and took a final, deep breath.
The internal storm was still there, but he had managed to bind it beneath the skin. He looked like the machine everyone expected him to be. As he sat on the edge of the bed for a split second, the reality of the hours ahead began to sink in. He wasn't just playing for the quarter-finals anymore. He was playing for the right to prove that he didn't need Jude to be complete.
He was ready to walk into the fire.