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It was over.
The game was over; the Norwegians were hugging and jumping around like kids who’d just won a wooden sword fight, while the crowd cheered them on, shouting and laughing as if it were the absolute best day of their entire lives.
Sweat on their foreheads, the smell of the green grass trampled by soccer cleats, themselves worn out after that long match, the tears of the English fans, the players exhausted and sad.
And Jude… he just stood there.
He wasn’t moving anymore; it felt as if he’d stopped breathing, too. As if the world had frozen inside his head but not in his gaze, the warm wind blowing on his face. His feet were rooted to the ground, his shoulders hard as concrete, his legs on fire after running for so long after a ball, a victory he’d lost.
He didn’t like that feeling; it was at once so distant and yet so familiar in his body that it frightened him. He was afraid it would come back right then, while all the cameras were filming him, with viewers watching his reaction closely, waiting for something he was trying so desperately to hold back that his fingernails dug into the skin of his palms.
Everything was spinning; one of his teammates tried to pat him on the shoulder, a small gesture of comfort while another told him he’d played well despite the loss, then walked away. Jude didn’t know where they were going and couldn’t possibly know.
Because now his gaze was fixed solely on Erling. Erling Haaland was walking toward him, quickly yet slowly, and Bellingham couldn’t tell which it was.
Then, when the 6.4 blond man took the final step toward him, placing his large hands on Jude’s outstretched shoulders.
Jude broke down.
Jude broke down, right there in the middle of the field. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and his arms began to tremble. He felt like tearing his own skin off.
And when Erling realized this, he pulled him into his arms. Not roughly, not the way the fans thought he might comfort someone. But just as Jude knew, he knew that kind of hug by heart now.
Then that voice, so soft and yet so strong, whispered to him.
“You were incredible, Jude…”
Hearing those words, Bellingham clung to the Norwegian as if he were about to fall, collapse, and die right there on the grass.
He screamed, cried, and sobbed, pounding the taller man’s back, but Haaland didn’t react; he held him even tighter, gently stroking his head and giving him what he needed to calm down.
“Calm down, everything’s okay, I’m here.”
He’s there.
He’s there comforting him, not caring about the cameras or what the fans and rumors might say. He was there for Bellingham,
for him and only him.
And slowly, Jude calmed down, his head buried in Erling’s shoulder, his sweat mixed with tears from his eyes soaking through the red-and-blue jersey.
Then he felt Haaland move, not to go anywhere else, not to leave and abandon him where he didn’t want to be, but to take him with him, support him all the way to the locker room, hug him, and help him until he could see the same smile he’d seen when they played together. When Jude would run up to him and jump on him, just to laugh and share his joy.
And Haaland savored every moment, seeing that magnificent, happy face, ready to carry on.
To carry on with him, hand in hand, even if a sport had decided to pit them against each other. Deep down, nothing would change between them.
Jude knew it, Erling knew it.
Everyone knew they would love each other until the very end.