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The locker room smiled like blood, sweat and tears. Literally.
No words could describe the feelings bubbling up in the small space. The tears falling, either silently or loud. The rage leading to more than one player throwing their water bottle into the wall, before sinking down on a bench with their head in their hands. It was all bunching up into a thick cloud of emotion, one that could probably be sliced with a knife.
In the corner, a man whose presence was usually so visible, was hunched over and quiet, smaller than he’d ever been. The blonde hair fell into his eyes. He didn’t bother tying it up. Erling Haaland couldn’t find it in him to bother with anything at that moment.
He should do something to help. He should comfort the others, give a speech, be useful for once. Erling might not be the team’s captain, but Martin could only be in so many places at the same time. An entire team was in shambles, wrecked by the loss, and the man who had been named their savior was of no help at all.
Nyland was sobbing. Erling hadn’t cried at all. Why not? What was wrong with him? If he couldn’t cry, he had to help the ones who did.
He needed to be useful. It’s not like he was of any use in the match.
Instead, Erling couldn’t even move his pinky if he tried. Every limb was as heavy as stone.
He could still hear the cheering from above, the fans far from done. The English wouldn’t leave the arena yet, and when they did, the party would just continue elsewhere. The Norwegians… Well. Erling hoped he wouldn’t encounter any of them for the rest of that day. Or week. Or for the rest of his life.
If only things were different. If only he had gotten the ball from Sørloth… If only that English player didn’t fall, causing that stupid fucking cancelling of their second goal… If only.
But no. He couldn’t blame anyone else. This was on him.
An entire team, hell, an entire nation had counted on him. On Haaland. Erling wasn’t one to let his ego get the better of him, he knew very well how football was a team effort instead of a solo showoff. However… From what social media had told him, the Norwegians had specifically put their trust in him. Of course, they trusted in Nyland, Schjelderup, Nusa, Ødegaard, and all the others as well, but Haaland was supposed to bring them to victory. And after Brazil, well… Maybe Erling had started to believe it too.
And now, he was proven wrong in the worst possible way.
Instead of him, England had scored the goals. Jude had scored the goals. Perfect Jude. Erling wished there was a sliver in him who felt hatred towards Jude Bellingham for robbing him of the victory that would have saved his name forever, but there was none. Only a load of hatred towards himself. After all, how could he ever hate Jude?
He could dimly register how the people around him started to quiet down and pack up, ready to get back to the hotel. The plane would leave tomorrow. Back to the nation they didn’t succeed representing. Joy.
Erling couldn’t get up, if anything, he felt himself sinking into the bench even more. The red, white and blue on his chest felt like a mockery.
Players started leaving the room, one by one. They looked back, each debating saying something, but decided against it. It was obvious how Haaland needed some time.
Martin – the last one out – eventually leaned against the doorway. His eyes were tired, but his smile was genuine. «Are you coming? We’re going to celebrate anyway, for getting this far. And don’t be the idiot thinking there’s no spot for him anymore. You’ll always be one of us, the best of us.»
Finally, a small smile stretched across Erling’s face, but his eyes wasn’t committed to it. «I’ll be there. But don’t wait for me. I know where to find you.»
«And I you,» Martin said, saluting him with two heavy fingers as he turned around and followed the rest of the team. The door to the locker room slammed shut with a thud.
The silence was somehow worse than the low mumbling and choked sobs. Erling pulled his knees up on the bench, drawing them to his chest while resting his back to the wall. His head was laid on top. It was a position he had been in countless of times before. A part of the job as a player was to accept losses. A lot of them. But this… This was worse than losing for Dortmund or Manchester City. So much worse. A finger came up to trace patterns on his knees. It was a technique he had learned years ago, back in his early teens, meant to lower the chance of a panic attack. By giving your body a task, you’d avoid being alone in your head.
He couldn’t recall when his eyes slipped shut, nor how much time had passed. He was just so tired.
Then, Erling’s whole body shot up into fight or flight when the sound of the door getting opened rung out. Whoever it was, they couldn’t see him in this position. So vulnerable, so… Weak.
He looked up, and in the doorway was-
Erling froze.
There, in the doorway, stood Jude Bellingham in the flesh.
Jude Bellingham. The man of the match. The golden boy. Erling didn’t know what to feel. His mouth moved before his mind.
«What are you doing here.» Internally, he made a grimace, as the words sounded empty and hollow. But Erling had no more emotion to give. He felt like a wall made out of bloody bricks.
Jude closed the door behind him, not meeting his eyes. «I came to check on you. Ran into Martin on the way, and he said you weren’t with the others. It got me worried.»
«Yeah, well,» Erling said quietly, looking down at the floor. He had hoped to avoid this conversation. «That’s what happens when you fail reaching every goal you gave yourself. Tends to ruin the mood.»
Memories rushed back from all the days the two had spent discussing the match. How much they had cursed fate for putting them up against each other. It would have happened eventually, Jude had said jokingly. With our level, nobody else stands a chance to us but each other.
Erling hated how he had been right. He had tried to treat the match like something else, like a round of practice, or like one of the good old days together on Dortmund. But as the minutes ticked by, it was less about the fun, and more about the inevitable end. The end representing shattered dreams for one of them. Erling drew the short straw in the end.
The Norwegian player heard steps coming towards him, white shoes stopping in his line of vision.
«You’re so quiet.»
Erling looked up to meet the other’s eyes. He knew how destroyed and beaten his face must have looked, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not towards Jude. «I am.»
«You’re so quiet,» Jude had said, sitting up in the bed. He loved to tease about it. Tease about how a 6’4, strong, muscled hunk of a Viking could look so intimidating, yet be so silent in everything he did. How Erling could sneak up on Jude and take him by surprise ten times more than Jude could ever do the same to him. Erling loved the teasing. So he rolled onto his side, propping his hand up to support his head, a smile playing on his lips. «I am.»
Erling got up from the bench, walking a few steps to put some distance between them, not facing Bellingham. «I’ll have to congratulate you. Those were two beautiful goals. Masterpieces. Argentina or Switzerland won’t know what’s coming.»
«Erling…» Jude’s face crumbled. «Please, don’t do this to yourself. It’s okay to let it out.»
He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t allow himself to falter when so many others were more deserving of it. Not when his entire team had put their trust in him for no reason.
God, he couldn’t falter when the faces of so many children in the audience had gotten filled with sorrow, traveling miles across the ocean just to see their team lose.
He just couldn’t…
A hand fell softly onto his shoulder, startling him. Erling turned around to see two warm eyes, filled with so much love and understanding, directed at him and him alone. The eyes who had faced so many losses by Erling’s side, now being the cause of the most painful loss he had ever experienced. But he couldn’t feel any form for hate towards Jude. Not even a little bit.
Erling sunk back down on a bench, drawing a deep breath. It was shaky. All the tears he had denied himself for what felt like years suddenly couldn’t be held back anymore. They rushed to his eyes with the speed of light, bursting out and down his cheeks. «Jude, Jude I-»
«I know.» Two strong arms were there, instantly enveloping him. «I know. I’m here. I’m here, and I’m not leaving.»
Somehow, that only made it worse. Erling’s hands grabbed the back of Jude’s shirt as he pressed his face into his chest, muffling his cries. The chest he had laid on so many times before, tracing in the dark of night and in hidden moments. The chest which was now soaked through with tears. Erling could feel a kiss pressed into his blonde hair as Jude let more and more of the other’s body relax against his. He never faltered, rocking Erling back and forth while murmuring whispers and praises.
Sobs filled the room, loud and gut wrenching; sobs from a man who had lost his dream, held by the one who took them away. Yet, in that moment, Erling could try to forget the match. He pushed away the loss, the disappointment, the pressure. All he kept was Jude. All he needed was Jude.
And with him there, maybe the process wouldn’t be as bad. Just maybe.