Chapter Text
“Hey, Hany, cheer up! Stop what you’re doing and come join us!” Emam shouted, dancing while I shoved my gear into my bag. I just wanted to get out of here as fast as possible.
“Yeah, I’ll be there in a second, let me just finish up,” I forced a small smile, watching him dive back into the celebration.
After the win against Australia, the locker room was absolute chaos. Everyone was dancing; we’d finally made it to the Round of 16—something we’d never done before. Of course, I was happy, but I couldn’t shake the heavy feeling in my chest. We almost lost that game because of me. Twice.
I waited until everyone was distracted, hoping to slip into the showers. If I tried to leave now, someone would definitely notice, and I didn't want to deal with any pitying looks. Most of the guys were focused on the music; Shobier was legit carrying Hamza on his shoulders. I made my move.
I stepped into the shower, stripped off my damp clothes, and leaned my head against the cold tile. I couldn't celebrate. The own goal kept playing on a loop in my head. Some of the guys had been hesitant to pass to me earlier in the match, and now, I was sure they never would again.
I was drying my hair when the door creaked open.
“Oh, you’re here,” Mostfa said, sounding genuinely surprised. “I thought everyone was still outside losing their minds.”
“Yeah, I just… needed a shower. The noise was a bit much,” I replied, keeping my eyes fixed on the towel.
Mostfa leaned against the doorframe, his expression unreadable. “Sure.” His tone said he didn't believe me for a second. “You know, the party isn't stopping anytime soon. You should come out.”
“Maybe,” I muttered. “Why aren't you out there, then?”
“You know me. I’m not really the celebrating type.”
“Right. and I assume you carrying hamza wasn't legit you celebrating" I say jokingly
"well that's different plus you know what I mean you punk"
We stood in silence for a moment, the sound of the teammates cheering echoing through the walls.
“I’m sorry for scoring against you… twice,” I blurted out. I couldn't help it. The guilt was eating me alive after all.
Mostfa rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t start with that again.”
“It’s just—we almost lost because of me, twice.”
“It wasn't your fault. Plus, you passed out on the pitch and still got back up to play.”
“Exactly! If I had just stayed on the bench, I wouldn't have scored against you. I—” I took a deep breath, trying to hide my face, but the tears came anyway. I buried my face in my hands, trying to stop the sound. Suddenly, I felt arms wrapping around me. Mostfa pulled me into his chest, patting my head, just holding me there.
“Do you know how humiliating it is to be the first player ever to score two goals against his team in the world cup?” I choked out into his shirt. “I- I just think I should probably sit out the next match or something am sure anyone can play better than whatever the hell I did.”
I felt my throat close up. I just hugged him tighter, closing my eyes. After a minute, Mostfa cleared his throat, let go, and rested his hands on my shoulders.
“Look, I don’t know how to do this whole comforting thing, so I’ll be honest with you,” he said, his voice softer than usual. “Everyone was frustrated in the heat of the moment, yeah. But you know how we are as Egyptians we don't stay mad for long. And we won. Nobody is thinking about that now, Hany. Besides, playing defense is a nightmare own goals are bound to happen. The most important thing is us improving before the next match. We’re going against Messi. If you score against that, we’re doomed alright? am sure I can maybe block a messi goal but idk if I can block a hany goal” He chuckled, bringing his thumbs up to wipe the tears from my cheeks. “That’s it. There’s the smile. Now, go join them. I’m going to shower. If you don’t go, I’ll drag you back out there myself and you just said I carried hamza am sure I can carry you as well out there." He says ruffling my hair
I laughed, pushing him away lightly. “Alright, alright! But stop, you’re messing up my hair. It’s gonna be all frizzy.”
“Eh, I like it frizzy on you. Gives you a cute look.”
I blushed, looking down. “I—uh, thanks.”
“Go on,” he said, ruffling my hair. “Enjoy it. I’ll join you guys later, maybe at dinner if by the time am done the celebrations finish am sure they celebrate again tonight one last time before the training.”
I chuckle “alright See ya,” I mumbled, trying to keep my composure.
As I walked out of the bathroom, I let out a long, shaky breath. *What was that?* I walked back into the locker room just as Mo Salah grabbed me, pulling me into the dance circle. I tried to focus on the music, but my mind kept drifting back to the shower room.
The music was blaring, a mix of upbeat drums and celebration chants. Salah was laughing, spinning a bottle of water like it was a prop, his charisma filling the room instantly. I tried to mirror the energy, jumping along, but my eyes kept darting to the entrance every time the door opened.
Salah noticed. He didn't say anything at first, just bumped his shoulder against mine. "You're distracted, ya Habibi ," he said, his voice low enough to be drowned out by the music, but loud enough for me to hear. "Eyes are glued to the door. You waiting for someone?" *he says winking at me*
I froze. Salah was a legend, but he had a way of reading people that was genuinely terrifying. "Just… tired, Mo," I lied, forcing a smile. "Long match yk"
Salah gave me a knowing look not a cruel one, just an amused look, as if telling me "I see everything" with just a look. He clapped me on the back, hard. "Go get some air, Hany. You look like you're about to pass out again."
I nodded, grateful for the out. I slipped away from the circle and headed toward the hotel hallway, just needing to breathe without the noise.
The air in the hotel corridor was cold compared to the humid, roaring heat of the locker room. I leaned my forehead against the cool wallpaper, closing my eyes. My heart was still hammering against my ribs, not just from the match, but from everything Mo Salah had just said. He was right. I was waiting for someone. And that someone was currently the person who had just threatened to carry me back into a room full of people.
I pushed off the wall and started walking toward the elevators. I just needed to get to my room, lock the door, and try to forget that I was an idiot who had scored two own goals in a World Cup match.
As I turned the corner, I saw him. Mostfa was standing near the vending machine, laughing at something his teammate, Omar, was saying. They were both holding water bottles, looking relaxed. Mostfa looked different when he was like this. He looked like a normal guy, not the rock-solid defender who usually intimidated everyone on the pitch.
When he saw me, his smile didn't fade, but it shifted. It became something sharper, guarded. Omar clapped him on the shoulder and walked past me, giving me a quick nod. "Good game, Hany," he said, before disappearing down the hall.
Mostfa stayed where he was. He was leaning against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "Done with the party already?" he asked. His voice was flat.
"Too loud," I muttered, sliding my hands into my pockets. "I think I’m just going to crash."
Mostfa nodded, but he didn't move. He kept watching me, his eyes searching my face in a way that made me feel exposed. "Salah seemed to be having a good time with you back there," he said. It wasn't a question. It sounded like an accusation.
I frowned, confused. "He was just… joking around. He saw me standing by the door and told me to get some air. Why?"
Mostfa shrugged, but he looked away, kicking at the carpet with his cleat. "Nothing. Just thought you two were having a moment. You seemed pretty focused on him."
My stomach dropped. I realized then that Mostfa had probably been watching us from the doorway before I saw him. A weird, tight feeling grew in my chest. "Focusing on him? He’s the captain, Mostfa. He was just being nice."
"Yeah, I know," Mostfa said, his voice dropping. "He’s a nice guy. Everyone loves him."
"It’s not like that," I said, my voice rising a little. Why was he acting like this? "He was just trying to get me to stop stressing out. I didn't even want to be talking to him, I just wanted to leave."
Mostfa finally looked back at me, and his expression softened, but only a little. There was still a flicker of something in his eyes—irritation, maybe? Or something else I couldn't quite name. "Whatever. It’s not my business who you talk to."
"You’re acting like it is."
"I'm just saying," he said, pushing off the wall. He started walking toward me, and I backed up until I hit the wall. He stopped just a foot away, looming over me. He was so close I could smell the faint scent of the shower gel he used, the same one I did. "You have a habit of looking at people like they’re the only thing that matters, Hany. When you’re nervous, when you’re scared, you just latch onto whoever is closest. Just be careful, okay? Not everyone is as patient as I am."
"What does that mean?"
"It means people talk," he whispered. "Especially in this country. Especially in this sport. You’re naive. You think just because you’re having a laugh with the captain, it doesn't look like something else to the rest of the team."
My heart did a somersault. "Mostfa, stop. You’re overthinking this."
"Maybe I am." He looked down at his shoes, then back up at me. His frustration seemed to drain away, replaced by a weariness that looked heavy. "Come on. Let’s get you to your room. You look like you’re going to pass out."
We walked down the hall in silence. It was a comfortable silence, but thick with things we weren't saying. I kept glancing at his hand, which was swinging right next to mine. Every time our shoulders brushed, I felt a jolt of electricity. I was trying to ignore it, telling myself it was just adrenaline from the match, or relief that we’d won. But deep down, there was this annoying little voice in my head telling me that I hadn't been waiting for Salah to walk through the door. I had been waiting for Mostfa.
I felt like an idiot. I’d spent all this time thinking about how I’d let the team down, and all the while, Mostfa had been watching me, worrying about me, even getting jealous over a conversation with the captain.
"Here," I said, stopping in front of my door. I fumbled for my key card. My hands were shaking.
Mostfa didn't leave. He stood there, watching me. "You’re still shaking."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before he took the key card from my fingers. He swiped it, the light turned green, and he pushed the door open. He followed me inside without waiting for an invitation.
The room was small, lit only by the streetlights coming through the window. It was quiet. The silence here felt different than the silence in the hallway. It was intimate.
I stood by the edge of the bed, feeling awkward. Mostfa stood by the window, looking out at the city. He turned around, his silhouette sharp against the glass.
"Why are you actually mad?" I asked, deciding to just get it over with. "About Salah. You said it’s not your business, but you clearly think it is."
Mostfa let out a dry laugh. He walked over to me, stopping close enough that I had to tilt my head back to look at him. "You’re smart on the pitch, Hany. Why are you so dense off it?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"I see you," he said, his voice low and raspy. "I see how you look when you're scared. I see how you look when you're happy. And I see how you look at people you admire. You think you're hiding it, but you're not. And I don't like it when other people see that."
"See what?"
Mostfa sighed, a frustrated, jagged sound. "The way you look like you’re searching for someone to save you. And I hate that I’m the one who wants to be that person."
My breath hitched. The air in the room felt like it had disappeared. "Mostfa..."
"I can't," he muttered, turning away. "I shouldn't have come in here. This is... it's a mess. We’re in the middle of a tournament, we're in the middle of a career, and we're in... this." He gestured vaguely between us. "You know how it is. You know what they say. What happens here... it doesn't stay here if someone catches us. It ruins everything."
"I know," I said. My voice was barely a whisper. "But that doesn't mean I don't... feel it."
Mostfa turned back around, his eyes dark. "Feel what?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just stepped forward. I didn't think about the risk, or the cameras, or the fact that we were in a hotel where walls were thin and teammates were everywhere. I just reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt.
He froze. For a second, I thought he was going to pull away, to tell me I was crazy and that we needed to stop. But then, he exhaled a shaky breath and dropped his hands to my waist.
"Hany," he warned, but there was no bite in it. It was a plea.
"Shut up," I said, my voice trembling.
And then, he closed the gap.
It wasn't like the movies. It wasn't perfect. It was clumsy and desperate and filled with all the guilt and fear and adrenaline from the last few hours. His lips were chapped, tasting faintly of the water he’d been drinking, and his hands on my waist were gripping me like he was afraid I’d disappear.
I didn't know what I was doing, honestly. I’d never done this before. But my body seemed to know. I pulled him closer, my fingers bunching the fabric of his shirt. Mostfa groaned, a sound that vibrated right through me, and he pushed me back until my legs hit the bed and I stumbled backward, pulling him down with me.
We didn't fall on the bed, just stood there, swaying, lost in it. It was scary, more scary than facing the opposing striker, because this was my heart on the line. It was real. And in that moment, all the world, the World Cup, the fame, the pressure—it all just faded away.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathless. His forehead rested against mine, his eyes closed. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving against mine.
"You're going to get us killed," he whispered against my lips.
"Maybe," I said, my voice shaking. "But I don't care."
Mostfa let out a short, wet laugh, opening his eyes. They were searching mine, looking for hesitation, for regret. When he didn't find any, his expression softened into something tender, something I had only ever seen him show in the shower room when he was comforting me.
He reached up, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, which was swollen from the kiss. "You realize we can't tell anyone, right? Not even Omar. Especially not Salah."
"I know," I said, nodding. "We just... exist. Like this."
"It's not enough," he said, and the sadness in his voice broke my heart. "But it has to be."
"It is for now," I whispered.
Mostfa leaned down and pressed one more quick, firm kiss to my lips, like he was sealing a promise. "Go to sleep, Hany. We have training in the morning. If you come in looking like you haven't slept, they’ll all know."
"You're coming with me," I said, gripping his hand.
He looked at our joined hands, then back at me. He looked tempted. "I shouldn't."
"Stay," I said. "Just for a bit. Please."
Mostfa hesitated for a long time. The tension was still high, the fear of discovery always in the back of our minds. But then he sighed, kicked off his shoes, and sat down on the edge of the bed. He didn't lie down, just sat there, keeping a guard's distance, but he didn't pull his hand away.
I sat next to him, leaning my head on his shoulder. It felt right. It felt like coming home.
"You're a punk, you know that?" he mumbled, but his arm came up to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me into his side.
"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, closing my eyes. "You said that already."
"I meant it."
We sat there in the dark for a long time, the only sound the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant noise of the hotel. I knew, as I started to drift off, that tomorrow would be hard. I knew that the world outside this room was unforgiving and that we were playing a dangerous game. But for the first time since we’d landed in the tournament, the weight in my chest was gone.
The next morning, I woke up before the alarm. Mostfa was gone.
There was a note on the nightstand, just a scrap of paper from the hotel notepad. *Don't be late for breakfast. Don't look at me like that in front of the others.*
I smiled, tucking the paper into my pocket. My phone buzzed. It was a message from the team group chat, a flurry of emojis and trash talk about training. I ignored it and walked to the mirror. I looked the same, but different. The bags under my eyes were smaller, the color in my face looked better.
When I walked into the dining hall, the team was already there, plates piled high with food. Mostfa was sitting with Omar and a few others, laughing at something being said. My heart gave that familiar skip, but I forced myself to walk past him, focusing on my own plate.
I sat down next to Mo Salah, who was busy scrolling through his phone. He looked up as I sat down, his sharp eyes scanning my face for a split second before a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips.
"Morning, Hany," he said, his voice deceptively casual.
"Morning, Mo."
"Sleep well?"
I shrugged, trying to keep my face neutral. "Yeah, actually. Best sleep I've had in weeks."
Salah leaned in, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "Glad to hear it. You look... less like a zombie today." He winked. "Maybe you should get some air more often. Works wonders, doesn't it?"
My face heated up. *He knew.* He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he knew something had changed. He knew I’d been up to something, or at least that I’d been somewhere I wasn't supposed to be.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, stabbing at my eggs.
Salah laughed, a low, smooth sound that made me want to melt into my chair. "You're a terrible liar, kid. It's written all over your face." He reached out and clapped me on the shoulder, giving me a supportive squeeze. "Just be careful, okay? This life is loud. It’s hard to keep things quiet. But I’ve got your back. Always."
I looked up at him, surprised. His eyes weren't mocking. They were kind. "Thanks, Mo."
"Don't thank me," he said, picking up his coffee. "Just play better than you did yesterday. If you score on us again, I’m personally going to bench you."
I laughed, the tension finally leaving my body. "Deal."
As I ate, I caught a glimpse of Mostfa across the room. He was looking at me. His eyes flickered from me to Salah, then back to me. His expression was unreadable, but his hand tightened around his glass. He was jealous again.
I smiled, a tiny, secret thing that only he would notice. I saw his gaze soften for a microsecond before he looked away, taking a long drink of his juice.
It was going to be a long tournament. It was going to be complicated. We were going to have to hide, and lie, and pretend, and move in the shadows. But as I watched Mostfa lean over to listen to his friend, I knew I could do it. I was a defender, after all. And for the first time in my life, I had something worth defending.
Training that day was brutal. The sun was beating down, and the coach was relentless, running us through drills until our legs felt like lead. But I didn't care. I was running for Mostfa, for the team, for the dream.
During a water break, I jogged over to the sidelines, grabbing my bottle. Mostfa was standing near the fence, wiping sweat from his forehead with his jersey.
I didn't stop. I just ran past him, my shoulder bumping into his as I went by. "Nice work out there," I whispered, so low that no one else could hear.
Mostfa didn't look at me. He just kept wiping his face, his voice barely audible. "You too. Keep your head in the game."
"Always," I said.
As I walked away, I felt his eyes on my back. It wasn't the look of a teammate, or a captain, or a friend. It was the look of someone who knew exactly who I was, and who was waiting for the moment we could be together again, away from the world, away from the noise, away from everything.
It wasn't much. It was barely anything at all. But in the quiet, dangerous, beautiful reality of our lives, it was enough.
I took a deep breath, kicked the ball back toward the center of the pitch, and sprinted back into the heat. We had a match to win. We had a world to face. And we were going to do it, together, one secret, stolen moment at a time.