Chapter Text
The World Cup had a way of shrinking the world. It turned global stars into gladiators and old friends into enemies for exactly ninety minutes. For Jude, the tournament had been a blur of adrenaline and noise, but as the bracket narrowed, the noise had shifted. To him, it wasn't just about the trophy anymore, it was about the opponent.
He had spent the last week trying to convince himself that Norway was just another team on the schedule. Just another game to win. But it wasn’t. It was Erling.
"Jude! Over here!" a reporter shouted during the pre-match press conference, thrusting a microphone forward. "Everyone is talking about the history between you and Haaland. You two practically ran the Bundesliga together at Dortmund. Do you think that familiarity gives England an edge, or does Erling have the upper hand here?"
Jude felt the familiar tightening in his chest. He leaned into the mic, flashing the practiced, professional smile that he had perfected.
“Erling is a world-class player, and we have a great friendship," he answered, his voice steady despite the irritation beneath. "But we have been wearing different shirts for years now. The focus is on our teams, not each other.”
Inside, he hated it. He hated the question, the narrative, and the impossible math of the situation. If England won, Erling went home. If Norway won, he did. There was no version of this story where both of them walked away happy. It was a win-lose game, and the stakes felt suffocating.
Training that week had been a nightmare of overthinking. Every touch of the ball felt rough.
"You're in your head, Jude," his teammate had muttered during a break, glancing at him with a knowing look. "Stop thinking about Erling and start thinking about the match."
Jude had just nodded, unable to explain that the 'man' was the only person who truly understood the pressure he was under.
_______
Across the city, Erling was fighting his own war. Norway had never come this far. The weight of an entire nation’s expectations was resting squarely on his shoulders. He was the talisman, the monster in the box, the one who couldn't afford to fail. But, every time he closed his eyes to visualize scoring against England, he didn't see the goalkeeper. He saw Jude’s face.
He wondered if Jude felt the same guilt. The strange, twisting feeling that winning meant betraying someone.
________
By the time the England squad arrived back at the hotel the day before the match, Jude was beyond exhausted. He had spent the day arguing with the media, the coaches, and his own mind. After a quiet dinner where he barely touched his food, he collapsed onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling.
Sleep was impossible. His mind was a loop of highlights and headlines. Without thinking, his hand drifted to his phone on the nightstand.
He opened Erling’s contact.
The chat history was a digital archive of their lives. It stretched back years, grainy photos from their early Dortmund days, funny videos from training sessions, screaming arguments, and screenshots of stupid tweets. There were voice notes they had never deleted, remnants of a time when they were just two kids trying to conquer the football industry together.
Jude smiled, a genuine one this time, feeling a sudden, sharp ache of longing for the old days.
He began to type.
“good luck tomorrow”
He stared at the cursor blinking. He paused.
He couldn't send that. What if England lost? Would it look like he’d thrown in the towel? What if Norway lost? Would it feel like a cruel reminder? What if it just sounded weird?
He held down the backspace key, intending to clear the draft.
good lu
His thumb slipped. The message vanished from the text box and appeared in a blue bubble on the right.
Sent.
Jude’s stomach dropped through the floor. He stared at the screen in embarrassment. "Fuck.” he whispered to the empty room.
Three dots appeared almost instantly. Erling was online.
erling: ???
Jude froze. He stared at the screen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He didn't know how to play this off. Before he could scramble for an excuse, another notification popped up.
erling: thanks brusjan
erling: look what i just got sent
A TikTok link followed. Jude hesitated, his thumb hovering over the glass before he finally tapped it.
It was an edit. A slow motion montage of their time at Dortmund. It featured clips of them celebrating goals, the way they would throw their arms around each other, the shoulder bumps during warm-ups, and the way they laughed during interviews. The editor had captured tiny lingering looks that Jude hadn't even realized the cameras had caught.
He scrolled down to the comments, and his face heated up.
they’re literally in love ill die on this hill
this isn’t friendship anymore
legendary lovers
their chemistry is insane
The music was some atmospheric, longing track that made the whole thing feel like a movie. Jude watched it once. Then again. Then a third time.
He stopped paying attention to the comments and started paying attention to the footage. He noticed how comfortable they looked. How they gravitated toward each other in a crowded room. How often they smiled when they were in each other's presence.
He waited for the phone to buzz again. Silence.
Eventually, he swiped out of the app, and that's when he saw it: the tiny crescent moon sitting at the top of his screen.
Do Not Disturb.
“Ah-shit.”
He frantically pulled down his notifications. A wall of messages from Erling flooded in.
10:59 P.M
erling: wait
erling: i wasnt saying i agree with it
erling: i just thought it was funny
11:04 P.M
erling: jude?
erling: did i make things weird
erling: sorry
erling: i shouldnt have sent that
erling: ignore me
11:06 P.M
erling: actually dont ignore me
erling: please say something
Jude chuckled, some of the weeks tension finally snapping. For a man who terrified the most seasoned defenders in Europe, Erling Haaland panicked fast.
_________
The next evening, the atmosphere was electric, bordering on violent. The stadium shook from the roar of the crowd outside, a rhythmic thumping that could be felt in the concrete of the tunnel. Cameras flashed everywhere, capturing the tension of the two teams lined up.
Neither of them spoke. They stood a few feet apart, the distance feeling like miles apart.
Then, as they began to move toward the pitch, Erling leaned in and quietly bumped his shoulder against Jude’s, a ghost of their old routine.
“Try not to lose,” Erling murmured, his voice low and teasing.
Jude laughed despite himself, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd.
“You first.”
The referee called both teams forward. As they stepped out into the blinding light of the stadium, the friendship was shelved, and the rivalry took over.
There was no turning back.