Chapter Text
England Base Camp — Kansas City, Missouri
* * *
“It’s just praise for Jude. I think he’s unbelievable. England is lucky, Madrid is lucky, because everyone would want a Jude in the team.”
Jude stared at the clip and hit replay for the third time.
He really needed to stop watching Erling’s post-match interview, but he couldn’t sleep.
Back at The Inn at Meadowbrook, it was past midnight now, quiet except for the air con ticking away.
His case sat open on the little desk by the window, the top gaping open, clothes semi-unpacked and starting to sprawl. The only light in the room was the phone screen hovering just above his face.
He scrolled X with his right hand and Instagram with his left, swapping apps every few minutes when the algorithm bored him. The feed was predictable: England, quarter-finals, back in the semis for the first time in however-many years.
Someone had already clipped his brace and synced it to WE ON GO by BIA. There were headlines about his ‘World Cup for the ages’ and memes of his celebration, arms outstretched, someone having photoshopped a cathedral aura around him.
He scrolled past it, letting his thumb flick up and up and up.
It took less than a minute for the algorithm to deliver Erling. He was still trending—his plays and the moment after the final whistle when he’d bowed his head briefly in what could only be bone-deep disappointment before consoling his team.
There were several photos from after the match of Erling in the stands, signing jerseys for a small cluster of little kids and teens in Norway kits. In the last picture, Erling’s mouth was set in a little grin.
Jude looked at it for a long time, his thumb resting against the glass. The comments were mostly ‘respect’ and ‘legend’ and a surprising number of Shrek GIFs.
He closed the app and tried to stare at the ceiling instead, but all that did was bring Erling’s face back. Not the deadpan, memeable one, but the one Jude had seen up close at 2 a.m. at Swope, the smile he’d had after kissing Jude in the open.
Alone in the dark, Jude found himself hoping that it hadn’t been some throwaway World Cup thing.
He opened Instagram again and went to explore. There was a video already—fifteen seconds of them in the tunnel with Jude kicking Erling in the bum. The original sound had been replaced with a trending audio, and the caption said: ‘best bromance in football?’
It had thousands of likes in only a few hours.
Another showed the goal that ended Norway’s run—Jude’s own volley from the edge of the box, the rest of his team mobbing him in a hug, and then Erling crossing the entire field to get to him.
The replay was slowed to a crawl: Erling’s hand behind Jude’s head, not letting go right away, his face pressed into Erling’s chest for longer than it should have been.
The comments section was... Jude decided it was better not to read any of it, actually.
He watched the embrace from six camera angles and felt an uncomfortable tension in his jaw. None of these moments were meant to be for anyone else, and yet now they belonged to everyone, parcelled into digital candy, sound-tracked and subtitled and chewed up by strangers.
He navigated to his messages and opened Erling’s chat. No new texts. The last was from Jude, and that was hours ago. He considered typing something. ‘You were great’ maybe, or ‘You played amazing’—but none of the options seemed right.
He put the phone down, screen-up, and let the night replay itself: the match, the press circuit, the corridor outside the dressing room where Jude had looked for Erling and found only staff. The plan that they’d discussed of meeting at Erling’s hotel after the game had dissolved in the machinery of victory and defeat and coach buses and security.
Jude should have tried to find him. Instead he’d let the machinery carry him all the way back to Kansas City, and by the time he had a second to himself, it was too late for anything but staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed. Reflexively, he flipped it over. It was his mum.
Mum
So so proud of you baby. X
Thank you xx
What you doing up?
The three dots came back instantly.
Mum
I could ask you the same!
Your brother says you’ve been liking memes.
Jude rolled his eyes. The traitor. He thumbed a response.
Can’t sleep
Too wired, I think
Mum
Try a YouTube essay.
You know it always works.
Jude smiled.
I’ll try it
Mum
Good.
Don’t forget to message your friend.
It was a hard fought match, I’m sure a nice word from you would help. Xxx
Jude felt the weight of it all over again. It was so like her to see through everything to the only thing that actually mattered.
Will do x
Mum
Xxx
He was about to put the phone down when it buzzed again. It was a video this time, forwarded to him from Declan. The Norway squad, out at some club, the beat of the music shaking the iPhone camera.
The original video was obviously from Martin, but Erling was there in the background, standing at the edge of the group, smiling his wolfish smile while teammates jostled him for the camera. Someone poured a shot over his shoulder; he caught it and threw it back in one movement, then mugged for the camera, eyes bright and unburdened.
It was less than twenty-four hours since he’d lost, and he was already laughing.
Jude watched it twice. He’d seen Erling like that many times, but something in the way he looked past the camera rather than directly into it made Jude think about the version of himself that existed for other people, and the one he only gave to a select few.
He set the phone face-down on the bedside table and rolled over. He told himself Erling was fine, that there was no urgency, that tomorrow was better for reaching out.
He told himself that wanting to call, to be needed, was childish, and that Erling no doubt had better things to do after a loss. He wasnʼt the kind of guy to dwell on the past, after all.
Jude tried to rehearse what he would say when he did call, but every version sounded artificial or contrived, like something a footballer would say to another footballer, and not what Jude wanted to say to Erling.
He rolled over again, heaving a sigh. The room was too cold. The air con was set to eco but still ran on a cycle, clicking on with a mechanical whine every twenty minutes. He pulled the duvet up to his chest and tucked his arms underneath. The pillow was memory foam, expensive hotel issue, and it cradled the back of his skull in the exact way Erling’s bicep had the night he was here, having travelled seven hours just to see him.
Jude thought about that. Erling making the decision for both of them. Erling, the one who always showed up, and Jude himself, the one who hesitated.
He closed his eyes, picturing what the night was supposed to be: the two of them in Erling’s hotel room with a pizza between them, TV on, Erling looking for something good to watch while Jude picked toppings off his half and got away with it. Then Erling would rest his leg over Jude’s shins, and Jude would groan at the weight but never actually move him, and they’d fall asleep with the TV still on, and in the morning they’d brush their teeth together and pretend not to look at each other in the mirror.
Jude wanted that. He wanted that simple thing.
Instead, all he had was the blue-white wash of his phone screen, the endless trending clips, the night he wanted that hadn’t happened, and the knowledge that he’d never said, directly, what he meant to say.
He opened his eyes and stared at the smoke detector’s blinking red light. He counted the blinks, telling himself that sleep would come soon. But it didn’t. Not for a long time.
* * *
Jude woke before his alarm. The blackout curtains threw the room into false midnight, but he knew from the dull throb behind his eyes that it was sickeningly early in the morning.
He ran a hand over his face, then fumbled the phone from the side table, checking the screen as if it might have changed the outcome. Nothing from Erling. Nothing, period, except the blank, cheerful alert from the travel coordinator about today’s transfer, and four digits’ worth of notifications from every social platform that knew his name. He didn’t open any of it yet.
Packing was automatic—tops, shorts, sweats, match kit, boots thudded together heel to toe, the rest of it folded and stacked in a system he could do blind. The toiletries bag was the last thing in, as his mum taught him. He stripped the bed so that housekeeping wouldn’t have to, and then gave the room a final sweep.
Jude paused with his hand on the door, wondering if he should leave a tip for housekeeping, then realised he didn’t have any cash.
The team group chat was lit by the time he reached the elevator.
Saka
Matchday plus one!
Semi-final, let’s go!
Nico
sweet jesus
Harry
Is that me???
Declan
Golf anyone, b4 breakfast?
Yes?
Yes?
Reece J.
No.
Declan
No?
Jordan P.
No
Elliot
No
Morgan
No
Djed
No
Declan
:(
Jude scrolled without contributing.
Waiting for the lift, he finally checked X. The very top of the feed was a video he hadn’t expected—the Norway team at the airport, the entire squad moving in a column down the terminal concourse. They were all in matching navy tracksuits, rolling the same luggage.
The camera, held by someone walking backwards, eventually panned down the line. At the very end was Erling, headphones around his neck, Hermès bag in one hand and a Goyard duffel in the other.
He looked, for the first time Jude could remember, a little bit tired.
Jude watched the video twice, once for Erling and once for the background, the faces of the teammates who’d given everything and come away with that inescapable feeling of disappointment.
He had no idea if Erling was still in the States or already somewhere over the North Atlantic, but the sight of him at the back of the group made something catch in Jude’s throat—a feeling that all at once seemed impossible to translate into a DM or a Snap.
He stepped out on the ground floor and wheeled his case out the main doors toward The Market. It was already loud in there: England players in team issue, staffers, the familiar faces from the travelling press, all excitable from having made a semi-final.
Jude spotted Declan first, his laugh loud and earnest. Next to him was Nico, hunched over a bowl of cereal. There were empty seats by the window, and Jude took one without waiting for invitation.
“Early riser today,” Declan said, pushing a mug across. “You’re never up until we’re ready to get on the bus.”
Jude accepted the coffee though he didn’t really fancy it. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Didn’t seem like you needed it,” Nico said, mouth half full. “Saw the highlight reel? You’re trending top three worldwide.”
Jude made a face, but nodded. “It’s all memes. The internet’ll get bored of my football eventually.”
“That’s a load of bollocks.” Declan buttered his toast. “Who even scores from outside the box anymore? Next level, that.”
Jude smiled but shrugged it off. He eased a hand to the middle of the table, got some of his own toast, and let the conversation continue around him. He listened to them talk about the next match, the travel plans, who’d be sharing a room in Atlanta (as if anyone would be sharing a room in Atlanta), what the weather forecast said about July in Georgia. He contributed when needed, no more, no less.
When they’d all finished breakfast, Jude helped stack the plates so they’d be easier to clear away, thanked the kitchen staff, and followed the others to the car park where the bus was already idling. It wouldn’t leave for another twenty minutes, but most of the squad preferred to linger outside, soaking up the early morning sun.
Jude leaned against a low wall and watched the sky change from low grey to sunlit blue.
He pulled out his phone, navigating to his messages with Erling.
Safe trip home
Delivered
Jude quickly pocketed the phone again. Erling would reply, or he wouldn’t. Either way, the ball wasn’t in Jude’s half anymore.
He tried to imagine what Erling was doing right now. Probably sleeping, maybe eating, maybe already over Greenland rawdogging the flight like he did once. That image made Jude smile, briefly, and he let himself hold the feeling for as long as possible before it dissolved into the empty pit that was his stomach.
The transfer to the airport was smooth, the terminal quiet and the entire England party moving as one well-oiled machine through security, up escalators, and into the private lounge. Only after he’d claimed a seat by the window did Jude finally allow himself to look at his phone again.
The notification count was obscene. Tag after tag, article after article, voice notes from friends, teammates, old coaches, cousins, his brother (who sent three short videos of his own match last night and a single ‘PROUD OF U’ in all caps).
There was a text from his mum with a photo of his dad half-asleep wearing an England scarf and Jude’s own jersey, captioned: ‘The real captain.’ Jude saved it to his favourites.
He scrolled through it all, waiting for the notification he wanted at the top. When it never came, he exhaled and looked out at the flat expanse of tarmac, the sky above it endless and hot. He watched a plane land, then another, wondering why the absence stung worse than any of the tackles he’d taken all tournament.
Jude let the phone rest on his thigh, face up, open to possibility. Maybe this was what limbo felt like: waiting for someone else to move, not knowing what kind of day it would be until you heard from the only person you actually wanted to talk to.
Soon, the boarding call rang over the PA. Jude stood, and joined the tide of his teammates heading for the gate.
On the plane, he found his seat in business, window side, next to Harry who had his phone out.
Jude settled in, easing closer to Harry who tilted his phone so Jude could better see Katie on the screen.
“—no, don’t be daft, I’ll survive the night. You’re the one who needs the rest,” Katie said, then spotted Jude and beamed. “Oh, there’s our hero!”
Jude grinned. “Hiya. Alright?”
“All good here, looking forward to seeing you all soon.” She smiled. “You played incredible, love. Your family must be so proud.”
He felt his ears go warm. “Thank you. You know I just make it up as I go. Harry taught me everything I know, anyway.”
Harry groaned. “Don’t tell her that, she already thinks I’m gobby.”
Katie laughed so hard it glitched her audio. “I should let you boys get ready. Knock ‘em dead, Jude.”
Jude waved into the camera. “Will do.”
The call ended, and Harry pocketed his phone.
For a few moments they sat in the white noise of people talking and shuffling bags. Jude watched the runway through the window, the Kansas City sun bouncing off the wings.
Harry shifted, turning his whole upper body so he half-faced Jude. “You were a bit quiet at breakfast,” he said. “You good?”
“Yeah, mate. All good.” Jude feigned a yawn. “Didn’t sleep. Still riding the adrenaline, I think. Or it’s just the American coffee, it’s lethal.”
Harry gave him a look. Not the captain’s look, the dad look. “You’re not nervous, are you? Semi-final jitters?”
“Not nervous,” Jude said. It was true. Nervous wasn’t the word for it. He felt like he was a rag and someone had wrung him out. “Just tired. After Atlanta, I’m going to sleep for a week.”
“Can’t blame you. Big night. Quarter-finals, two goals, all eyes on you—”
“And I had grass stains all up my arse,” Jude said. “Did you see it in the post-match?”
“I saw the football, that’s what I saw,” said Harry, voice dry. “The rest is for the TikTok children.”
Jude smiled, grateful for the deflection.
Then Harry said, “Did you see Erling before he left?”
Jude pressed his head against the window, letting the cool plastic leech some of the heat from his forehead. “No. Didn’t get the chance. He was probably swamped.”
Harry nodded slowly, as if considering something. “Bet he was gutted.”
“He’ll be alright,” Jude mumbled. “He already is, I think.”
“Well, yeah, that too,” Harry said, “but I meant gutted he didnʼt see you. Haven’t you heard from him?”
Jude resisted the urge to wince. The question wasn’t pointed, but he felt it like a probe anyway. He kept his gaze on the painted tarmac stripes outside. “Nah. Haven’t heard. He’s probably busy. You know how it is.”
Harry didn’t press, and Jude was thankful for the small mercy of not being forced to play act any harder.
The flight attendant came through to check belts, shutting the overheads with a practiced slam. “We ask that all electronic devices be switched to aeroplane mode before takeoff.”
Jude pulled his phone out. He unlocked it, navigating to his messages.
Safe trip home
Read 11:45 AM
Seen, but not answered.
He put his phone on airplane mode and tucked it away.
The plane taxied, the engines rising. Through the window, Kansas City blurred by, then steadied as the nose tipped skyward.
Jude watched the ground fall away then slipped his headphones on, and sank into the headrest.