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The Mediterranean sun beat down mercilessly on the sparkling turquoise waters surrounding Taormina, but Erling couldn't feel its warmth. From the teak deck of his private yacht, the view of Mount Etna was breathtaking, and the scent of lemon groves carried on the salty breeze was intoxicating, but his mind was thousands of miles away. He sat on the sun drenched cushions, a glass of chilled prosecco untouched beside him, staring at his phone with a grim intensity. The final whistle had blown twenty minutes ago, and the images flooding his feed were devastating: Jude, slumped on the grass of the stadium, his face buried in his hands while the Argentinian players celebrated their victory. Erling felt a physical ache in his chest, a sympathetic pain that no amount of Italian luxury could soothe.
All the way in Atlanta, Jude was drowning in a different kind of atmosphere. The locker room was a tomb of silent grief, the air thick with the smell of sweat, liniment, and the crushing weight of disappointment. His body felt heavy, every muscle protesting the ninety minutes of relentless exertion, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow emptiness in his gut. He had given everything every sprint, every tackle, every ounce of tactical discipline and yet, the scoreboard remained unchanged. He sat alone in the corner of the showers, the water running hot enough to turn his skin scarlet, trying to wash away the sting of defeat, but the images of the missed opportunities kept flashing behind his eyelids like broken film strips.
When Jude finally retreated to his hotel room, he didn't turn on the lights. He simply collapsed onto the bed in his tracksuit, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. His phone buzzed against his thigh a persistent, demanding vibration that he initially wanted to ignore. But when he finally reached for it, the screen illuminated his tear streaked face with a harsh glow. It was a FaceTime request from Erling. Jude hesitated, his throat feeling tight and raw, before swiping to accept.
The screen flickered to life, revealing Erling's sun kissed face, framed by the dazzling backdrop of the Italian coast. The contrast was almost cruel Erling looked like a god of summer, while Jude looked like a man who had been through a war. "Jude," Erling whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always seemed to ground Jude. There was no pity in his eyes, only an overwhelming, fierce tenderness that made Jude's lower lip tremble. "Hey. Look at me. Hey."
Jude tried to swallow the lump in his throat, but it wouldn't budge. "We lost, Erling. I lost." he managed to choke out, his voice cracking painfully. "I couldn't- I didn't do enough. Everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers." The dam finally broke, and as he spoke, the tears began to flow freely again, hot and unstoppable. He felt small, exposed, and utterly defeated by the world.
"Listen to me," Erling said firmly, leaning closer to his camera as if he could physically reach through the digital divide to cup Jude's face. "You played like the lion you are. I watched every single minute. You were amazing, Jude. One match, one game, does not define you. Do you hear me? You are the best in the world, and I don't care what the scoreboard says." Erling's expression softened, his thumb unconsciously brushing across his own screen where Jude's cheek was visible. "I wish I was there. I wish I could just pull you onto this boat, take you away from all this noise, and remind you who you are."
Jude let out a shaky breath, the sound echoing strangely in the empty hotel room. "I just feel so empty."
"I know," Erling murmured, using the endearment like a lifeline. "But you won't be empty for long. When I get back, we're going to disappear. No cameras, no football, no pressure. Just us. I'm going to hold you until you forget what that stadium even looks like." Erling stayed on the line, not demanding conversation, simply letting his presence fill the space. He talked softly about the Mediterranean, about the ridiculous fish he had eaten for lunch, anything to keep Jude anchored to something other than his own despair.
Minutes turned into an hour. Slowly, the frantic beating of Jude's heart began to steady. The raw wound of the loss didn't disappear, but it stopped bleeding so freely. Having Erling there even through a screen, even from a yacht halfway across the world made the darkness feel less absolute. "Thank you, Erling," Jude whispered, his eyes finally closing as exhaustion began to overtake the sadness. "I needed that."
"Sleep now," Erling commanded gently, his blue eyes fixed on Jude with an intensity that promised protection. "Dream of something sweet. I'm always here for you." As Jude finally drifted into a restless sleep, the last thing he saw before the screen went dark was Erling's face, watching over him with a devotion that made the bitter taste of defeat feel momentarily bearable.