Chapter Text
The strange thing about becoming famous before you were old enough to understand what fame actually meant was that eventually people stopped seeing you as a person altogether. Jude had realised that somewhere around nineteen.
Maybe earlier.
It wasn't one defining moment, but thousands of tiny ones stacked together until they became impossible to ignore. Every headline that praised him for being "mature beyond his years" while forgetting he was still barely out of his teens. Every camera shoved into his face after a disappointing match. Every stranger online who decided they knew exactly who he was because they'd watched ninety minutes of football and a two-minute interview. He had become an idea before he'd had the chance to become himself. Nowadays he barely notices the cameras waiting outside Valdebebas. They blurred into the background like floodlights or advertising boards. They were simply another part of life. Smile when you arrive. Smile when you leave. Keep your shoulders straight. Don't let anyone think you're tired.
Especially not tired. Being tired was weakness. Weakness became headlines. Headlines became questions. Questions became conversations he didn't want to have.
So he smiled.
Always.
Even when his stomach twisted painfully because he'd skipped breakfast again.
It wasn't deliberate.
At least, that was what he told himself every morning.
Training started early. Breakfast made him feel sluggish. Lunch could wait until after recovery. Dinner was late anyway. One missed meal became two. Two became normal. Normal became counting. Calories. Protein. Macros. Minutes trained. Kilometres covered. Body fat percentage. Weight. Everything became numbers. Football was numbers. Life became numbers. The frightening part was how quickly everyone congratulated him for it.
"Looking lean."
"You're flying this season."
"Best shape of your career."
Every compliment settled somewhere deep inside him and refused to leave.
If losing another kilogram meant another compliment...
Well.
Surely that wasn't such a bad thing.
Nearly two thousand kilometres away, Erling Haaland frowned at his phone for the third time that morning.
Erling
u alive?
Seen.
No reply.
That wasn't unusual by itself. Jude disappeared for hours all the time. Training, media work, travelling, sponsorships. Their schedules barely lined up anymore.
Still...
Something felt different lately.
Over the last few months the facetimes had become less frequent. The gaming sessions ended earlier.
Jude always claimed he was exhausted. Always had somewhere to be. Always promised he'd call tomorrow. Tomorrow rarely came.
Erling wasn't someone who worried easily. Most problems could be solved by talking, laughing or dragging whoever was involved out for food. Jude usually laughed at all three. Lately...
Not so much.
He opened Instagram instead. Another professionally edited training video. Another perfect smile. Another hundred thousand comments. He barely glanced at the positive ones anymore because something else caught his attention first.
"He's overrated."
"Media darling."
"Only famous because England protects him."
"Send him back."
"Most arrogant player alive."
Then the racist ones.
Erling's jaw tightened.
He reported them almost automatically before closing the app altogether.
He knew Jude saw them.
Jude pretended he didn't.
There was a difference.
"He's lost weight."
The comment came quietly during recovery. Antonio Rüdiger wasn't looking directly at Jude. Neither was Dani Carvajal. It made it somehow more serious.
"I noticed," Carvajal admitted.
"Maybe it's just the season."
"Maybe."
Neither of them sounded convinced. Across the room Jude laughed at something Vinícius had said. It sounded genuine. Almost.
But when he stood to refill his water bottle, the room seemed to notice at once. His training top hung differently. His shorts looked looser. His shoulders sharper.
Nobody said anything. Football dressing rooms weren't built for conversations like that. They were built for injuries. Not illnesses nobody could see.
That evening Jude finally replied.
sorry mate
been busy
Erling stared at the message. Three words. No emojis. No sarcastic comment. No meme.
Nothing that sounded like Jude. He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Erling
Video call?
The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Finally—
cant
maybe tomorrow
Erling looked at the screen for a long moment.
Then he sighed. Something was wrong. He didn't know what. But he'd known Jude long enough to recognise when "I'm busy" actually meant "Please don't ask."
This time...
He was going to ask anyway.
From hundreds of miles away, Jude placed his phone face down on the bedside table before opening the calorie tracking app again.
1,126.
Too much.
His thumb hovered over the screen before deleting dinner entirely.
934.
Better.
His stomach growled loudly in the silence of the apartment. He ignored it. Outside, Madrid glittered beneath the evening lights. Inside, the room felt impossibly quiet. For the first time in years, football wasn't the heaviest thing he carried. He just hadn't realised yet that he wasn't carrying it alone.
The next few weeks passed in the strange, relentless blur that only football seemed capable of creating. Flights melted into hotel rooms, hotel rooms into stadium tunnels, stadium tunnels into ninety-minute performances that millions would dissect before the final whistle had even blown. There was hardly enough time to unpack a suitcase before it was zipped shut again, hardly enough time to sleep before another training session demanded every ounce of energy Jude could pretend he still possessed. On the surface, nothing looked different. He was still smiling for cameras. Still signing shirts for children waiting outside stadiums. Still giving careful interviews about focusing on the next match and taking every game as it came. If anyone had asked him directly whether he was okay, he would have answered without hesitation.
"I'm fine."
The words came easier every day. The frightening part was that he almost believed them.
His body complained in quieter ways than people expected. His legs felt heavier by the second half of training. Recovery sessions took longer. Sleep never seemed to leave him feeling rested. Every so often, when he stood up too quickly after stretching, the world would narrow into a haze of white around the edges before slowly returning to normal. He blamed the heat. The travel. The schedule. Everyone else accepted those explanations because footballers were always tired.
No one questioned tired.
They questioned injuries. This wasn't an injury. This was something else. Something Jude refused to name.
His phone buzzed during lunch.
Erling
Have you eaten?
Jude rolled his eyes despite the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
obviously
A response arrived almost instantly.
Liar.
Jude stared at the screen.
Why would I lie about lunch??
Because you lie about everything else.
His fingers froze above the keyboard. A minute passed. Then another. Eventually he typed the safest response he could think of.
dramatic
Erling sent a thumbs-down emoji.
Then another message.
Facetime tonight.
Not a question. Jude sighed.
busy
You're always busy.
because i actually have things to do
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Fine.
Tomorrow then.
Jude didn't answer.
Instead, he locked his phone and pushed his untouched lunch tray slightly further away.
"What are you doing?"
Jude looked up sharply.
Vinícius stood opposite him, eyebrows raised.
"What?"
"You've been moving that chicken around your plate for like ten minutes."
Jude glanced down. He hadn't even realised. "I ate loads after training."
Vinícius frowned. "You literally came straight here."
"I had a protein shake."
"You hate protein shakes."
"I've started liking them."
There was a pause. Not awkward.
Just... thoughtful. Vinícius eventually shrugged. "If you say so."
Jude smiled. "I do."
The conversation moved on, but something lingered in the silence afterwards. Not suspicion exactly. More like uncertainty. The kind that sat quietly in the back of someone's mind, waiting until enough small moments joined together to become impossible to ignore.
Social media had become a habit he couldn't break. Every night he promised himself he wouldn't look. Every night he looked anyway. One post. Then another. Highlights from training. Photos from sponsors. Pictures of him laughing with teammates. The comments came flooding underneath them.
"Future Ballon d'Or."
"Best midfielder in the world."
"He's carrying Madrid."
Those should have mattered.
Instead, his eyes searched for the others.
"Looks different."
"Lost loads of weight."
"He's either sick or obsessed with the gym."
"Someone get this guy a burger."
Then the comments that had nothing to do with football.
The racist ones. The ones questioning whether he belonged. The ones reducing him to the colour of his skin instead of the football he'd spent his entire life playing.
He read every single one. He knew he shouldn't. He couldn't stop. By the time he finally locked his phone, his chest felt unbearably tight. He skipped breakfast the next morning.
Rain tapped softly against Erling's apartment windows while he sat scrolling through another interview Jude had given after a Champions League match. Perfect answers. Perfect smile. Perfect posture. Something about it felt rehearsed. Not the interview.
Jude.
His smile never quite reached his eyes anymore. Erling opened their message history. Months ago it had been endless. Photos. Voice notes. Ridiculous memes. Arguments over FIFA. Late-night phone calls that somehow lasted until three in the morning despite training the next day.
Now...
Mostly blue message bubbles from him. Mostly excuses from Jude.
He wasn't angry. He was worried. There was a difference.
"You should call him."
John Stones looked up from tying his boots. "Who?"
"Jude."
John blinked. "Random."
Erling shrugged. "I think something's wrong."
"What kind of wrong?"
"I don't know."
John considered that. "I saw him with England in March."
"And?"
"He seemed... quieter."
Erling looked at him. "Just quieter?"
John hesitated. "And thinner."
The word landed heavily between them. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Finally John sighed.
"Maybe we're imagining it."
"Maybe."
Neither of them sounded convinced.
That night, Jude stood alone in his apartment kitchen.
The digital clock on the microwave glowed 00:47. The refrigerator was full. Meals prepared by the club nutritionist sat neatly labelled inside. He opened the door. Stared. Closed it again. His stomach ached. He drank a glass of water instead. As he walked back towards his bedroom, his phone vibrated once more.
Erling
Goodnight.
Miss you, idiot.
Jude smiled despite himself.
His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Miss you too.
Instead he sent a single message.
night
The reply came almost immediately.
Call me when you're ready.
Jude looked at those five words for a long time. Then he switched his phone off. Because if he kept talking to Erling...
Eventually, Erling would ask the questions Jude wasn't ready to answer.
And right now, pretending everything was fine felt far easier than admitting he had no idea when things had stopped being okay.