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“So, why’d you push him, then?” Jude asks, twirling a strand of his boyfriend’s sweaty blond hair between his fingers. Maybe he shouldn’t be bringing up the foul that probably lost Norway's chance at the World Cup less than twenty-four hours after it had happened, but this is Erling. He’s already been out cheerfully partying away his sorrows with his teammates before returning to Jude’s hotel room to fuck him twice, all in as good a mood as if they hadn’t lost at all.
“Who?” Erling asks, shooting him a slightly dopey smile and entirely proving his point.
“Elliot,” Jude enunciates, rolling his eyes but with affection. “You know, of the whole VAR-review-of-the-foul-disqualified-Noway’s-goal situation?”
“Oh,” Erling says, unruffled by Jude’s sass. “Well, same reason any of us do. He was in my way.”
“Sure, but that doesn’t mean you had to bulldoze him. Everyone’s always trying to get you to snap; usually you just act like they’re flies you won’t bother to swat.” Erling huffs a laugh at that, one that Jude feels more than hears.
“Well, I guess he got in my way in more ways than one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jude asks, raising an eyebrow.
“That was the first time in the game he’d actually focussed on the game instead of his own teammate,” Erling says with a snort. “He thought he was in a nightclub and not on a football pitch.” Jude scrunches his nose, trying to figure out who Erling means— is there some sort of flirtation/situation/relation-ship on the team that he doesn’t know about?— when the uncharacteristically hard expression on his boyfriend’s face finally makes the penny drop.
“What the fuck?” Jude squawks. “Elliot does not think of me like that!”
“Probably not most of the time,” Erling admits, a little sheepishly, “but in that moment, the alpha in him sure did. Your pheromones were pretty strong today, you know.”
“No one was thinking about that except you,” Jude insists, flushing, although if he’d been forced to admit it he had noticed a few of his teammate’s eyes catching on him more than usual. He’d thought it was just them trying to will him into scoring more goals, but maybe—
“Wait, so you fouled him because you thought he was checking me out?” Jude demands, deciding to cut off that train of thought.
“I mean, he was also trying to block me, so there was that.” Jude sighs and buries his head in his hands.
“So you just went full caveman on him?” Because no matter where Elliot’s eyes may or may not have roamed, Erling shouldn’t have lost control like that. Losing it had lost Norway the game.
“Don’t act like you don’t have a temper too, my love.” Jude can’t say anything to that, because he’s had more than his fair share of on-pitch squabbles and shoving matches. Cat fights, Erling likes to call them, because he’s annoying like that. But really, who had been the one acting like a diva today?
“Aren’t you upset with yourself? If you hadn’t fouled him, the game probably would’ve gone into extra time.” Erling gives him a well-what-can-you-do-about-it? shrug, but at least has the decency to look slightly rueful.
“There’s always next time,” he reasons. “Besides, shouldn’t you be satisfied with yourself? Your omega pheromones might be England’s secret weapon. You should talk to Tuchel about using it for tactical advantage. Although, actually, please don’t, because I don’t want anyone smelling you but me.”
“You’re hilarious,” Jude says acidly, because he thinks he would actually kill himself before bringing up his fucking pheromones with his coach. No, this discussion was never going anywhere outside of these four walls. In fact, Jude would do his best to forget that he’d ever heard it himself. “Besides, I don’t need that. England’s secret weapon is my feet, thank you very much. May I remind you that I’ve scored just as many goals as you this World Cup? And I intend to score a lot more before it’s done, and you won’t be able to do anything about it.”
“True,” Erling says, taking Jude's outburst in stride. “You were incredible, as always.” He reaches out to pat Jude’s hip, and Jude knows it’s his way of apologizing for unintentionally injuring his sense of pride. “At least now I can fully focus on cheering for you like the devoted boyfriend I am.” And that he is— he’ll probably show up to England’s next game with a Bellingham jersey on, waving a St. George’s Cross flag. Seriously, if he wasn’t a national treasure, he’d probably get himself assassinated by his countrymen for his treachery. Good thing they’d never know the real reason why he’d fouled Elliot, or even he wouldn’t be able to Haaland his way out of that one.
“Anyways,” Erling continues, his hand drifting decidedly away from Jude’s hip, “We might have lost, but I think I got my point across to him.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re turned on.” Jude wants to protest, but he can’t deny the physical evidence.
“Come here, idiot,” he says instead, pulling Erling closer. And then Erling proves that, at least when it comes to endurance, he’ll always be a winner.