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Benched. Obviously. Tuchel doesn’t care about this match, and third place isn’t all that much better than fourth, so Bellingham didn’t really protest the placement. He looked over to his left, Harry Kane. He looked to his right. Jordan Pickford. He dragged both hands across his face. These partners stink of poo.
Or rather useless small talk. At some point during their bickering while they waited for the match to pick up, having taken exactly 1 minute from the start to sit in silence, Jude knew that he was in for a whole load of trouble if he stayed where he was. He got up from his seat to survey the stadium, catching sight of Declan running towards the Maignan in the square, and nodded, hoping his pass would be good.
And then he shot the ball straight into the net?
It happened so fast their fans hadn’t even had time to roar as they processed the first goal of the match, and no matter the angles they showed, it wasn’t even offside.
Jude slid back into his seat. Minutes trickled by, and he became even more confused by the score. Had they just been trash during that Argentina match? Why were they playing better with their best players benched?
“What am I witnessing??” He whispered to himself, checking the time to see that yes, they weren’t even due for the halftime break and they were already up 4 goals to none. Against such a team, and they’re breezing past? He hadn’t even stepped foot on the pitch, he didn’t have anything to write home about, it’ll be unbearable to have to explain this to-
“I think we’re seeing a good match,” an accented voice spoke from behind him, and Jude turned around to see Erling crouched behind his chair.
“Wha-When did you come here?” He pressed himself against the chair, angling his head inconspicuously to speak to the man huddled between the rock and the seat.
A hand gripped the back of his seat between the hard plastic and Jude’s back. The hairs on his neck bristled as he tried to keep his cool while Erling pushed his head up to be able to talk in his ear. “I got in during the water break. It’s fun to see how you see the world from down here.”
“Haha,” Jude rolled his eyes, then shifted to try to apply less pressure on his boyfriend’s hand. “Why are you here though? You know they’re gonna see you, right?”
“Not if I stay here and you go there.” He proposed, tapping his fingers on the edge of the seat, sending electric shots up Jude’s back. “I’ll take your spot, people will look at you.”
“That is,” Jude tried to find the less rude way to phrase it, “The stupidest idea you’ve had all week.”
“But it would work.”
They sit that way for a while, just looking at the match in bewilderment. From 4-0 to 4-3 it seemed like never ending goals. Mbappé got two of his own, and suddenly it looked like this was a match for the ages instead of third place. Jude got the urge to do something.
“Go,” Erling whispered to him, “You look like you’re vibrating. You’ll get 20 minutes of fun.”
Jude stood up, followed by the towering giant, who he pushed down just a bit to avoid attracting attention. Kane and Pickford still hadn’t noticed him, too busy talking with each other, the air, and Tuchel.
“When the match ends, I want you to come out onto the field,” Jude steeled himself, letting out a breath before taking off his benched jersey and picking his way out of the seats.
Erling stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, bringing him close to his chest, enjoying how he felt the shorter man flush. “Go score a goal for me, so that we can be equals in the golden boot,” he said, giving him a slap on the ass for encouragement.
Jude got out on the field fueling the uproar of the crowd. It did help that they’d seen him shirtless, but that was a bonus for one man in particular.
He could’ve taken the penalty, really. But he saw Saka’s face, his nervous jitters at having two goals this match and his hunger for another. He wanted a chance to prove himself. This was it. He left him the ball.
The goal had him even more pumped up than if he had scored it. Everyone had expected it, but he’s a man of breaking norms, and he intended to make good on that promise.
Last chance, 98th minute. He had the ball. No one was in front of him. He didn’t even need to pass. Maignan was looking at him in a panic, and Jude knew he wasn’t expecting the throw. Clear shot, straight on target. His last goal of the cup. They won the match. Third place wasn’t anything to scoff at, it seemed.
But he was waiting for the real match to begin. The cries of the crowd suddenly gave way to gasps, and cries, and when the rowing sounds started, he knew that the plan was in motion.
He turned away from the crowd to look across the stadium, where he easily spotted the head of blonde hair walking towards him. They met in the middle of the field to exchange a cordial handshake. Jude looked up at him in silence. Erling stared back, then looked up to the fans in the crowd to see how they were taking the stand-off.
Jude placed a hand on his shoulder, making the bigger man look at him again. He shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ way, then jumped in his arms and linking his hands behind his back for stability.
“We’re even now,” he spoke in his ear, “Or, we’re actually odd, aren’t we? Seven’s strange.”
“It’s lucky,” Erling corrected, grabbing the back of Jude’s head to connect their lips in a languid kiss.
The crowd faded away, and Jude couldn’t care less as he heard the sharp whistle of the referee above the background noise, swatting a hand in the general direction of the sound, grabbing a fistful of Erling’s shirt to keep himself from falling. Not that his boyfriend would ever let go. It was simply to mark what was his.
He’d wanted to go public with this for months. Ever since they both qualified for the cup. For closure, sure, and to stop their hiding, but also to give hope to others that were in a similar predicament. Erling had told him many times about how Phil was always texting someone during their breaks in the locker room looking red as a tomato when he would be caught, hiding his phone on reflex. And when the giant had peeked at the name contact, he’d almost considered laughing, since Phil had learned the most broken of Spanish to talk to Julian. And by the tone of the messages he’d seen, he wasn’t the only one obsessed with someone from another league.
But they would pave the way for them. For all of them. A league of their own.