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Summary
Nobody else had burrowed under his skin like Haaland had. He was so far from his usual type, so friendly and stoic and cool-headed. God, Jude had liked him so much. He’d spent years making such a tit of himself trying to impress him, and what kept him on the backfoot was that he hadn’t needed to - Haaland had been his rock from the moment he joined the club. It was so easy, so effortless to slip into a routine, it unsettled Jude as much as it thrilled him. But he hadn’t liked how small Haaland made him feel. How out of control. The man was unflappable, impossible to provoke. Jude resented his own infatuation, the ever-swelling bubble of fondness he nursed for Erling, because he had no idea how to be with a man who didn’t fight back.
[The quarter-final looms. Jude hasn't seen Erling since their Dortmund days, and he still hasn't come to terms with his sexuality. Or his fondness for getting folded in half.]