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Two years into his journey with Les Bleus and playing in his first ever World Cup, Michael finally understood what people had seen from the start. He didn’t know how they did it, but he always seemed to know exactly where Kylian was on the pitch, even without looking. There was a connection, somehow, somewhere. He could just glance up and instantly find him, even in the middle of a quick transition, waiting for the perfect pass.
And when Kylian ended up scoring and high-performing in a match thanks to one of Michael’s assists, like in their latest game against Sweden where Michael literally jumped into his arms celebrating, it almost always meant one thing.
“Come to Real Madrid,” Kylian repeated for the tenth time since the start of the tournament. It was after Mexico vs. Ecuador watch session that the captain had decided to host in his room. Tonight only Michael, Marcus and Ousmane had tagged along, so Michael couldn’t really hide in the background.
“General Mobutu has spoken,” Marcus quipped, lying on Kylian’s bed with his phone held up. On the other side of the room, Ousmane cackled.
“Bro, let it go,” he said to Kylian. “You’re still not getting the CL.”
“Fuck off,” Kylian said, fighting the smile off his face. Michael watched the dimples still forming on his cheeks. “That’s not the only reason.”
“So you admit it’s part of the reason, then?”
“I know I’ll lift that trophy,” Kylian said matter-of-factly, his blazing self-confidence never failing to amaze Michael. “I just want Mike on the team when I do.”
“Hey Mike, d’you even wanna go to Real?” Marcus asked in English, putting on a cliché Hollywood accent, the same one he always used to tease Michael.
Marcus knew Michael hated being spoken to in his native language when he was with the team, but he still did it just to annoy him. He was like that, Marcus. Michael even wondered how he and Kylian were so close.
Michael flipped Marcus off instead of an answer, which only served to make everyone laugh. It helped him gain some momentum after how Kylian made his heart flutter with a single sentence: I just want Mike on the team when I do.
They hung out in Kylian’s room for a while longer after that, watching as he decided to challenge each of them on FIFA. From his spot on the bed when he wasn’t playing, propped up against the pillows, Michael couldn’t stop his eyelids from getting heavy. Funnily enough, he drifted off right as Ousmane shrieked in delight after scoring.
❈
When Michael opened his eyes, he realized a second too late that something was off: he wasn’t supposed to be lying down.
The room was also plunged into darkness, with only Kylian’s PS5 stand glowing dimly and casting shadows against the ceiling. Michael didn’t move immediately. He always needed a moment to shake off the sleep before his brain activated. Then he started slowly shifting his fingers and his legs, noticing the weight of the duvet over him. He could’ve sworn he hadn’t slipped in himself. He propped himself up next, but before he could even glance beside him, Kylian spoke.
“I hope you don’t mind me pulling the covers over you,” he said in an apologetic tone, patting the space between them. “You were sleeping already, didn’t want to wake you up.”
Their proximity made Michael’s heart flutter against his ribs. At that moment he was thankful for the dark; if he couldn’t see Kylian’s face, it meant Kylian couldn’t see him either.
“It’s fine,” Michael said. He didn’t like how thin his voice sounded, so he cleared his throat and tried again. “I should prolly go.”
“I meant what I said, you know,” Kylian said, completely ignoring Michael’s words. “About wanting you in Real. Like we work so well together. As a pair.”
“I think it too,” Michael finally admitted, his voice dropping an octave, as if he’d been suddenly allowed to say it aloud. The admission still felt like a betrayal, even without any of their teammates around to hear it. “But I’m under contract, Kylian. I can’t just walk out of Bayern before 2029.”
“Contracts change, though,” Kylian immediately countered. “Big-fee transfers happen every season.”
Michael thought about it for a second. Kylian knew how to make things sound easier than they actually were. Considering he was one of the most popular and influential players in their generation, it made sense everything would just play out differently for Kylian Mbappé, which was exactly why the ‘dictator’ jokes had started spreading online.
“I don’t know,” Michael said at last, and he knew it was the worst thing to admit when talking with someone as naturally persuasive as Kylian.
“Think about it.” Kylian shifted, the mattress slightly dipping under his weight. “You’re an all-rounder player, Mike. You see the game the way I do. Bayern is a big club, sure, but it’s too uncompetitive. It’s not enough to showcase what you can actually do.”
Michael’s hands bunched the fabric of the duvet distractingly. He’d always dreamed about playing for Real Madrid since he was a kid, but that was just every football player’s standard ambition—everyone knew the Spanish club was one of the biggest institutions in the world. Lately, though, it had turned into something desperate. It wasn’t just about his career anymore, but how he couldn’t possibly let go of that incredible chemistry he had with Kylian when the World Cup ended. The idea of getting to experience it not only during their international schedules but almost everyday…
“I’m not asking you to decide just tomorrow,” Kylian pressed, his fingers brushing near where Michael’s were twitching on the duvet. He’d gotten close; Michael hadn’t even noticed when it happened. “But it’d be stupid not to consider it. At least.”
Michael swallowed. “You’re not wrong.”
“I’m usually not,” Kylian said, and Michael could almost hear the smile in his voice. “But don’t take my words for it. Go ask around. I’m sure Aurel and Ibou would love to tell you what it’s like.”
❈
Michael knew his French had improved since he started playing with the national team, but texting in slang abbreviations still made his head spin.
The group chat was blowing up this morning, and he didn’t even need to open it to know why. Since the coaching staff had split the squad between those who were benched in the last game and needed intensity versus those who played the game and needed lighter exercises to avoid muscle fatigue, Michael had plenty of time to kill. And unfortunately, so did a good chunk of the team. They were clearly bored, and they were using that boredom to make him and Kylian the main topic of conversation.
His phone buzzed again, and Michael stopped in the middle of his stroll around Bentley University to check the notification. He glanced down to see the now familiar, edited photo of him and Kylian dressed in full military regalia, looking like the absolute peak of that ‘dictator’ meme that had taken over the internet. There was a lot of mdrrrr and ptdrrrr, lots of hahahas and laughing emojis that at least Michael understood, all of that, he only guessed, from the fact someone had seen him leave Kylian’s room in the middle of the night.
The sound of a short car horn pulled him from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ousmane and Bradley driving the small green car towards him. That car was also one of the main attractions in Bentley University when they were training, and everyone always had to fight for their turn.
“My general,” Bradley said with a mocking salute, sending Ousmane into a fit of laughter.
“Have you guys seen Aurel?” Michael asked, ignoring them.
“With the physio,” Ousmane replied, watching him suspiciously. “Why? Something on your mind?”
Ousmane was witty, but it was also uncommon for Michael to go looking for Aurélien. They all got along fine, sure, but everyone had their own established cliques, and Michael and Aurélien were rarely seen together.
“Just asking,” Michael shrugged, and pointed at the car, then at Bradley behind the wheel. “Care to share?”
“Like we have a choice,” Bradley said as he got up. “Would Kyks bench me if I refused you?”
“You’re delusional,” Michael said, which only served to make the two men snicker. It was going to be a long day.
“As if you don’t know exactly what you do to him,” Ousmane said with a knowing smile.
Michael’s brain whited out for a blinking second, but Ousmane and Bradley were already walking away, leaving him standing there under the hot sun.
❈
“Michael Olise, Michael Olise,” Désiré intoned the way he usually did when Michael dropped down on the seat next to him, “my man.”
They high-fived, and it seemed to be enough for Désiré. He was a simple guy. That was something Michael really appreciated about him: never asking for more energy than someone was willing to give him. And Michael’s levels were usually low after a long training session.
The locker room was mostly empty, save for Dayot and Warren who was lazily scrolling on his phone near the exit, waiting for Désiré. They finished changing in silence, Michael pulling his hood up over his France gear, until a chorus of pings echoed through the room as every phone buzzed at once.
“Captain’s saying,” Warren read out loud, not looking up from his screen, “the bus is leaving in ten minutes.”
“We better get going,” Désiré said, nodding towards the door.
Michael was already shouldering his bag, ready to follow, when Dayot’s hand caught his arm.
“Mike, can I have a word?”
They stayed behind, letting the others walk ahead.
“What happened?” Michael asked, concerned.
“I’m hearing a lot of noise, Mike,” Dayot started, looking uncertain. “And I don’t want to give it more attention, but… none of it is coming from you. We’re teammates, right?”
Michael nodded.
“Not just for France, but back in München too. I just thought you’d come to me first if there was something to talk about.”
Michael felt his mouth getting dry. “Have Aurel or Ibou spoken to you?”
For some reason, Dayot seemed to look even more disappointed. “Why would they? Is there something I need to know?”
“Not really,” Michael said in a low voice. “It’s just… I asked Aurel what it was like. The locker room in Madrid, I mean. And I asked Ibou how he handled his transfer.”
“Why?” Dayot frowned.
“Is it that weird?” Michael deflected. “You wouldn’t ask if you were hearing what people say about the club?”
Dayot stayed silent for a moment, his expression guarded. Michael knew him well, and he felt bad for lying to him. Dayot wasn’t the type to doubt people, and he looked like he was struggling to decide whether to give Michael the benefit of the doubt.
“Is it about the fight with Valverde?” Dayot finally muttered.
Michael saw it for what it was: Dayot was giving him a way-out, although it still felt like he was being cornered. If he said yes, the conversation would be over, even if it was a lie. And not only the conversation. Michael felt a weight on his chest as he opened his mouth to answer, but the locker door suddenly swung open, cutting him off.
It was Kylian, with his trademark black cap on.
“Captain,” Michael said with an obvious relief in his voice.
Kylian looked between the two of them, his brows furrowed. “Is everything alright?”
“We were just leaving,” Dayot answered, picking up his sport bag from the bench.
Kylian sighed, checking his watch. “I sent a text in the group chat ten minutes ago. We’re supposed to be moving as a block, guys. Let’s not make it harder for our staff.”
“Sure,” Dayot nodded, immediately heading out.
Michael followed, but Kylian caught his arm, lingering in the doorway.
“You’re good?” he asked, his voice softening.
Michael felt his heart spike, the usual reaction he still couldn’t put a name on whenever Kylian was this close. He found he couldn’t even look him in the eyes.
“Fine, I guess,” Michael replied, looking towards the empty hallway instead. “Just Upa asking questions.”
Kylian gave his arm a gentle tug, turning him towards the exit. “About what?”
“He heard about my sudden interest in Madrid.” Michael glanced down to where they were still linked. “Rumors spread fast.”
“And they’ll die just as fast,” Kylian said, never missing a beat.
They reached the end of the hallway. Kylian used his free hand to hold the door open for Michael, his other hand brushing briefly against Michael’s lower back to guide him through; but the touch was gone as quickly as it had come.
“You should have your agent put a statement out,” Kylian suggested when they stepped outside. “And deny any claims of interest in Real before the media gets involved.”
Now that they were walking side by side without the physical contact, Michael found it easier to look him in the eyes.
“Why would I do that?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “I thought you wanted me in Madrid?”
Kylian’s dimples creased his cheeks. “You really don’t get the game, do you?”
“What am I missing?”
“You have to make your club raise your salary to keep you ‘loyal’. And make the other clubs fight to have you.”
“But how do I even know Madrid will be interested?”
Kylian stopped in the middle of the parking lot, forcing Michael to halt beside him, the bus waiting a few steps ahead.
“Do you trust me?” Kylian asked, and Michael didn’t even realize he was already nodding. “Then do exactly as I said. Madrid will meet you there.”
❈
In the following days, while Michael moved deeper into the World Cup, Rebecca had been working relentlessly to bury any rumors of his intent to leave Munich for Madrid. The media was for most consumed by the tournament and the ‘FIFA corruption’ scandals, and if he was being honest, Michael had been too, completely consumed by the intensity of the worldwide tournament.
He’d left everything Madrid-related to Rebecca, so much so that when she called him a few days after the Morocco match, his exhausted brain struggled to process the sudden onslaught of information.
“Reb, please slow down.” Michael squeezed his eyes shut against the throb in his temples. “It’s two a.m. here. What was that you just said?”
“The strategy was to play it cool, but the clock is ticking,” Rebecca’s voice frizzled through the line. “You’re in the semis, which is great for your profile, but your goal sheet is empty. If you keep saying you’re staying in Bayern, they’ll believe you, and they’ll stop trying if they do.”
“I’m tired, Reb,” Michael mumbled. He didn’t tell her how miserable he already felt for not scoring any goals in the tournament.
“I don’t care,” Rebecca said, but her tone softened. “If you don’t start signaling some uncertainty, the only thing you’re getting is a new deal from Bayern that you can’t get out of. You’ll be their golden boy for five more years, and your chance at Madrid will be gone when you’re 30. You want that?”
“No,” Michael said immediately, propping himself up.
“So start forcing the market to react,” Rebecca concluded. “Now. We don’t know if your team’s getting to the final yet. Don’t mess up.”
The call ended with Michael’s anxiety skyrocketing through the roof. He rushed out of his room without thinking, walking down the massive corridor towards Kylian’s room. It was well past two a.m., but Michael knew he wouldn’t be able to rest if he didn’t speak to him now.
He tried to knock at the door discreetly, but the hallway was empty, making the sound echo off the walls. By chance, he only had to wait a couple of minutes in the stillness before hearing movement from inside the room. The door slowly opened to show Kylian in a plain white t-shirt, his face soft from sleep. The annoyance Michael could feel radiating off him at being woken up vanished the second their eyes met.
“Mike? What’s wrong?” Kylian asked, concerned.
“Sorry for waking you,” Michael said urgently. “Can we talk? It’s about-”
“Madrid,” Kylian finished for him, stepping back to let him enter. “What happened?”
Michael waited until Kylian closed the door before he spoke. “My agent told me I’m running out of time. There’s only two matches left and I’m still yet to score a goal. Madrid’s interest in me will soon start to wear off if I don’t, and the fact the press is stuck on the ‘I’m staying in Bayern’ narrative makes it worse.”
Kylian turned on the dimmest light in the room, brows raising. “Who told you Madrid’s interest is wearing off?”
Michael paused to think. “My agent. I just said.”
“She thinks so?” Kylian said. “Well, I don’t.”
“That’s not-”
“Mike, you cannot freak out over suppositions,” Kylian interrupted, his voice dropping. “I spoke with Pérez on the phone not so long ago. He’s been ready to make an offer. Remember what I told you?”
Michael frowned, because Kylian told him a lot of things.
“You just have to make your club pay a premium to keep you loyal. You should ask for a meeting with your club’s representatives after the World Cup. Make them know you mean business.”
“Yeah, okay,” Michael relented, the tension in his shoulders easing off. Kylian really made things sound easier than they were.
“That’s it?” Kylian asked, watching him intently. “That’s what you were panicking about?”
Michael shrugged, suddenly feeling very foolish. “I should go back to bed.”
“You should rest,” Kylian agreed. “We’re flying to Dallas tomorrow night. You should try to get a proper sleep.”
“Yeah.” Michael nodded, stepping back. “Thanks, Kylian. Really.”
He turned around and left the room, trying to move as quietly as possible before someone from the team spotted him again. He walked back towards his own door, patting his pockets out of habit for his key card… only to find nothing.
They were completely empty, since Michael had bolted out earlier in his sleepwear.
“Fuck,” Michael mouthed, reaching for the handle and twisting it in a futile attempt to open it. He was locked out, and he certainly wasn’t about to wake a staff member to fetch him a spare at two in the morning.
He dragged his feet back to Kylian’s room. This time, when he knocked, the door opened almost immediately, as if Kylian had been waiting for him.
“Everything okay?” Kylian asked in a gentle tone. Michael was grateful that it took Kylian a lot more to lose patience.
Michael looked down, his locks hiding his face. “Can I stay here tonight?” he asked, feeling shy. “I left my room key in my room. When I left in a rush.”
Kylian didn’t even hesitate, simply stepping aside to hold the door open wider. “Come in. You know my bed’s big enough for two.”
Michael’s heart still fluttered in his chest, but now for different reasons. He walked back into the room, letting Kylian click the door shut behind him, using the few seconds to sort his thoughts out.
“I can sleep on the couch,” Michael suggested, though he accidentally made it sound like a question.
“Don’t play coy,” Kylian said, turning off the lights and plunging them into darkness. “I don’t bite.”
Michael followed him, already thinking about how it would look to their teammates in the morning. It was the second time now that he’d ended up in the captain’s bed. They climbed in, the mattress dipping under their weight, and Kylian tossed him a pillow.
“Night,” Kylian mumbled next, to which Michael replied with an incoherent string of sounds that weren’t words at all.
Kylian chuckled, which somehow made it worse. Michael pulled the duvet up, staring into the shadows Kylian’s PS5 cast on the ceiling. His mind still raced with Madrid, Munich, Reb, and the reality, much dangerous, of lying inches away from the man whom he was currently dismantling his entire life for.
“I might be ruining my career,” Michael blurted out. He left the ‘for you’ unspoken, but he knew Kylian was smart enough to catch it in the silence between them.
Kylian didn’t answer immediately. Michael himself could admit that was an odd confession. He still waited, heart pulsing against his ribs, half-wishing for Kylian to be asleep. But then, Kylian rolled onto his side, and Michael turned his head, once again thankful for the darkness hiding his face.
“Stop overthinking it,” Kylian said at last quietly. “You know where you’re best, and you know who you’re best with.”
Again, simply put.
“We’re the best duo on the pitch,” Kylian went on, inching closer. “Doesn’t it make you wanna see how far it goes, being in a club together?”
“Yeah,” Michael said in a conspiratorial tone, and God, it was hard to remember that he was the teammate now; not the fan.
Kylian patted his cheek the way he always did to everyone after a goal. Michael didn’t let him pull away. He didn’t know who moved first, but a heartbeat later, his lips were against Kylian’s. It felt like an eternity where he wished he could disappear before Kylian’s hand cupped his jaw to deepen the kiss, kissing him slow.
Then Kylian slid the tip of his tongue against Michael’s lower lip, making him open his mouth in turn to let their tongues roll together. Their mouths came apart with a wet little smacking noise, and that seemed to make them both freeze in realization.
“Don’t freak out,” Kylian immediately murmured before Michael could apologize. “If that’s how we handle this, I think we’re gonna have a very interesting season in Madrid.”
Kylian dropped back into his side of the bed, letting out a short chuckle. It was deflection, pure deflection, but Michael felt the desperation behind. Kylian yearned just as much, and what Ousmane had told Michael a few weeks ago in Bentley now held a whole different meaning.