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Summary
All he could see was him.
Up in the stands, tucked away in a private box—because Erling had insisted, because he wanted Jude safe, wanted him comfortable, wanted him close—sat a figure in a sky-blue jersey. The shirt was too big. The sleeves hung past Jude's wrists, and he had to roll them up to his elbows. The number 9 was emblazoned on the back, and above it, in bold letters: HAALAND.
Jude had worn his shirt. His shirt.
Erling's blood ran hot.
