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It had taken Michael almost forty-eight hours after the Supercup to admit to himself that he couldn't just let it go.
That night in the hallway of the Dortmund stadium was supposed to be a bizarre, adrenaline-fueled blip. That Jobe Bellingham, a defeated, furious opponent losing his composure, shoving him up against a tiled wall, and smashing their lips together in a blind effort to shut him up. It was absurd. It was completely unprofessional.
He had been standing at the end of the hallway as a way to unwind after having just won the Supercup and also just to get away from the noise of his teammates. Sometimes being around too many people for too long overstimulated him. He just didn’t expect for Jobe to still be there.
And Michael hadn't been able to stop thinking about it for a single second since.
Sitting on his couch in Munich two days later, staring blankly at his phone, Michael realized he had a massive problem. He had no way of contacting Jobe Bellingham. They didn't move in the same circles, they weren't friends on any private messaging apps, and sliding into his public Instagram DMs felt laughably juvenile. He needed a number. A real one.
Which meant he was going to have to ask around. And for someone as notoriously private, quiet, and reserved as Michael Olise, the mere thought of asking anyone for a favor made his skin crawl.
His first thought had naturally been Jamal Musiala.
It was the most logical route by a mile. He was his closest friend on the team and he knew that he had history with the older Bellingham.
Jamal and Jude Bellingham had come up together through the England youth ranks, they’d shared rooms, shared road trips, and remained close mates even now. If anyone in the Bayern dressing room had Jobe’s direct contact info, or could get it from Jude within thirty seconds without raising an eyebrow, it was Jamal.
Michael had actually sat next to Jamal in the locker room after training, opening his mouth to ask.
“Hey, Jamal... you got Jobe Bellingham's number?”
The words had almost formed on his tongue, but Michael caught himself just in time and shut his mouth.
Jamal meant well. He really did. Jamal was warm, friendly, and enthusiastic, which was precisely why it was a terrible idea. The second Michael asked for Jobe's number, Jamal’s eyes would light up with genuine, relentless curiosity.
“Jobe? Why do you need Jobe’s number, Mike? Did something happen after the match? Are you guys working on a brand thing? Wait, this wouldn’t have to do with the goal you scored?”
Jamal would ask a hundred innocent questions with zero malice, and Michael wasn't ready to answer a single one of them. He couldn't risk Jamal casually bringing it up to Jude, who would then immediately call his younger brother to ask why a Bayern winger was hunting down his personal number. It was a chaotic chain reaction waiting to happen.
So, option one was officially dead. Jamal was out.
Michael leaned his head back against the locker, letting out a quiet, frustrated sigh. If he wanted Jobe Bellingham's number without sparking a full-blown investigation, he was going to have to get creative, and step far, far outside his comfort zone.
His next thought was Harry Kane.
Harry was the captain of the England national team and the senior figure in the Bayern locker room. He knew Jude inside out, and had likely met Jobe dozens of times. Getting Jobe's number from Harry would take all of two seconds.
Michael watched Harry across the recovery room, sitting on a physio table with an ice pack strapped to his knee, quietly reviewing match footage on an iPad.
Harry was a professional through and through, serious, reliable, and grounded. But that was precisely what made approaching him so tricky. Michael didn't know how to bring it up without it sounding entirely weird.
Even if Harry was too polite to ask outright, Michael knew the look he’d get. Harry would lift his head, his brow would furrow, and those steady, experienced eyes would linger on Michael with quiet, unspoken curiosity. Why is our winger asking for the twenty-year-old Dortmund midfielder’s private number two days after a Supercup match?
Michael had briefly considered crafting a cover story. He could play the humble, sportsmanlike teammate.
‘Hey Harry, I felt a bit bad about how that goal came off his mistake in the match. Just wanted to shoot him a quick message, make sure there are no hard feelings.’
It sounded plausible on paper. But as soon as Michael ran it through his head, he discarded it.
First of all, Michael Olise didn't text people to apologize for scoring goals. That wasn't his game, and everyone in the squad knew it. If he suddenly started acting like a sensitive, hyper-considerate player, it would raise ten times more red flags than staying silent.
Besides, Harry looked at guys like Jamal, Jude, and Jobe almost like a father figure or an older brother. The last thing Michael needed was the England captain inadvertently stepping into protector mode, wondering why Michael was suddenly taking such an intense interest in the younger Bellingham.
Michael ran a hand over his face, letting out a breath of quiet frustration.
No. Asking anyone in person is a disaster.
The Bayern training ground was a fishbowl. Every word spoken in those halls carried, every interaction was observed, and any strange request would turn into locker room banter within twenty-four hours. If he was going to get Jobe's number, he couldn't do it face-to-face. He needed a way to ask someone remotely, someone completely disconnected from the Bayern squad, who wouldn't pry, wouldn't gossip, and wouldn't care.
The last option on Michael’s mental list was Kylian Mbappé.
Kylian checked every single box. He didn't play for Bayern, he wasn't anywhere near the Munich training facility, and he certainly wasn't going to bump into Michael in a recovery lounge to pry into his personal life. They could handle it entirely over text, miles away, with Kylian down in Spain.
Because Kylian played alongside Jude at Real Madrid, getting Jobe’s number through him would be effortless. Kylian could ask Jude for his younger brother's contact under the guise of literally anything, send it to Michael, and move on with his day.
Still, a quiet flare of irritation shot through Michael as he stared at his phone screen.
It always comes back to Jude.
Every path to Jobe was blocked by the looming shadow of his older brother. Michael didn't really have a strong opinion on Jude Bellingham. He was an undeniably brilliant player, maybe a bit flair-heavy and dramatic on the pitch, but elite nonetheless. But the idea that any road to Jobe meant navigating around Jude made Michael’s jaw tighten.
He caught himself staring at his thumbs, his mind taking a wild, unprompted detour into the future.
If this thing with Jobe turned into something real... if it became more than just a chaotic, furious ambush up against a stadium wall... Michael was eventually going to have to deal with Jude. He was going to have to sit across a table from him, endure the protective-older-brother interrogation, and deal with him as an actual brother-in-law.
Michael blinked, freezing completely mid-thought.
Brother-in-law?
"You're losing your mind," Michael whispered to himself in the empty living room, tossing his head back against the cushion.
He was spiraling. He was already imagining family dinners and holiday awkwardness with Jude Bellingham, and he hadn't even managed to text the guy’s younger brother yet. For all Michael knew, Jobe was currently back in Dortmund regretting the whole thing, brushing the kiss off as a stupid,reckless mistake that he never wanted to repeat.
He needed to calm down. Step one was getting the number. Everything else was just noise.
Opening his messages, Michael scrolled down to Kylian’s contact. He took a deep breath, tapped the text box, and typed out a message that was short, direct, and gave away as little as humanly possible.
Michael: Hey. I need a favor, but you can’t ask any questions.
He hit send before his pride could talk him out of it, tossing his phone onto the coffee table and waiting for Kylian to reply.
An hour crawled by before Michael’s phone finally chimed on the coffee table.
He snatched it up instantly.
Kylian: What kind of favor?
Michael typed back without missing a beat.
Michael: That’s a question.
Kylian: How do you expect me to do you a favor without knowing what I’m agreeing to?
Michael: Ok, you can ask some questions, but I can choose not to answer them.
Kylian: Ok. So, again... what kind of favor?
Michael stared at the screen, his thumb hovering over the keypad. Beating around the bush any longer was exhausting. If he was going to do this, he just had to rip the band-aid off.
He typed out the words, his heart doing a brief, uncharacteristic stutter against his ribs.
Michael: I need Jobe Bellingham’s number.
He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the table with the screen still on, holding his breath.
One minute passed. Two minutes.
Michael watched the screen. Suddenly, three little typing bubbles popped up. They danced for a second, vanished, popped up again, stopped, and then reappeared. Kylian was clearly rewriting his response three different times, trying to figure out how to process what he was reading.
Then, the bubbles abruptly disappeared altogether.
A cold spike of absolute panic hit Michael in the chest. Oh, God. Kylian probably thought he had lost his mind. He was probably sitting in Madrid right now, staring at his phone in sheer disbelief, wondering why a rival winger in the Bundesliga was asking for a Dortmund player's phone number. He probably thought Michael was weird, or unhinged, or hacked.
Before Michael could grab the phone to panic-text 'forget I asked', the device violently lit up, vibrating against the wood.
The screen flashed with an incoming call.
Kylian.
The caller ID buzzing like a ticking time bomb.
Oh, shit.
Michael stared at the screen in pure panic, his hands glued to his sides as he just watched it ring. He didn't want to pick up. He refused to pick up. The whole reason he had messaged Kylian in the first place was so he could get this done over text, cold, detached, and with zero actual voice interaction.
The ringing finally cut out. Michael let out a heavy breath, sinking back into the cushions.
Ping.
Kylian: Answer the phone!
Michael buried his face in his hands, groaning out loud into his empty living room. He wanted to scrap the entire plan right then and there. Maybe he could just block Kylian, throw his phone in the Isar River, and pretend he'd been hacked.
But as he ran through his options, the brutal reality hit him, he had no one else. Jamal was out, Harry was out, and Kylian already knew the secret. Running away now wouldn't undo the text. He was backed into a corner, and if he wanted Jobe's number, he was just going to have to grin and bear it.
When the phone started ringing again a second later, Michael sucked in a sharp breath and tapped the green button.
"What?" Michael muttered as soon as he brought the phone to his ear, trying to sound as unbothered as humanly possible.
"Why do you want Jude's younger brother's phone number?" Kylian’s voice came crackling through the speaker, devoid of any greeting, packed full of sharp, disbelieving curiosity.
Michael gripped the edge of his couch. "That's a question I don't want to answer."
A long, excruciating beat of heavy silence stretched over the line. Michael held his breath, his pulse hammering in his throat as he waited for the inevitable interrogation.
Finally, a tired sigh echoed from him. "Alright," Kylian conceded, sounding like a big brother who was too exhausted to deal with a ridiculous teenager.
Michael’s shoulders visibly dropped, a wave of relief washing over him. "Let me ask Jude for his number," Kylian added casually.
The relief vanished in a fraction of a second, replaced by pure, blinding panic.
"Wait, no!" Michael blurted out, his voice cracking slightly. "You can't let Jude know!"
"Michael," Kylian said slowly, as if explaining basic arithmetic to a toddler. "How do you expect me to get you his number? I don't have Jobe's number saved on my phone. It would be weird if I did. I have to ask Jude."
"I know!" Michael hissed, rubbing his temples furiously. "I know, but can't you just... get it without letting Jude know that I'm the one who needs Jobe's number?"
Another beat passed.
"I'll see what I can do."
Click.
The line went dead. Michael stared at his phone in absolute silence, the hum of his apartment suddenly feeling deafening.
For the next two hours, Michael’s scheduled day off was completely ruined. Instead of relaxing, he paced back and forth across his living room floor, his chest tight with a low-grade, relentless anxiety. Every time his phone buzzed with an app notification, he lunged for the coffee table like a hawk, only to find it was just a sports news alert or a marketing notification.
He was halfway through convincing himself that Kylian had abandoned the mission out of sheer annoyance when the screen finally flashed.
Kylian: I got it.
Michael has never snatched an object off a table faster in his entire life. His thumb flew across the screen, a genuine, relieved smile breaking across his face.
Michael: Great. Can I have it?
A minute passed before Kylian replied.
Kylian: Before I give it to you, I just want you to know you owe me. I literally risked my life for this. Don't ask.
Michael didn't care what Kylian had to do, he would have agreed to hand over anything at this point.
Michael: Yes, anything.
Kylian: Next month when we play for France again for the Nations League, I expect you to be on your game. I need goals from you, Olise. Do you understand me?
Michael: Yes, I got you. The number, please?
A text bubble flickered. Then, a string of digits popped up on the screen.
Michael stood frozen in the middle of his living room, staring down at the phone. He read the ten-digit number twice, a huge, helpless smile spreading across his face.
Yes. Finally, he actually had it. A direct, unmediated line straight to Jobe Bellingham.
He was just about to back out of the chat and pull up a new message window when his phone buzzed in his hand yet again.
Kylian: And by the way... if this is for what I think it’s for, you better treat him right. Because I am definitely not trying to hear Jude whining for the next couple of years about how badly you're treating his brother.
The smile vanished from Michael’s face instantly.
A heavy, sickening pit dropped straight down into his stomach.
Oh, no.
Kylian hadn't just gotten the number, he had connected the dots. The French forward knew exactly why a notoriously reclusive Bayern winger was suddenly hunting down the personal contact information of a Borussia Dortmund midfielder.
Michael stood there in the quiet apartment, staring at the screen in mounting horror, realizing with absolute certainty that he was never going to hear the end of this from Kylian.
Michael stared at the last message for a long, heavy minute, his thumbs hovering frozen over the keyboard.
If he typed out a denial, Kylian would see right through it. If he said thanks, he’d be confirming it. The best play, and honestly, the most on-brand option for him anyway, was simply to say absolutely nothing. Leaving people on read was practically Michael’s signature move, so he closed the chat with Kylian without typing a single word.
He tapped on the string of digits Kylian had sent him, letting his messaging app automatically generate a new draft.
Cursor blinking. Blank screen.
Michael sat down on the edge of his couch, suddenly paralyzed. Now that he actually had Jobe’s direct number sitting right in front of him... what the hell was he supposed to say?
“Hey, it’s Michael.” Too formal.
“Nice kiss the other night.” Too crazy.
“Why did you push me?” Sounds like a confrontation.
Jobe would almost certainly freak out if a random text popped up two full days after the Supercup, and two full days after Jobe had pinned him against a hallway wall and kissed him breathless.
Knowing how hot-headed and proud Jobe was, he’d probably assume Michael was texting him to gloat about the win, or worse, to lecture him about crossing a line. But God, it hadn't felt like a line being crossed. It had been messy, aggressive, and easily the best kiss Michael had experienced in a very long time.
Michael ran a hand over his mouth, staring at the empty text box.
No. Texting him out of nowhere right now was a bad move. It would put Jobe on the defensive, and Jobe was already running scared, probably spiraling back in Dortmund trying to figure out what he’d done. Pushing him now would only make him retreat further behind his walls.
With a quiet sigh, Michael backed out of the draft.
He created a new contact, carefully typing in the name.
Jobe. No last name. No flair. Just Jobe.
He saved the entry to his phone and locked the screen, setting the phone down on the coffee table.
He had the number. That was the hard part.
Now, all he had to do was wait for the right moment, a moment where Jobe couldn't run, couldn't deny it, and couldn't hide behind a phone screen.
And that opportunity would come two months later, under the blinding lights of Der Klassiker.