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The Allianz Arena held seventy-five thousand people, and Jamal Musiala had greeted roughly forty of them before they reached their seats.
"Jamal. Jamal. The match starts in five minutes."
"He asked for a photo!"
"The man asked for a photo four people ago. You're now having a conversation about his mother's hip."
"She's having an operation!"
Michael Olise sighed and continued walking down the carpeted corridor of the VIP level, one gloved hand wrapped around his daughter's mittened one, not bothering to look back. A fellow VIP guest in a vintage jersey with OLISE 17 across the shoulders, eight years out of date, gave him a reverent nod as they passed, eyes lighting up a for a split second. Michael returned it with the barest tilt of his chin, a gesture that had once intimidated entire back lines. Then he steered Aliyah toward the glass-fronted section reserved for club guests and former players.
Aliyah, five years old and wearing a hat with a pom-pom the size of a grapefruit, looked up at him.
"Papa, why is everyone looking at you?"
"They're not."
"They are. That lady's crying."
"She's cold."
Behind them, Jamal’s voice rose cheerfully over the murmur of the hospitality lounge. "Of course I remember that goal! No, no, you're right, it was absolutely offside, I've been saying it for years!"
Michael closed his eyes briefly, like a man praying for patience, and sat down.
They had retired from Bayern Munich within a year of each other, Michael first, after a knee that wouldn't hold, and Jamal six months later because the injuries were starting to catch up on him. Although, if you ask him, he’d say it’s because he refused to play without Michael.
The club had put up a mural, and they had both pretended to hate it.
Now they came to matches as ordinary people, mostly. That meant the best seats in the house, a shared hot chocolate despite the hundreds of millions shared between the men, and a steady stream of club directors and sponsors who wanted to shake Jamal’s hand while leaving Michael alone out of a respectful, wary awe. This suited both of them.
Jamal finally squeezed in on Nina's other side, cheeks flushed with a pretty rose tint and beaming, a cold plume of air flowing from his mouth as smiled at Michael.
He dropped an arm along the back of her seat, and his hand landed on Michael’s shoulder, slowly, unknowingly massaging it as if it was second nature. Michael didn't look at him. He leaned back into it by about an inch.
"You're a menace," Michael murmured.
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
"You tolerate it so hard you're leaning."
"I'm sitting."
Aliyah, between them, unwrapped her sandwich. "You're both doing the thing."
"What thing?"
"The one where Papa pretends he's grumpy and Papa pretends he doesn't like it."
There was a short silence. Jamal beamed. Michael stared straight ahead with great dignity. Jamal notices the slight quirk of his lips but decides not to comment on it.
The match kicked off. Bayern were hosting Vfl Wolfsburg, a side that had spent the last three seasons fighting relegation and could not, on paper, have posed a threat. Within eleven minutes, Michael was offended.
"Look at that. Look at it. They've got all the possession and yet nobody's available when it’s time to strike."
Jamal stays silent. But that doesn’t deter Michael. He knows when his husband is listening to him.
"With the way they’re playing, they’re lucky to even get one," Michael said dryly, and handed Nina a napkin. "Crusts, please."
Jamal smiles, affection turning his eyes crinkly as he looks at his husband who is simultaneously commentating on the match and doting on his daughter. It fills him with such giddiness to see his family together like this. Michael, ever excited to discuss the play style at any given moment and Aliyah, just happy to be sandwiched between her parents and doted on.
"Have you ever considered being a commentator?" Jamal asked.
He already knew the answer. He'd known it for years, since the first time a broadcaster had pushed a microphone at Michael in the tunnel and Michael had looked at it like a stray animal. He didn't care. He just wanted Michael to turn his head, to give him that flat, unimpressed, entirely undivided look that made him feel like the only person in a stadium of seventy-five thousand.
Michael turned his head and shoots him that dry look he’d been wanting. “You, more than anyone know that I hate to be on camera.”
Jamal grinned, deeply satisfied, and went back to watching him.
Damn right I do. Jamal thinks to himself.
Nina, chewing, observed the pitch with the calm of a veteran pundit. "Their left side is slow," she said. "They keep giving it back."
Both men turned to look at her.
"That's my girl," Jamal whispered, hand pressed to his heart.
"I didn't teach her that," Michael said, trying very hard not to look delighted. "Where did she get that?"
"You mutter tactics in your sleep."
"I do not."
"Last Tuesday. 'Cut inside.' Very firmly. Twice."
The cold deepened as the second half began. Even behind the glass and under the heaters, it crept through the open front of the section, the kind that finds the gap between glove and sleeve. Michael checked Nina's fingers, then her nose, then pulled the blanket higher over her knees for the fourth time. He pulled the hot chocolate close to Aliyah’s mouth, getting ready to feed her some.
"Drink. Slowly. It's hot, so blow on it."
"I know, Papa."
"Then blow on it."
Jamal watched him with an expression he thought was subtle.
"What," Michael said, without turning his head.
"Nothing."
Michael looked up at him with an expression that clearly showed he didn’t believe him.
"I just think you’re cute when you act all motherly." Jamal shrugged.
Aliyah grinned into her hot chocolate, knowing where this conversation was heading.
Michael sniffed, looked away and didn't deny it. Of course he felt the urge to be motherly. That’s his baby! And so what if he feels like a mother hen, wanting to keep Aliyah in his nest forever and feeling empty whenever he’s apart from his family.
He worked hard to live such a fulfilling life and if that makes him motherly, so be it.
On the pitch, a Bayern winger finally took on a defender and both Jamal and Michael were on their feet bellowing "FINALLY!" before remembering where they were. Half the section turned. Aliyah, momentarily startled, had spilled some of the hot chocolate on her scarf. A club director two seats down raised his glass in solidarity. Michael, avoiding further embarrassment, took the opportunity to fuss over Aliyah’s face and scarf whilst Jamal sat down confidently, uncaring of the looks people were giving them.
Around the sixty-fifth minute Aliyah yawned, a huge one, and climbed over the armrest without asking. She settled into Jamal’s lap with the blanket dragged behind her like a cape. He wrapped both arms around her on instinct and rested his chin on her pom-pom. He started nuzzling her head, or what he could reach, with the pom-pom taking up half of the real estate on her little head.
Michael watched them for a long moment, and the guarded set of his shoulders eased.
Then he shuffled sideways, moving a seat closer, and closer again, until his thigh and shoulder pressed against Jamal’s and the gap was gone.
"It's cold," he said, to nobody who had asked.
"Mm," said Jamal. "Terrible. Freezing."
"I'm not making excuses."
"I didn't say anything."
"Good."
Jamal turned his head and kissed the side of Michael’s temple, quick and unembarrassed, in front of seventy-five thousand people and a camera that was, he would later learn, absolutely pointed at them. Michael’s eyes softened and his mouth quirked into that embarrassed smile —the same smile that had captivated Jamal from day one— and kept his eyes on the pitch. His hand found Jamal’s knee and stayed there.
On the pitch, Wolfsburg scored from their only shot.
"See," they said together.
Aliyah, asleep, did not argue.