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kennasutopia · 2 days ago

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VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 4) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# tags: @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend @judectrl @ayeshami @greyishbach @haartemis @goldenngt @solidbrii @sailurmewn @rainbowsparkelsunshine @lbchi @bbgkoo @mauvecherie-writes

# summary: she's been his pa for almost a year and every day is a struggle to function around him, but he'll never see her more than that...will he? and what will happen if he finds out she's also a virgin? masterlist.

Breakfast at the hotel hits like a hangover even though she barely drank last night. Eight months of morning routines, of knowing exactly where to sit, exactly how Aurélien takes his coffee, exactly which protein options he'll choose on match days – all of it means nothing now. He hasn't said more than two words to her since last night. No "ma puce," no schedule checks, no nothing – just this heavy silence that feels like punishment for crimes she's not sure she committed.

He's sitting clear across the room, sandwiched between Jules and Cama like the empty chair next to her might bite him. His laugh carries over at something Marcus says, and it hits her chest like a physical thing because that's not the laugh she's used to. She knows his real laugh. This is the one he uses for journalists he doesn't like.

She's pushing eggs around her plate, willing herself not to cry over scrambled protein when she feels it – warm lips pressing against her cheek, followed by a soft "Good morning, beautiful."

William slides into the chair next to her like it's the most natural thing in the world, like half the French national team isn't watching this play out like it's better than their morning entertainment. Like Aurélien's fork hasn't suddenly become very interested in murdering his breakfast.

"Sleep well?" William asks, voice warm with implications that make her cheeks heat despite nothing happening last night.

"Do you need something, Saliba?" Aurélien's voice cuts through the morning chatter like ice. "Besides distracting my PA?"

The temperature drops about ten degrees, but William just smiles wider. "Just checking on my girl. That's allowed, non?"

The "my girl" hangs in the air like a challenge. Jules is watching the whole thing with wide eyes while Cama not-so-subtly pulls out his phone under the table.

"Your girl?" Aurélien's voice drops dangerous-low. "Since when?"

"Since she chose to leave the club with me last night," William says easily, and oh – they're really doing this over breakfast. "Unless you have some objection, Capitaine?"

The way he says 'capitaine' somehow sounds both respectful and like a perfect fuck you. Leila's caught between wanting to sink through the floor and wanting to see how this plays out.

"No objection," Aurélien says after a pause that feels eternal. "Just wondering when my PA started dating my teammates."

"Maybe around the same time you started calling her 'okay'."

The silence that follows is absolute. Even Marcus stops eating, which is how you know shit just got real.

"Je t’emmerde," Aurélien spits out, chair scraping against tile as he stands. The words carries enough venom to make several heads turn from nearby tables. ("Fuck you.")

His eyes finally meet hers, and something in them makes her stomach flip. Without another word, he stalks out like the restaurant's on fire, leaving his breakfast half-eaten and tension thick enough to choke on.

William looks entirely too pleased with himself.

"Well," Jules breaks the silence, "that was fun."

The worst part? Some stupid, hopeful part of her had really thought he'd fight harder than this.

"You want to eat, babe?" William's voice cuts through her spiral, casual as anything, like he didn't just provoke their captain into cursing up French storms at breakfast. He's already reaching for her fork like this is something they do, like this morning hasn't turned into a whole telenovela.

Her brain's running dual tracks: pure rage because what the actual fuck was that from Aurélien? Not a hint of the man who fights for everything he wants, who once argued with a ref for fifteen minutes over a throw-in. And panic, because oh god, is she about to lose her job? She's pretty sure there wasn't a 'don't let the fine-ass defender feed you breakfast' clause in her contract, but-

William's trying to feed her a forkful of eggs and she shakes her head no, mind still racing. He just shrugs, unbothered, and turns his attention to her abandoned pancakes instead, cutting them into perfect squares before drowning them in syrup like this is just another morning.

"You got a death wish," Mike says from across the table, watching William arrange her breakfast like he's plating at a Michelin star restaurant.

Bradley nods sagely. "You're crazy as fuck, Wilo."

"Why?" William's voice is all innocent curiosity but his eyes are sharp. "Because I'm showing interest in a beautiful, single woman?"

"Because you're poking a bear that's been marking his territory for months," Marcus mutters into his protein shake.

"I don't see any marks," William responds easily, but his hand finds her knee under the table. "Do you, Lei?"

She should probably say something. Should probably address the fact that they're all talking about her like she's not sitting right here. Should probably be more concerned about the professional implications of whatever this is becoming.

Instead, she's watching William's hands – the same ones that had been so gentle last night – methodically destroying her pancakes with syrup.

"You're going to make them soggy," she finally says, because it's easier than addressing everything else.

His smile is soft when he looks at her. "You need the sugar. You're thinking too hard again."

"About what?" Cama asks, still filming like this is prime content.

"About things that don't matter," William answers before she can. "Like what other people think."

"Other people being our captain who looks ready to commit murder?" Mike suggests.

"He'll get over it."

"Will he though?" Jules finally speaks up, and something in his tone makes Leila look at him. He's wearing that expression that means he knows more than he's saying.

"Does he have a choice?" William counters, and there's steel under the casual tone now.

The table goes quiet again, the implications of that hanging in the air. Leila's phone buzzes – probably her mama's daily good morning text – but she doesn't check it. Can't look away from how William's hand is still on her knee, thumb drawing those circles that made her brain short-circuit last night.

"I should grab my things," she says finally. "We have a flight to catch."

"I'll come with—"

"No," she cuts him off, maybe too quickly. "I got it."

He studies her face for a moment, then nods. "Okay. But Lei?"

She pauses halfway out of her chair.

"Don't overthink it. Any of it."

Easy for him to say. He's not the one whose whole world just tilted sideways over breakfast.

She's barely out of the restaurant when her phone buzzes again. This time it's Jules:

Jules: He's in the gym. Breaking records and probably imagining Wilo's face on the punching bag. You good?

She stares at the message, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Is she good? Is anything about this good?

Another message pops up:

Jules: For what it's worth, I've never seen him this pressed about anything. Not even when Marcus stole his pre-wrap.

She starts typing several responses, deletes them all. Finally settles on:

Leila: Don't know what you mean

His reply is immediate:

Jules: Yes you do. But since you're both determined to be stupid about it... have fun with Wilo 👀

She puts her phone away before she can say something she'll regret. Before she can ask what Jules means. Before she can admit that maybe she does know exactly what he's talking about.

But knowing doesn't make it hurt any less.

Knowing doesn't change the fact that Aurélien walked away instead of fighting.

Knowing doesn't explain why "ma puce" became just "Leila."

And it definitely doesn't explain why that feels like losing something she never really had in the first place.

********************************

Life comes at you fast when you're dealing with a passive-aggressive captain who's apparently graduated summa cum laude from the School of Petty. One full day in Brussels and Aurélien's really out here showing off his PhD in Being Difficult.

"Doesn't your boyfriend need you?" He doesn't even look up from his phone when she tries to review the training schedule.

Later, when she offers to make his protein shake (because some habits die harder than others): "I have two hands, don't I?"

"Men are so fucking sassy," she mutters to herself, watching him stalk off to training like she'd offered him poison instead of protein. She's trying to maintain her professional dignity but he's really getting on her nerves right now.

Her phone buzzing for the fifth time finally breaks through her Aurélien-induced irritation. Her mama's contact photo – one where she's giving that look all Black mamas perfect by age thirty – fills the screen. Shit. She's been so caught up in this mess she forgot to call back home.

"Hey mama—"

"Oh, so you do know how to use a phone? I was about to file a missing persons report."

It's morning in Atlanta, which means Jeanna Mae Peterson has probably been up since five in the morning, waiting to give her daughter the business.

"Everything's fine, mama. Just busy with work—"

"Mhm. And I'm Beyoncé. What's wrong with your voice?"

"Nothing's wrong with my—"

"Leila Alicia, don't you lie to your mama. I carried you for nine months and twenty-three hours of labor. I know when something's wrong."

The full name. Lord. She's really in it now.

"It's just... there's this whole thing with Aurélien and William and kissing and dates and—"

"Hold up, hold ALL the way up. You kissed Aurélien? Jesus be a fence, finally! Wait till I tell your grandma—"

"No, mama, not Aurélien. His teammate—"

"Girl, what? You out here being messy boots, dating some other man when you ain't even dealt with your feelings for the first one? I swear y'all kids nowadays don't know how to talk nothing out. Put Aurélien on the phone. I'm gonna air him out right quick."

"Mama, he's training—"

"He can talk during a break. Matter fact, I got his WhatsApp number, I'mma call that."

"Mama, don't—"

But the line's already dead because Jeanna Mae Peterson invented stubborn and passed it down double dose to her daughter. Leila's frantically calling back but her mama's phone is going straight to voicemail which means—

Aurélien's phone starts ringing across the training ground.

She's doing every gesture she can think of to tell him not to answer – hand slashing across her throat, waving arms like she's directing aircraft, mouthing 'NO' with the energy of someone trying to prevent a natural disaster.

But of course he answers anyway because the universe hates her specifically today.

"Allo? Ah, Mama Peterson..."

All she can do is watch his face as her mama presumably reads him the riot act in that special way Black mamas have mastered. His expressions shift from confused to surprised to something she can't quite read, and is that... is he smiling?

When he finally hangs up fifteen minutes later, he doesn't tell her what her mama said. But he does actually look at her when he asks for his schedule update. Actually says "Merci, ma pu-" before catching himself and walking away.

It's not much. But it's more than she's gotten in days.

She's definitely going to kill her mama though.

Right after she figures out what exactly that woman said to him. And why he almost called her 'ma puce' again.

*************************************

Lunch is an exercise in studying the fascinating world of how many ways one man can pretend another person doesn't exist. Aurélien's got his phone propped up against his water bottle, completely absorbed in whatever's on his screen even though she knows for a fact his notifications are turned off during match prep.

The final training session drags like it's being paid by the hour. Even Marcus and Mike keep their distance – one look at her face tells them tonight isn't the night to beg for soul food. She's not even sure she could cook right now if she wanted to. Her energy's somewhere between "completely done" and "contemplating a career change."

Back at the hotel, she makes it to her room through sheer muscle memory. The Real Housewives of Atlanta are waiting for her on her laptop, ready to provide the exact kind of messy drama she needs to forget her own. Her Uber Eats burrito is doing its best, but even comfort food feels like it's failing her today.

The knock at her door makes her pause mid-bite. Maybe if she stays very still, whoever it is will-

"I bought food," William's voice carries through the door. She looks down at her sad burrito accusingly. "It's Lebanese. I promised to bring you some, remember?"

For a moment she doesn't move, weighing the pros and cons of human interaction. But then the smell of whatever he's brought wafts under her door and her burrito suddenly looks even sadder.

She pushes her glasses up her nose, does a quick check that she doesn't have salsa on her face, and opens the door to find William looking unfairly good for someone who just did two training sessions. He's got bags of food in one hand and that smile that makes bad decisions feel like good ideas in the other.

She steps aside to let him in, trying not to think about how this is definitely not in any PA handbook she's ever read.

"So," William says, spreading containers across her bed like he's setting up an exhibition, "we've got fattoush, hummus with extra pine nuts because you mentioned you like them, shawarma that's going to have the nutritionist trying to kill us tomorrow, and-" he pulls out what looks like heaven wrapped in paper, "extra toum because food without garlic isn't food."

Her abandoned burrito sits forgotten on the nightstand, looking increasingly offensive next to this spread. William's already making her a plate, explaining each dish like he's giving a master class in Lebanese cuisine, and something in her chest gets warm at how much thought he's put into this.

"The lady at the restaurant probably thinks I'm crazy," he says, handing her a plate. "I kept pointing at things saying 'she'll love this' and 'oh she has to try that.'"

"You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." He settles next to her, close enough that she can smell his shower gel but not so close it feels presumptuous. "Besides, you looked like you needed saving from that sad burrito."

She can't help but laugh. "The burrito was doing its best."

"Its best wasn't good enough." He dips a piece of bread in hummus and offers it to her. "Try this instead."

The food is incredible, but it's the way he talks about it that makes it special. Every dish comes with a story – about his father and mother competing to see who could feed more people at family gatherings, his grandmother teaching him that love always tastes better when it's shared.

"It's like you with your soul food," he says, wiping some sauce from the corner of her mouth with his thumb. "You don't just cook, you share yourself."

She looks at him – really looks at him. At this beautiful man who brings her dinner and understands what food means to her, who looks at her like she's something precious.

"Thank you," she says softly. "For sharing this with me."

His smile could light up Brussels. "You’re welcome."

Somehow they've migrated from sitting to lying down, empty containers pushed aside, William's mouth does unholy things to her neck. His hand is cupping her face like she's made of glass, the other one drawing patterns on her hip that are absolutely not PG-13, and her brain's having trouble remembering why she was ever stressed about anything.

Until she feels it.

Lord have mercy.

His very obvious excitement pressing against her thigh, and her virgin self immediately goes into panic mode. She freezes like someone hit pause, and William pulls back so fast you'd think she'd burned him.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice rough but eyes soft with concern. "We can stop."

"No, it's okay, I just..." she shifts away slightly, wondering if it's possible to actually die from embarrassment because what kind of grown woman freaks out over dick. "I should be the one apologizing."

"Why?"

"Because..." she stares at his collar instead of his face because eye contact feels impossible right now, "you probably have thousands of girls who would just..." she makes a vague gesture that she hopes translates to 'let you hit without all this drama' without having to actually say those words. "And here I am making you wait."

"True."

Her heart does this weird dropping thing, but then his fingers catch her chin, tilting her face up to his, and the look in his eyes makes her forget how to breathe proper.

"But I don't want them," he says, voice low and serious in a way that makes her stomach flip. "I want you, Leila."

"Why?" The question comes out barely above a whisper, all her insecurities wrapped up in one word.

William shifts back just enough to really look at her, and baby – the way this man's eyes can make her feel seen is almost too much.

"Because you don't pretend," he says finally. "Because you make soul food for an entire football team just to make them happy. Because you push up your glasses when you're nervous and wear bonnets to bed and actually care about us beyond what we can offer you."

Her heart's doing gymnastics in her chest. "That's not—"

"Because," he continues, pressing a kiss to her forehead that feels almost too sentimental, "you're real. And that's worth waiting for."

And what is she supposed to do with that? With this man who brings her Lebanese food when she's sad and kisses her like she's precious and says things that make her want to cry and jump him at the same time?

"Plus," he adds with that smug smile, "the way you cook? I'd wait years just for those wings again."

She smacks his chest but she's laughing, the tension breaking. "So you just want me for my cooking?"

"Among other things." His hand finds her waist again, gentler this time. "But mostly because you are you."

"Will..."

"We can take it slow," he says, pressing soft kisses along her jaw. "As slow as you need. I don’t plan on going anywhere."

Her fingers curl into his shirt of their own accord. "Even if it takes a while?"

"Even if it takes forever." His lips find that spot behind her ear that makes her toes curl. "Though maybe not forever-forever because honestly? You in that dress the other night almost killed me."

She can't help the laugh that bubbles up. Trust him to know exactly how to ease her anxiety while simultaneously making her want to kiss him senseless.

"So," he pulls back just enough to meet her eyes, "can I kiss you now? Or are we still having a moment?"

She answers by pulling him down to her, and for a while, she forgets about everything else.

Even if his dick is still making itself known against her thigh.

The match against Belgium is already tense as hell when it happens. They're up 2-1, but it's been scrappy, ugly football – the kind that has tempers running high and tackles getting messy. Leila's been watching Aurélien get more and more wound up, his usual smooth control fraying at the edges with each challenge.

When the Belgian midfielder says something to him in the 76th minute – something she can't hear but definitely sees Aurélien react to – it's like watching a bomb go off in slow motion. The tackle is reckless, aggressive, absolutely deserving of the red card that follows, but the way Aurélien gets in the ref's face after? That's something else entirely. That's weeks of pent-up something spilling out all over the pitch.

It takes both Jules and Mike to pull him back, his face twisted with the kind of rage she's never seen on him before. The captain's armband gets handed to Ibou, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than in the middle of whatever this is.

William steps toward him as he's heading off the pitch, probably trying to calm him down, but Aurélien's shoulder check is brutal enough to make several people gasp. The look he gives William could freeze hell over twice.

"Don't," is all he says, but that one word carries enough venom to kill a man.

They manage to hold onto their 2-1 lead, but the victory feels hollow somehow. Especially when Aurélien doesn't even wait for the final whistle – just disappears into the tunnel like a storm cloud, leaving chaos in his wake.

Leila catches William watching him go, something complicated passing across his face.

This isn't about football anymore.

This isn't about football at all.

She's moving before she can think better of it, her press pass bouncing against her chest as she runs from her spot near the pitch toward the tunnel. Security knows her well enough to let her pass, but right now she probably looks wild enough that they wouldn't dare stop her anyway.

The tunnel feels endless, her footsteps echoing off concrete as she follows the sound of what's probably lockers being abused. She finds him in the away team room, radiating the kind of anger that makes the air feel thick.

"Leave." His voice is sharp enough to cut.

She takes a step forward instead.

"Leila. Get out."

But she can't. Not when he's like this, not when everything feels like it's fracturing. Her fingers catch his wrist, trying to... what? Comfort him? Stop him? She's not even sure anymore.

He yanks away like her touch burns, fixing her with a look that's equal parts fury and something else she can't name. Something that makes her chest hurt.

"Aurél-"

"Why the fuck are you doing this to me, Leila? Haven't I been a good person? A good boss?" His voice cracks on the last word.

Her lips purse in confusion, mind racing to catch up. "I'm sorry," is all she can manage because what the actual fuck is happening right now?

He's pacing like a caged animal, all coiled energy and barely contained rage. And then he starts – rapid-fire French pouring out of him like a broken dam, words she can't understand but tone that hits her right in the chest. He's gesturing, still pacing, voice getting louder and rougher with each passing second.

The first tears fall before she can stop them, not because she's afraid – never that – but because she's never seen him like this. Never seen him so... broken.

"I'm sorry," she whispers again, already backing toward the door. She doesn't even know what she's apologizing for anymore, just knows she needs to get out before she completely loses it.

She runs past the guys hovering in the hallway, catches William's face transform from worry to anger as he looks past her to where Aurélien's still going off in French.

The last thing she hears before turning the corner is their voices rising, angry words in multiple languages bouncing off concrete walls like bullets.

She doesn't stop running until she can't hear them anymore.

Until she can't hear anything but her own heart breaking.

She ends up in some random corridor of the stadium, mascara probably creating art on her face while she tries to get her breathing under control. Her phone's blowing up – probably Jules checking on her, maybe William trying to find her – but she can't look at it right now. Can't deal with any of this right now.

The sound of something hitting a wall echoes from somewhere down the tunnel, followed by raised voices that she can still make out even if she can't understand the words. French and English mixing into what sounds like a full-blown fight.

"Hey." Mike's voice makes her jump. He's standing there looking uncharacteristically serious, holding out a water bottle and what looks like clean tissues. "You good?"

She wants to laugh because nothing about this is good, but it comes out more like a hiccup. "Yeah, I just–"

"Need a minute?" When she nods, he slides down the wall to sit next to her. "Yeah, me too. Those two are..." he trails off, shaking his head.

They sit in silence for a while, just breathing, while the sounds of argument fade into something more distant. Her phone buzzes again but Mike gently takes it from her hands, turning it face down.

"Whatever's happening," he says quietly, "it's not your fault."

But isn't it? She's the one who complicated everything. She's the one who—

"Stop that." Mike nudges her shoulder. "I can hear you thinking from here. This isn't about you."

"Then what—"

"It's about them. About stuff they need to figure out." He hands her another tissue. "And about our captain being too stubborn to admit what everyone else already knows."

Before she can ask what he means, footsteps approach – multiple sets. She tenses, but it's just Marcus and Cama, both looking worried.

"They've been separated," Marcus reports, sliding down to sit on her other side. "Jules has Auré, Bradley's got Wilo."

"Proper mess, isn’t it?" Cama adds, joining their little floor party.

They sit there together, this weird little group therapy session on stadium concrete, until her breathing evens out and her hands stop shaking. Until the reality of everything that just happened starts to feel less sharp.

"Come on," Mike finally says, standing and offering his hand. "Let's get you back to the hotel. Pretty sure room service has ice cream, and if they don't, I'll make them find some."

She lets them shepherd her out, these boys who've somehow become family. Let them distract her with stupid jokes and commentary about anything except what just happened.

Her phone buzzes one more time as they reach the team bus. It's Jules:

Everyone's alive. Barely. But alive.

He's asking about you.

Both of them are.

**************************************************

The bus ride back to the hotel is quiet. Unnervingly quiet.

She sits between Mike and Marcus, her head resting against the window, watching Brussels blur past in fragments of neon and streetlights. The city feels different now – less magical, more complicated. Just like everything else.

Jules sits a few rows ahead, phone pressed to his ear, his voice a low murmur that never quite rises to a conversation. Bradley's in the very back, headphones on, staring out the opposite window with a look that could freeze fire.

"You want my headphones?" Mike whispers, nudging her. She shakes her head. Silence feels safer right now.

When they finally arrive at the hotel, the team moves like a fractured unit. No jokes, no post-match chatter. Just bodies moving through the lobby, each absorbed in their own gravitational pull of tension.

At the elevator, William and Jules carefully avoid looking at each other. Not anger. Something else. Something deeper that feels like it's happening in slow motion and at lightning speed all at once.

Her room key feels heavy in her hand. She knows Jules will be checking on her soon, will want to talk, will want to make sure she's okay. But right now, "okay" feels like a country she can't quite reach.

The shower runs scalding hot, water washing away stadium grit, tears, and the complicated residue of everything that just happened. Her makeup dissolves in streaks, mascara creating abstract art down her cheeks that she doesn't have the energy to wipe away.

A knock comes just as she's wrapping herself in the hotel's white terrycloth robe. Jules. Of course.

"Come in," she calls, knowing there's no point in pretending she needs privacy.

Jules enters, takes one look at her, and doesn't ask if she's okay. They both know the answer to that.

"Want some tea?" he asks, already moving towards the small electric kettle.

"God, yes."

They sit in silence. Some moments demand quiet more than words. Jules knows this – it's why he's always been her favorite, why he gets her in ways the others don't.

"So," he finally says, pushing a steaming mug towards her, "you want to talk about what just happened?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Which part? The part where Aurélien nearly started World War III in the tunnel? Or the part where he and William threw hands?"

Jules snorts. "All of it."

Her fingers curl around the mug, seeking its warmth. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Mhm," he says in a way that means exactly the opposite. "Nothing at all. Just our captain losing his mind, your boyfriend fighting, and you sitting in a hallway looking like you've been through the world's most emotional spin cycle."

"William's not my boyfriend."

"Sure," Jules drawls. "And I'm not the most handsome man on the team."

She throws a tissue at him. He catches it without looking, that infuriating smirk never leaving his face.

"What do you want me to say?" she asks finally.

"The truth would be nice."

But the truth feels too complicated. Too raw. Too everything.

"You know what's wild?" Jules says after a moment. "Aurélien's never been like this before. Not about anything. Not anyone."

She looks up, catching something knowing in his eyes. "What are you talking about?"

"Eight months I've watched him with you. Always careful. Always professional. Always..." he waves a hand, searching for the right word, "contained."

"And now?"

"And now?" Jules leans forward. "He's running around breaking shit and looking like he wants to murder William."

Her phone buzzes. William. She ignores it.

"He doesn't get to be mad," she says finally. "He's the one who walked away. Who stopped calling me 'ma puce'. Who—"

"Who what?" Jules prompts when she stops.

The truth slips out before she can stop it. "Who made me feel like I was just... okay."

Jules' laugh is sharp, unexpected. "Okay? Lei, that man has never thought you were just 'okay' a day in his life."

"He doesn't show it!"

"You're in love with him," Jules says suddenly. Not a question. A statement. "You guys are in love with each other."

"No," she protests immediately. "Absolutely not."

Jules leans forward, voice serious. "It's not fair to William. You know that, right?"

"I'm not doing anything wrong," she insists. "Aurélien had his chance. If he wanted something, he should have said something. "He needs to make a move. He's the man."

"Tu es têtue," Jules mutters. ("You are stubborn.")

"He needs to come to me," she continues, nodding.

Jules throws his hands up, cursing in French. "Putain de merde. You're both so fucking stubborn." He wipes his hands down his face, groaning. "Fine. Aurélien needs to grow some balls and you guys need to figure this out. And fast." He moves to the door, pauses, and with a cheeky grin calls out, "Bonne nuit, ma puce."

It's enough to make her smile, just a little. Just enough to soften the edges of the day's chaos.

************************************************

The private jet feels carved from ice. Leila's tucked herself in the back, pretending to work on her tablet while Aurélien sits opposite, professionally ignoring her existence.

"The match report," he says finally, voice clipped.

She keeps tapping on her tablet. Let him wait. Let him feel what being ignored feels like.

"Leila."

Nothing.

His fingers start that familiar drumming pattern on the table – the one that used to mean he was working through plays in his head. Now it just sounds like frustration trying to escape.

"The report," he tries again, softer this time.

Her fingers continue their dance across the screen.

"Ma p-" He catches himself. "Leila."

That gets her attention. She looks up finally, one eyebrow raised in a challenge that clearly says: you made this bed, now lie in it.

Something flickers across his face – something raw and real – before the captain's mask slips back on. The Madrid skyline approaches through the window, offering no answers.

"We need to talk."

"Do we?" Her voice could freeze summer.

"About what happened—"

"Which part?" The words come out sharp enough to draw blood. "The part where you walked away? Or the part where I was just… okay?"

His fingers curl into fists. "It's not that simple."

"Really? Because it felt pretty simple when you treated me like I was nothing."

The plane hits turbulence, forcing them closer for a moment. The physical proximity only highlights the galaxy of space between them.

"You don't get to be angry," he says, leaning forward. "You're the one with William."

"I'm not with William." She lets out a bitter laugh. "And even if I was, you walked away first."

His hand hits the table hard enough to rattle their water glasses. "I didn't walk away."

"No? What would you call it then?"

"I was trying to protect you," he says, something cracking in his voice. "From what people would say. From the gossip. From—"

"I don't need protection," she cuts him off. "I need honesty."

"You think I didn't want to say something?" His voice drops dangerously low, accent thickening with emotion. "You think I just…"

"'You think I just' what?" Leila presses when he doesn't continue. "Because from where I'm sitting, you've done a lot of acting weird but not a lot of explaining."

His jaw works like he's chewing on words he can't quite spit out. "It's complicated."

"No, calculus is complicated. This?" She gestures between them. "This is you not being able to handle… whatever this is. So I'm taking some time off."

"No." The word comes out sharp, almost panicked.

"Yes."

"You can't—"

"I can and I am. Some space will do us good." She starts gathering her things, needing to move to a different seat, to do something with this energy crackling under her skin. "Help you get over whatever this is you're going through."

"Leila—"

"Your uncle Bertrand hired me," she cuts him off. "Not you. Remember that."

The look on his face – like she just slapped him – almost makes her take it back. Almost.

But she's done waiting for him to figure out what he wants.

She's just done.

The Madrid tarmac appears through clouds that look like they're about to burst. Perfect weather for her mood.

"When?" His voice breaks through the landing announcements.

"Two weeks." She's already got her bag ready, already planning her escape route. "Starting tomorrow."

"That's not enough notice—"

"Your temp's already briefed. Sarah's good at her job."

The plane touches down with a jolt that matches the way his head snaps up. "Sarah? From ESN?"

"She knows your schedule. Knows the team." Leila keeps her voice professional even though her hands are shaking. "You'll be fine."

"I don't want Sarah."

"Well, that's who you're getting." She stands as soon as the seatbelt sign dims. "For two weeks, while I figure out if this job is still worth it."

She doesn't wait for his response, doesn't look back as she heads for the exit.

The Ciudad Real Madrid facilities feel wrong without her footsteps echoing through the halls. Aurélien stares at his locker, still in his training kit, everything feeling off-balance.

"Putain," he mutters, splashing water on his face like it might wake him up from whatever nightmare this is.

Two fucking weeks.

Sarah from ESN keeps sending him perfectly formatted schedules, but they're missing the little notes Leila would add – reminders about his mama's favorite call times, warnings about which journalists to avoid, suggestions for post-training recovery that she definitely got from stalking medical journals.

His passes were shit today. Ancelotti had to call him out twice for being distracted, and Jude kept shooting him these looks like he was about to shatter. Maybe he is. Maybe that's why he keeps checking his phone between drills, keeps turning to share training ground gossip with someone who isn't there.

"Tu fais chier," he mutters to his reflection in the locker room mirror. His knuckles are white where they grip the sink edge, and he looks like he hasn't slept in days. Because he hasn't.

The team's tiptoeing around him like he's a bomb about to go off. Even Camavinga's keeping his distance, which should be impossible given how that boy usually operates. But everything's impossible lately.

Sarah's efficient. Professional. Knows exactly what she's doing.

He fucking hates it.

She doesn't make his coffee right – too much cream, like she's trying to drown it. Doesn't know that he needs an extra five minutes before morning meetings to properly wake up. Doesn't push up her glasses when she's trying not to smile at his jokes.

Doesn't call him out when he's being difficult.

His uncle's words keep echoing in his head: "What did you do?"

What did he do? He protected her. Protected them both from the media circus that would follow, from the whispers, from everything that would make her job impossible. That's what he did. That's what he had to do.

Right?

But then he remembers her face in that tunnel in Brussels. Remembers how she looked at him on the plane. Remembers "your uncle Bertrand hired me" like a direct shot to the chest.

His phone lights up – Sarah confirming tomorrow's schedule. The sight of her name where Leila's should be makes his stomach turn.

One week down. Seven days of everything being almost right but completely wrong. Seven days of catching himself turning to share jokes with someone who isn't there.

Seven more to go.

If she comes back.

The 'if' sits in his chest like poison.

*****************************************************

Even Ocho knows something's wrong. The dog keeps bringing him Leila's favorite throw blanket that she left on the couch, whining at the front door around the times she'd usually arrive. Animals aren't supposed to be this emotionally intuitive, but here's his Belgian Malinois really out here making him feel worse.

Jude's been trying to drag him out, talking about some party at this new club that's apparently letting in half of Instagram's finest. Usually he'd be first in line – nothing cures what ails you like beautiful women and expensive liquor, right?

But then this girl at the club – all smooth brown skin and curves for days, exactly his type – pressed up against him on the dance floor and something felt… wrong. He couldn't even blame it on alcohol because he was stone-cold sober, watching everyone else get lit while he nursed the same whiskey all night.

Even his DMs are full of missed opportunities. Models, influencers, that one actress who's been trying to get his attention for months – all of them exactly the type of distraction he needs. The type of women who usually help him forget whatever's on his mind.

But pussy doesn't feel right when your heart's fucked up.

And that's what's really killing him. That somehow Leila managed to ruin him for other women without even touching him. That the thought of fucking his way through Madrid's modeling agencies (his usual go-to when shit gets heavy) feels wrong now.

His phone buzzes – probably Jude with another party invite, another attempt to get him out of his head. But unless the invitation is from a certain PA who's currently ghosting his entire existence, he's not interested.

Even praying feels different. His parents raised him right, taught him to take his troubles to God, but how do you pray about feelings you can't even admit to yourself?

"Je suis vraiment dans la merde," he tells Ocho, who just looks at him with those judgy dog eyes. Even his own pet is disappointed in him.

Five more days of this torture.

If she comes back at all.

The doorbell catches him off guard – he's been ignoring it for days, but tonight it's more insistent. Ocho's already at the door, tail wagging like he knows something Aurélien doesn't.

It's Cama standing there, phone held up with Jules' face on FaceTime.

"Je t'aurais laissé souffrir mais Jules m'a appelé," ("I would've let you suffer but Jules called me,") Cama says, already pushing past him into the house.

Ocho immediately attacks Cama with kisses while Jules' voice carries through the phone: "Tu as une tête de merde, mon frère." ("You look like shit, my brother.")

"Va te faire foutre," ("Fuck off,") Aurélien mutters, but lets Cama settle onto his couch anyway.

"Alors," ("So,") Cama starts, scratching Ocho's ears, "on va parler de pourquoi tu te comportes comme un connard?" ("are we gonna talk about why you're being an asshole?")

"Je ne vois pas de quoi tu parles." ("I don't know what you're talking about.")

"Leila," Jules says through the phone. "On parle de Leila." ("We're talking about Leila.")

Just hearing her name makes his chest tight. "Il n'y a rien à dire." ("There's nothing to say.")

"Rien à dire?" ("Nothing to say?") Cama laughs. "C'est pour ça que tu as l'air d'un zombie depuis une semaine?" ("Is that why you've looked like a zombie for a week?")

"Elle te manque," ("You miss her,") Jules says simply. "Admets-le." ("Admit it.")

"Ça n'a pas d'importance." ("It doesn't matter.")

"Pourquoi?" ("Why?") Cama demands. "Parce que tu as trop peur de dire ce que tu ressens?" ("Because you're too scared to say what you feel?")

"Tu sais que Wilo est sérieux avec elle?" ("You know Wilo is serious about her?") Jules' voice crackles through the phone, making Aurélien's jaw clench.

"Et alors?" ("And?") But his fingers are drumming that anxious pattern again.

"Pendant que tu joues au con, il la traite comme une princesse," Cama leans forward. ("While you're playing stupid, he's treating her like a princess.")

"Il lui apporte le dîner," ("He brings her dinner,") Jules adds. "L'écoute. La fait rire." ("Listens to her. Makes her laugh.")

"Bon pour lui." ("Good for him.") Aurélien's voice could cut glass.

"Non, pas 'bon pour lui'," ("No, not 'good for him',") Cama snaps. "Tu es amoureux d'elle et tu le sais." ("You're in love with her and you know it.")

The silence that follows is deafening. Even Ocho stops begging for attention to look between them.

"Je ne peux pas," ("I can't,") Aurélien finally says, voice rough. "C'est ma PA." ("She's my PA.")

"C'était ta PA," ("She was your PA,") Jules corrects. "Maintenant elle est la femme qui te rend fou." ("Now she's the woman driving you crazy.")

"Et qui rend Wilo heureux," ("And making Wilo happy,") Cama adds pointedly.

"Je leur ai dit de parler," ("I told them both to talk,") Jules sighs. "Mais vous êtes tous les deux têtus comme des mules." ("But you're both stubborn as mules.")

"Qu'est-ce que tu veux que je fasse?" ("What do you want me to do?") Aurélien runs his hands through his curls in frustration. "Que je ruine sa carrière? Que je la mette dans une position impossible?" ("Ruin her career? Put her in an impossible position?")

"Elle est déjà dans une position impossible," ("She's already in an impossible position,") Cama says quietly. "Entre l'homme qu'elle aime et l'homme qui l'aime." ("Between the man she loves and the man who likes her.")

That hits different. Aurélien's head snaps up. "Qu'est-ce que tu veux dire?" ("What do you mean?")

"Tu crois qu'elle sort avec Wilo parce qu'elle l'aime?" ("You think she's seeing Wilo because she loves him?") Jules laughs without humor. "Elle essaie de t'oublier, crétin." ("She's trying to forget you, idiot.")

"Mais—" ("But—")

"Pas de 'mais'," ("No 'buts',") Cama cuts him off. "Tu as une semaine avant qu'elle ne revienne. Une semaine pour décider si tu vas la laisser partir ou te battre pour elle." ("You have a week before she comes back. One week to decide if you're going to let her go or fight for her.")

"Et si je la perds complètement?" ("And if I lose her completely?") The question comes out smaller than intended.

"Tu l'as déjà perdue en ne faisant rien," ("You've already lost her by doing nothing,") Jules says. "Au moins en essayant, tu sauras." ("At least by trying, you'll know.")

Ocho whines, head butting Aurélien's knee like he's agreeing.

"Une semaine," ("One week,") Cama stands, stretching. "Pour arrêter d'��tre un lâche." ("To stop being a coward.")

"Je ne suis pas—" ("I'm not—")

"Si, tu l'es," ("Yes, you are,") Jules interrupts. "Mais tu peux changer ça." ("But you can change that.")

They leave him with that thought, with Ocho looking at him like he's waiting for something too.

One week. One week to figure out if he's brave enough to risk everything. One week to decide if she's worth it.

She is. He's just been too scared to admit it.

Until now.

...................tbd

76 notes · View notes

kennasutopia · 2 days ago

Text

VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 3) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

Leila isn't trying to make it a whole thing, but that date with William? That man took her to this cute little restaurant tucked away in a corner of Paris where nobody would recognize him, ordered wine that probably cost more than her rent, and spent the whole night actually listening to her talk about her family back in Georgia. Not once did he make her feel like she was just some thick girl he was trying to get with – instead he treated her like she was actually interesting, like her stories about her mama's cooking adventures were the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard.

And when she found out he was half Cameroonian? Maybe Yolanda had a point about her having a type because these West African men were really out here testing her resolve. The way his accent got thicker when he talked about his family, the way he understood exactly what she meant about certain cultural things without her having to explain... it was nice. Really nice.

He didn't try to kiss her at the end of the night, even though she maybe (definitely) wanted him to. Just kissed her hand (which should be corny but somehow wasn't) and said he'd love to do it again soon. She'd gone to bed thinking maybe this could be something.

But then Sunday morning happened and somehow everything else felt small in comparison.

"Avant de commencer l'entraînement," ("Before we start training,") Didier's voice carried across the morning meeting room, "J'ai une annonce à faire." ("I have an announcement to make.")

The room went quiet – well, as quiet as a room full of French footballers can get, which means Marcus was still whispering something to Mike that had them both stifling laughs.

"En l'absence de Kylian," ("In Kylian's absence,") Didier continued, holding up the captain's armband, "nous avons besoin d'un nouveau capitaine." ("we need a new captain.") "Aurélien Tchouaméni."

The room erupted. Leila's never seen someone look so surprised and honored at the same time, like Aurélien couldn't quite believe what was happening.

"Notre nouveau capitaine!" ("Our new captain!") Marcus shouted, starting an impromptu chant.

"MON CAPITAINE!" Jules was the first to reach him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "Tu l'as mérité, mon frère." ("You earned it, my brother.")

"Finalement, quelqu'un va peut-être réussir à le faire sourire," ("Finally, someone might succeed in making him smile,") Cama teased, doing an exaggerated salute. "Oui, Capitaine!"

The whole team picked up the salute, turning it into this ridiculous ceremony that had even Didier trying not to laugh.

"Je suis honoré," ("I'm honored,") Aurélien finally managed to say, voice thick with emotion as Didier handed him the armband. "Je ne sais pas quoi dire..." ("I don't know what to say...")

"Dis-nous qu'on va défoncer Israël!" ("Tell us we're gonna destroy Israel!") Mike called out.

"Et qu'on peut manger la cuisine de Leila ce soir!" ("And that we can eat Leila's cooking tonight!") Marcus added, which started a whole new round of cheering.

Leila couldn't help but clap and cheer with them all – because this was huge. This was her boss becoming captain of the French national team at twenty-four. This was history.

***************************

The Bridge's studio setup is way more casual than Leila expected, all warm lights and comfy chairs arranged in a circle like it's just bros hanging out – which, technically, it is.

"Ma puce, mon café?" Aurélien calls out as she's setting up his notes, and she pretends not to notice how Sébastien raises his eyebrows at the pet name.

"You have two hands that work perfectly fine," she responds, but she's already heading to get his coffee because she knows exactly how he gets without his caffeine fix before filming. Two sugars, splash of cream – the man drinks coffee like he's trying to hide the fact it's coffee.

"Ah, c'est comme ça maintenant?" ("So that's how it is now?") Jules grins as he walks in, followed by Ousmane and Thomas.

"Elle fait la grève," ("She's on strike,") Ousmane adds with a knowing smile.

"Can y'all not?" Leila mutters, but of course they can't because they live for chaos.

"What’s going on?" Thomas asks, settling into his chair while the makeup artist touches up his face.

"Nothing–" Aurélien starts, but Jules is already diving in.

"She's dating Wilo."

"I am not–"

"Wilo?" Sébastien perks up like he's just been handed gossip gold. "As in Saliba? Mon dieu, this is better than what I planned for the show."

"Speaking of the show," Leila cuts in desperately, "maybe we should focus on your actual topics? Like the Champions League? The national team? Literally anything else?"

"But this is much more interesting," Sébastien grins. "Tell me, how does our new captain feel about his PA dating his teammate?"

"We are NOT discussing my dating life on YouTube," Leila says firmly, handing Aurélien his coffee with maybe a little more force than necessary. Some splashes onto his notes and she automatically reaches to wipe it, just as he does the same. Their hands brush and she pulls back like she's been burned.

"Ooh, as-tu vu ça?" Thomas stage-whispers to Ousmane. "La tension!"

"I'm about to show y'all some tension with these coffee cups," Leila threatens, making them laugh harder.

"Non, non," Ousmane agrees solemnly. "We'll just discuss how our captain gets jealous every time someone looks at his PA. Like yesterday at training when Giroud asked her about American football..."

"I was not jealous," Aurélien protests. "I was concerned about her getting distracted from her duties."

"Her duties of watching you run laps?" Jules asks innocently.

"Her duties of maintaining my schedule–"

"The schedule she has memorized?" Ousmane adds.

"Y'all really want me to poison your dinner tonight, huh?" Leila threatens, but they just laugh harder.

"See? This is why I need my own Leila," Sébastien says. "Where do I find a PA who cooks?"

"You don't," Aurélien's voice carries that edge again. "She's one of a kind."

The room goes quiet for a moment, and Leila busies herself with absolutely nothing important on her tablet.

"Okay!" The producer calls out. "Five minutes! Let's talk about the actual show content?"

"Oui, oui," Sébastien nods, suddenly professional. "First segment about then national team dynamics with our new captain, maybe some stuff about Jules and his fashion sense…."

"Maybe one about a certain PA?" Thomas asks hopefully.

"Including nothing about any PAs," Leila cuts in. "Unless y'all want to explain to Didier why half his starting lineup got food poisoning before a match."

"She wouldn't really..." Thomas starts.

"She absolutely would," Aurélien, Jules, and Ousmane answer in unison.

"Ma puce," Aurélien calls softly, and she looks up to find him watching her with that expression that makes her stomach do stupid things. "My notes?"

She hands them over, careful not to let their fingers brush. "Try not to start any international incidents this time."

"Une fois," ("One time,") he protests. "I say one thing about Premier League defenders..."

"You said they tackle like they learned football from YouTube tutorials," she reminds him.

"Was I wrong though?"

"That's not the point! Twitter was a nightmare for days."

"This is why you're my favorite," he says, and something in his voice makes her look up. "You keep me in line."

"Someone has to," she manages to say, stepping back as the cameras start rolling.

She watches from behind the scenes as they dive into football talk, the banter shifting into serious discussion about tactics and pressure and what it means to wear the captain's armband. Watches how Aurélien leads the conversation with natural grace, how he makes everyone feel heard while still keeping things moving.

"Et maintenant," ("And now,") Sébastien grins near the end, "Les fans veulent savoir - est notre nouveau capitaine single?" ("the fans want to know – is our new captain single")

Leila's head snaps up from her tablet.

"Non," Thomas jumps in before Aurélien can answer. "Son cœur appartient à son P–"

The water bottle that flies across the room and hits Thomas square in the chest is definitely not thrown by Leila.

"Cut!" The producer calls after they wrap the final segment, and Leila releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. They managed to get through the whole episode with only minimal chaos, though Thomas kept trying to sneak in comments about "certain PAs" until she started keeping a steady supply of projectiles within reach.

"That was fun," Sébastien grins, stretching as they all stand. "We should do this again. Maybe next time with Wilo as a guest?"

"Don't you have a dinner to prepare?" Jules asks quickly, shooting her a look that clearly says 'get out while you can'.

"Oui, about that dinner," Thomas perks up. "What exactly are you making?"

"If one more person asks me about dinner," Leila cuts in, gathering her things, "I'm making y'all eat protein shakes instead."

"You wouldn't," Ousmane gasps dramatically.

"Try me."

"Ma puce," Aurélien's voice is softer now that the cameras are off. "Need a ride to the store?"

And that's... new. He hasn't offered to drive her anywhere since The Comment™️.

"I can take her," Jules offers with fake innocence. "Since you probably have captain duties and all."

"I can drive my PA to the store."

"Your PA?" Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Just okay PA or...?"

The second water bottle that hits him is definitely from Aurélien this time.

"I'll wait in the car," he tells her, ignoring the knowing looks from everyone else.

As soon as he's out of earshot, the chaos erupts:

"Girl, if you don't get in that car–" Ousmane starts.

"But what about Wilo?" Thomas asks.

"Capitaine is clearly in his feelings–" Sébastien adds.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Jules announces. "Let her breathe."

Leila takes a deep breath, gathering her professional dignity around her like armor. "I have a dinner to cook for twenty something grown men who act like children. I don't have time for... whatever this is."

"This," Sébastien gestures vaguely, "is prime content. The captain and his PA?"

"There is no 'captain and his PA'," she insists. "There's just a PA who's about to feed half of the French Football Federation because she makes poor life choices."

"Speaking of poor life choices," Jules grins, "your man's waiting."

"He's not my–"

A horn honks outside. Twice.

"La patience de cet homme," Thomas laughs. "Vraiment incroyable."

"I hate all of you," Leila announces, heading for the door.

"But you'll still feed us?" Ousmane calls after her.

She doesn't dignify that with a response.

The car ride is... weird. Not tense exactly, but full of something she can't name. Aurélien keeps opening his mouth like he wants to say something, then closing it again. She pretends to be very interested in her grocery list.

Two hours and way too many bags later (because apparently she's feeding an army now), they're back at Clairefontaine and the kitchen is already buzzing with energy and she directs her very enthusiastic sous chefs – Michael and Cama, plus some actual kitchen staff who keep looking at her like she's either genius or crazy for attempting this.

"This is not 'season to taste'," she swats Cama's hand away from the seasoning. "This is 'season to kill'."

"But it needs more–"

"If you say 'spice' I'm demoting you to dish duty."

The thing about cooking while Chief Keef is blasting through Clairefontaine's halls is that it really sets a specific type of mood. Leila can hear Marcus and Mike singing "Don't Like" at the top of their lungs, probably driving everyone crazy, but she's too focused on making sure Cama doesn't turn her greens into chemical warfare.

Michael, who’s undoubtedly the sous chef MVP, is quietly following her instructions to the letter. There's something zen about the way he moves through the kitchen, precise and focused like he's preparing for a match instead of helping prep chicken.

"You're good at this," she tells him, and his answering smile is small but genuine.

"My grandmother," he says simply. "She taught me that cooking is meditation."

"YOUR GRANDMOTHER DIDN'T HAVE TO COOK FOR HANGRY FOOTBALLERS!" Marcus's voice carries through the door, followed by the opening beats of "Love Sosa."

"The meditation is about to turn into medication if they don't calm down," Leila mutters, but Michael just laughs softly.

The kitchen staff has gone from skeptical to impressed, watching her coordinate this whole production like she's done it her whole life. Which, honestly, she has – just usually for family reunions, not professional athletes who probably cost more than her entire hometown.

"It's almost ready?" Mike pokes his head in, looking like a hopeful puppy. "Because we're dying out here."

"You've eaten today," she points out. "Multiple times."

"But not your cooking," Marcus appears behind him. "And now the whole place smells like heaven and we're suffering."

"You're not suffering," she rolls her eyes. "You're being dramatic."

"I AM suffering," Mike insists. "Look at me, I'm wasting away."

"You literally had lunch two hours ago."

"That was before we could smell the mac and cheese," Marcus argues. "Now we're starving."

She's about to throw something at them when Michael quietly says, "The chicken's ready for the second batch."

"See?" She points at Michael. "This is why he's my favorite. He actually helps instead of just complaining."

"Favorites?" Marcus clutches his chest. "That's cold, Lei. Ice cold."

"You know what else is getting cold? This food, if y'all don't let me cook in peace."

"But–"

"OUT!"

They retreat, but not before Mike tries one last time to steal a piece of chicken. She catches him with her wooden spoon – years of defending food from hungry cousins have honed her reflexes.

"The quiet ones always got jokes," Cama laughs as Mike runs away clutching his hand dramatically, then yelps when she catches him trying to sneak a taste of the greens. "How do you even see everything?"

"I have eyes in the back of my head," she says seriously. "My mama installed them when I started cooking."

"They're getting restless," Michael notes as another song starts shaking the walls. She's pretty sure she can hear Jules trying to teach Marcus and Mike the words, which is... a choice.

"Let them be restless," she says, putting the finishing touches on the mac and cheese (extra cheese on top because she ain't playing). "Good food takes time."

The kitchen settles into a rhythm after that, just the sounds of cooking and the distant bass of whatever song Marcus and Mike have moved onto now. Even Cama calms down enough to actually be helpful, following her instructions with only minimal attempts at creative seasoning.

"This is nice," Michael says after a while, quiet enough that only she can hear. "Reminds me of home."

"Yeah," she smiles, understanding exactly what he means. There's something about cooking with people who get it, who understand that food is more than just fuel. It's love, it's family, it's...

"FANCULO!"

The Italian curse makes them all jump as Cama nearly drops an entire tray of cornbread.

"What happened?" Leila spins around, heart racing.

"The cornbread!" he looks devastated. "I almost... it almost..."

"But you didn't," she soothes, trying not to laugh at how genuinely distressed he looks. "The cornbread is safe."

"I would've had to leave France," he says seriously. "Change my name. Start a new life."

"Because of cornbread?"

"Have you met my teammates? They would never let me live it down."

He's not wrong. She can already imagine the chaos if anything happened to the cornbread. These grown men really out here ready to riot over some baked goods.

"Speaking of teammates," Michael says casually, too casually, "our captain's been pacing outside the door for the last ten minutes."

"He what?" She turns so fast she almost knocks over the hot sauce.

"Mhm," Michael hums, that knowing look back in his eyes. "Every time someone walks by he pretends he's on his phone."

"That's..." she doesn't even know how to finish that sentence.

"Interesting?" Cama suggests with a grin.

"Complicated," she corrects. "Now focus on not dropping any more cornbread."

"I didn't drop it!" Cama whined.

"Almost dropped it."

"So," Michael says after a moment, quiet enough that only she can hear, "we're really not going to talk about it?"

"About what?"

His knowing look rivals Jules', but he just goes back to prepping chicken.

"Nothing," he says. "Just thinking our new captain might need to work on his game off the field too."

She chooses to ignore that, focusing instead on finishing up everything. The food looks good – really good. Soul food isn't meant to be fancy, but there's something beautiful about it anyway. Something honest.

"Time to feed the children," she announces, and both Michael and Cama snort at her description of their teammates.

"They're going to lose their minds," Cama predicts as they start plating everything.

He's not wrong. She can already hear the excitement building in the cafeteria, the mix of French and English and various other languages all carrying the same message: finally.

"Ready?" Michael asks as they prepare to head out.

She looks at their work – all this food made with love and patience (and only minimal threats of violence).

"Ready."

The whole team is there, plus coaching staff, plus what feels like half the FFF. They've pushed tables together family-style, and someone (probably Marcus) starts a chant of "Speech! Speech!" that gets picked up by everyone else.

"Y'all are doing too much," she laughs, but Michael gently pushes her forward.

"I'll translate," he says, and she sends up a prayer of thanks for this man's whole existence.

"Okay, okay," she holds up her hands and the room quiets down. "Listen. Where I'm from, food is how we show love. It's how we celebrate victories and comfort each other through losses. It's how we welcome family – blood or chosen."

Michael translates as she speaks, his French making her simple words sound almost poetic.

"Today we're celebrating our new captain," she continues, and the cheers that go up nearly shake the windows. Aurélien, sitting at the center of the longest table, ducks his head but she catches his smile. "And tomorrow we're gonna beat Israel's whole ass."

The roar that goes up at that almost drowns out Michael's slightly more diplomatic translation.

"Everything is Halal," she adds, "and yes, there's dessert – banana pudding with vanilla ice cream because I'm not a monster."

She nods to the servers who start bringing out the dishes, and the way these elite athletes' eyes light up at the sight of proper soul food would be funny if it wasn't so endearing.

"Bon appétit, mes amis," she finishes, and immediately gets swept up in a group hug from Marcus and Mike that nearly takes her off her feet.

"An angel," Marcus declares as he squeezes her. "A motherfucking angel."

The room fills with the sound of comfortable chaos that reminds her of Sunday dinners back home. She catches William's eye across the room and he gives her a warm smile that makes her cheeks warm.

But then she feels it – that familiar weight of attention – and finds Aurélien watching her with an expression that makes her breath catch. He's looking like something out of her most inappropriate dreams, and...

"Your plate," Michael appears at her elbow with food he's made up for her. "Can't let the chef go hungry."

She tears her eyes away from Aurélien, forcing herself to focus on her food and not on how their new captain keeps glancing her way like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

For the first few minutes, the cafeteria vibrates of pure, unadulterated appreciation – the kind that makes a cook's heart sing. These professional athletes, who probably have personal chefs on speed dial, are absolutely demolishing their plates. Bradley's over there drowning his chicken in hot sauce like he's trying to prove something, while others are just making these little sounds of joy between bites.

"I'm going to marry you," Brice announces suddenly through a mouthful of mac and cheese, breaking the reverent silence like a hammer through stained glass.

The table erupts in hoots and hollers, and Leila definitely doesn't miss how Aurélien's fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

"It's a joke," Brice adds quickly, though his eyes are twinkling. "But this food? Magnifique."

"You can't just propose like that," Khephren shakes his head with mock solemnity. "There's a process. Parents first."

"Exactly," Ousmane nods with all the wisdom of someone who's been in this position before. "Gotta do it properly."

"And don't forget the bride price," Ibou adds, which sets off a wave of groans like he's just announced extra training.

"They don't do that in America, bro," someone calls out, which starts a whole debate about marriage customs in different countries.

"Speaking of America," Mike cuts through the chaos with surprising grace, "you're from Georgia, right?" At Leila's nod, he continues, "Do you know where your peoples from? Like which country in the motherland?"

"You can't just ask her that," Jules protests.

"Why not?" Mike shrugs, all innocence. "I'm just curious."

"Slavery happened," Michael says quietly, taking a casual sip of water.

"I know that happened," Mike responds, "but you know some Black people in the US do one of those ancestry.com tests. You know, to find their roots."

"I did one," Leila interjects, and suddenly she has the undivided attention of some of the most expensive athletes in Europe, all of them looking at her like she's about to reveal the secret to scoring hat-tricks.

"And?" Marcus prompts, gesturing with a chicken wing that probably violates several of their nutritionist's rules.

"You guys really want to know?"

The chorus of "yes" comes in various accents and volumes, but the enthusiasm is unanimous, and they're ready to put their food on pause – and considering how they've been eating, that's saying something.

Laughing, she pulls up her phone, scrolling through her gallery for that screenshot from her college days. "Okay, this is from my Cultural History & Heritage class, so... I'm 65% Ghanaian..."

The applause that breaks out would make you think someone just scored a World Cup winner. Ousmane's practically glowing with vindication.

"I knew you were Ghanaian! You're feisty," he declares.

"And that forehead," Ibou adds, making her touch it self-consciously.

"What's wrong with my forehead?"

"You got that West African forehead," Marcus explains through a grin. "It's still cute though!" he adds quickly, like he's just remembered his mama raised him right.

She's doing her best impression of a confused goldfish when she continues, "10% Western Bantu Peoples, 14% Beninese." Her eyes flick to Jules, who's wearing the kind of smile that suggests he's already plotting something.

"You and JK are cousins!" Cama announces with the excitement of someone connecting invisible dots. "The family reunion's gonna be lit!"

"9% French Guiana," she pushes on, "8% English, and the rest is Dutch."

The reaction to the English and Dutch parts hits like they've just heard she's part alien. Eyebrows shooting up across the table like they're trying to escape.

"Slavery," Michael says again, and the word lands like a weight, heavy with centuries of history.

"Right, right," comes the collective murmur, before Marcus breaks the moment by declaring he needs thirds "to honor all those ancestors."

"More cornbread, ma puce?"

She turns to find Aurélien holding out the basket, something soft in his expression that makes her heart do stupid things.

"I'm good," she manages to say.

"You sure? You've barely eaten."

"Just happy everyone else is enjoying it."

His response is cut off by Marcus starting a debate about whether Ghana or Benin has better jollof rice, and suddenly the whole table is taking sides in what's apparently a long-standing West African rivalry.

"Ghana obviously has the better jollof," she says quietly, just to watch Aurélien's eyes narrow in betrayal.

"Et tu, ma puce?" He shakes his head like she's personally wounded him. "Non, non. Cameroon's jollof is superior. This is just facts."

"Please," Ousmane cuts in with the confidence of someone about to start a war, "Nigerian jollof clears both. This isn't even a debate."

"Bullshit," Marcus declares. "Ghana invented jollof. You can't beat the original."

"Being first doesn't mean being best," Aurélien argues, and suddenly it's like they're discussing tactical formations instead of rice. "Cameroonians perfected it."

"The delusion," Ousmane sighs dramatically. "This is why you need a Nigerian wife. To show you what real jollof tastes like."

Leila tries not to think too hard about why that comment makes something twist in her chest, but then Aurélien's saying, "I don't need a Nigerian wife when I have–" before cutting himself off abruptly.

The table goes quiet enough to hear a fork drop.

"When you have what?" Jules prompts teasingly.

"When I have... more important things to focus on," Aurélien finishes lamely. "Like tomorrow's match."

"Mhm," Michael hums into his water glass, sharing a look with Jules that speaks volumes.

The conversation shifts to safer topics after that, but Leila can't quite shake the weight of that unfinished sentence. Can't quite ignore how Aurélien keeps sneaking glances at her like he's trying to read something written in a language he doesn't understand, but that's a problem for another day.

Match day arrives bright and crisp, the kind of weather that makes footballers' eyes light up. The usual pre-match routines take on extra weight today – this isn't just any game, it's Aurélien's first as captain, and you can feel it in the air at breakfast. Even Marcus and Mike are quieter than usual, energy focused instead of scattered.

But before they can get to the match, there's the small matter of getting to Budapest. The morning after her soul food extravaganza has these grown men acting like they've discovered the secret to eternal happiness.

"I swear," Marcus is saying as they wait in the private terminal, "I haven't slept that good since I was in the womb."

"That's called the itis," Leila explains, watching their confused faces with amusement. "When good food puts you in a food coma? Yeah that’s what it is."

"Whatever it was, we need it before every match," Mike declares, and several others nod enthusiastically.

"That's too much to ask," Aurélien cuts in, that protective edge creeping into his voice.

"I'll help cook again!" Cama volunteers immediately.

"NO!" comes the unanimous response, making him pout.

"After what you tried to do to those greens?" Michael adds quietly. "I think not."

The conversation halts as they board their plane, and Leila thought she knew what luxury was, but this private Airbus is on another level. It's all cream leather and polished wood, with business class seats that look more like individual living rooms. Each pod has its own entertainment system and enough space to lie flat, making her regular flight experiences look like public transit.

"First time on the team plane?" William's voice is warm as he slides into the seat next to her, flashing that smile that still makes her stomach flip.

"That obvious?"

"You're looking around like you just discovered Narnia."

She catches Aurélien watching them from across the aisle, his jaw doing that thing it does when he's thinking too hard.

"You should come to London after the break," William continues smoothly, either not noticing or choosing to ignore their captain's attention, "There's this amazing Nigerian restaurant I want to show you."

"Oh?" she tries for casual. "Just for the food?"

His smile turns soft. "Among other things."

Someone – definitely Jules – clears their throat loudly, and Leila suddenly finds the safety card fascinating.

"The restaurant's near Emirates," William adds. "I could show you around, catch a match..."

"You trying to convert her to Arsenal?" Bradley calls from behind them. "Nah, she needs to see a PSG match instead."

"Please," Mike scoffs. "Milan is clearly superior."

And just like that, they're all arguing about their clubs like they weren't just praising her cooking five minutes ago.

"Think about it?" William asks quietly while the others debate club merits.

She's about to answer when Aurélien's voice cuts through: "Leila, I need you to review the post-match schedules."

"Now? We just took off."

"Oui. Now."

William just shakes his head but his smile is knowing. "We'll talk later?"

She nods, gathering her tablet and trying not to analyze why their captain suddenly needs to review schedules he definitely already knows by heart.

**********************

The Puskás Aréna is something else entirely when they arrive – all modern glass and steel but somehow still intimidating as hell. Leila's back in her element, running through pre-match routines she's got down to a science by now. Water bottles positioned just so (because Michael swears the angle affects his performance), extra shin guards for Marcus (who she's convinced loses them on purpose at this point just to watch her scramble), and that specific pre-wrap that Mike treats like it's made of gold.

Aurélien's different today – you can see it in how he carries himself, that armband not just a piece of fabric but a crown. He moves through the locker room like he's been doing this his whole life, stopping at each player with exactly what they need: a quiet word with Jules, some complicated handshake with Cama that looks more like interpretive dance, a firm nod to William that carries weight she can't quite read.

The match itself? Pure poetry. Whatever that soul food did to them, it's working overtime because they're moving like they've got cheat codes enabled. Aurélien's commanding the midfield like he was born to it, every tackle clean enough to eat off of, every pass finding feet like he's got GPS in his boots.

Six minutes in and Cama's already making statements, finding the back of the net with the kind of finish that makes you question physics. Before Israel can even process what hit them, Nkunku's doubling the lead in the 26th minute, celebration looking suspiciously like a TikTok dance she's definitely seen Marcus teaching everyone.

Israel manages to pull one back, but these boys aren't about to let their captain's first match be anything less than spectacular. The last five minutes turn into a highlight reel – a goal in the 87th with a strike that probably broke the sound barrier, and then Bradley putting the final nail in the coffin just two minutes later, making it 4-1 with the kind of casual elegance that shouldn't be legal.

The final whistle just confirms what everyone already knew – this French team, with their new captain and apparently their new pre-match soul food ritual, is something special.

4-1. Four different scorers. And one very proud PA trying not to look too obvious about it.

*******************************

The rowdy chaos outside her hotel room tells Leila exactly what's about to go down. Post-match celebration means clubs, means someone's definitely about to drop stupid money on bottles, means Marcus will absolutely end up shirtless at some point, and means these boys are headed out to dance a little and find someone who's down to fuck. Instagram models will materialize like they've got professional athlete radar, the elevators about to get more action than a fashion week runway.

Her mind cannot handle the aura Aurélien has right now especially after winning his first match as captain; she knew what type time he was on and it wasn't going to be anything saintly. He loves a win more than anything and the only other thing that can top that is going out with the boys and bedding some girl.

Thank goodness she never heard him getting busy - that may scar her to the point of needing therapy but she read some things on gossip blogs (she didn't know if it was true or false) and the way they talked about him having humongous dick energy not to mention the stamina—

A knock on her hotel room door pulled her out of her thoughts and she hurriedly fixed her bonnet and glasses before looking at the peep hole and to her surprise it was Jules.

The hell?

"I know you know it's me," he says and Leila let out a groan silently debating on whether or not she should let him in. He knocked again, this time harder.

"Okay, relax." She said then opened the door. Jules eyes scanned over her body.

"That's how you going to the club, Leila? A bonnet and muumuu?"

And she squinted at him like he had three heads. "Huh?"

"You're coming to the club."

"I most certainly am not," she says, already trying to close the door, but Jules is faster, wedging his foot in the way.

"You really gonna let Wilo go to the club without supervision?" he asks with that smirk that means trouble. "When there's gonna be all those Hungarian baddies there?"

"Wilo is a grown man who can do whatever he wants," she says, but something must show in her face because Jules' grin gets wider.

"Mhm. And I'm sure Auré has nothing to do with you hiding in your room?"

"I'm not hiding, I'm being professional."

"Professional?" Jules actually laughs. "Ma puce, you're our age. You think the FFF expects you to sit in your room in a bonnet while we celebrate?"

"The FFF expects me to—"

"To what? Pretend you're not twenty-four? Come on. Get dressed. The car leaves in twenty."

"Jules—"

"Either you come willingly or I'm sending Marcus and Mike to get you. Your choice."

The threat of those two showing up at her door is enough to make her pause. They'd probably live-stream the whole thing, and then she'd have to explain to her mama why she's trending on French Twitter.

"Fine," she sighs. "But I'm not staying long."

"Sure," Jules says in a tone that suggests he doesn't believe her at all. "Wear that black dress you brought."

She narrows her eyes. "How do you know what's in my suitcase?"

"I don't. But you're a Black woman on a work trip – you definitely packed a just-in-case outfit."

"I hate that you know that."

His grin is entirely too satisfied. "Twenty minutes. And Lei?" He pauses at the door. "Aren't you curious what your captain's going to say when he sees you in something other than work clothes?"

Before she can throw something at him, he's gone, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

She looks at her reflection in the hotel mirror, bonnet and all, and lets out a deep sigh.

"Lord," she mutters, already reaching for her suitcase, "give me strength."

Because Jules isn't wrong – she definitely packed that black dress. Just in case.

The black halterneck dress has been sitting in her suitcase like it's been waiting for this moment, all dangerous intentions and "maybe I will act up tonight" energy. She holds it up, already questioning herself because this hem is definitely living its best thigh-high life. But then again, if she's about to get dragged to a club by a bunch of football players, she might as well look like she meant to be there.

The over-the-knee boots are her compromise with herself – wedge heels because she refuses to die tonight trying to channel her inner Instagram baddie in stilettos. Her silk press is still hanging on by a prayer and whatever magic Theresa put in that heat protectant, so at least that's one less thing to worry about.

One last glance in the mirror has her reaching for her silver metallic Diesel mini purse (her one designer splurge that she justified as a "work expense" because technically she does need to look put together around these millionaires).

A knock at the door has her rolling her eyes. "It has not been twenty minutes—" she starts, yanking it open, ready to tell Jules exactly where he can put his timeline.

Except it's not Jules.

William's standing there looking like every bad decision she's ever wanted to make, already dressed for the club in a fitted black Amiri shirt that's doing criminal things to his shoulders.

"Oh," she manages, suddenly very aware that this dress is doing exactly what it was designed to do. William's eyes do a slow sweep from her boots all the way up, and listen – she might need to text Theresa a thank you for this silk press because the way he's looking at her right now?

"Jules said you needed an escort to the club," he says, voice a little rougher than usual. "But I'm thinking maybe we should skip it."

She tries to remember how to form words like a professional. "Skip it?"

"There's this rooftop bar..." he starts, then stops as voices carry down the hallway – she catches Aurélien's distinct tone among them and something in William's expression shifts.

"The rooftop bar?" she prompts, pretending she doesn't hear the footsteps getting closer.

William steps closer, just inside her doorway. "Much quieter than the club. Better view. And we could actually..." he pauses as the voices get louder, "talk."

The way he says 'talk' definitely isn't suggesting conversation about the weather.

But before she can respond, another voice cuts through:

"Ma pu—" Aurélien's voice cuts off abruptly, and Leila watches something complicated pass across his face as he takes in the scene – William in her doorway, her in this dress that's definitely not PA-appropriate, the energy crackling between them that definitely isn't professional.

He's already dressed for the club too, looking like he stepped out of a GQ spread in all black everything, that captain's confidence still radiating off him. For a moment, nobody moves.

"Capitaine," William says easily, not moving from his spot. "We were just discussing alternate plans for tonight."

"Alternate plans?" Jules appears behind Aurélien, taking in the situation with raised eyebrows. "Non, non. The team celebrates together. You know this."

"I was thinking—" William starts, but Aurélien cuts him off.

"The van's leaving. Now." There's something in his voice that doesn't invite argument. "Both of you."

Leila catches Jules hiding a smile behind his hand, and she really might have to fight him later.

"After you," William says to her, finally stepping back, but his hand finds her lower back as they head toward the elevator and she swears she hears something that sounds suspiciously like a growl from behind them.

The rented van's already bumping with French trap music when she climbs in, Marcus and Mike immediately letting out wolf whistles that would absolutely get them slapped by their mamas.

"OH? Okay Lei! I see how you coming tonight!" Cama's eyes go wide. "This is not PA behavior!"

"Nah for real though," Marcus grins, "who told you to show up looking this good? We trying to play it cool tonight!"

"Cool?" Mike winks at her. "Ain't nothing cool about this. Now we know why Jules was so pressed about you coming out."

Bradley's already pouring shots in the back, passing them around like they didn't just play 90 minutes of professional football. "To the baddest in the van!"

"Hold up though," Khephren raises his glass with a smirk. "You really just been hiding all this under them work clothes? That's foul, Lei."

William's hand is still somehow finding reasons to brush against her knee, while Aurélien's watching the whole scene from the front like he's plotting multiple homicides. The bass is hitting hard enough to cover whatever Jules is saying to him, but judging by their captain's face, it's nothing he wants to hear.

"Another round?" Bradley calls out as Gazo's latest hit has everyone trying to rap along.

"No, I’m good. Thanks," she says.

The club is exactly what you'd expect when rolling with the French national team – all VIP treatment and bottle girls already lined up like they got a notification that fine athletes were incoming. Security parts the crowd, leading them straight to the section.

"You good?" William asks as she slides into the booth next to him, his hand finding that spot on her lower back again. Before she can answer, Marcus is already ordering bottles like he's trying to buy out the whole club.

"Dom, Clase Azul, and whatever our PA wants because she blessed us with that soul food!" he shouts over the music.

"And that dress," Mike adds, earning himself a look from Aurélien that could freeze hell.

The first bottle of Dom arrives with sparklers because of course it does – these men don't know how to do anything lowkey. Bradley's already got his phone out, documenting everything for his Close Friends story while Cama starts pouring shots like it's his job.

"To our captain!" Someone calls out, and more bottles appear, more sparklers, more everything.

"And to our angel," Khephren adds with a wink in her direction. "Feeding us like kings!"

She catches Aurélien's expression in the strobe lights, something dark and hungry in his eyes as he watches William lean in to whisper something in her ear. The music's too loud to hear what Jules says to him, but whatever it is makes their captain knock back his entire drink in one go.

"Dance with me," William says as Rema's voice fills the club, and Leila immediately starts shaking her head, pushing her glasses up her nose like they'll shield her from his request.

"Oh no, I don't—"

But then he does that thing with his tongue, running it across his lips in a way that should be illegal, and her brain short-circuits for a second.

"Come on," he grins, already standing and holding out his hand. "One dance."

Before she can protest again, he's leading her down from their VIP section to where the dance floor is pulsing with Afrobeats. She catches Aurélien's expression as they pass – something dangerous flickering in his eyes as he watches William's hand on her waist.

"I really don't dance," she tries one last time, but William's already pulling her closer, moving to the beat like he was born doing this.

"Everyone dances to Afrobeats," he says in her ear, his accent wrapping around the words. "Just feel it."

And maybe it's the shots, or maybe it's the way his hands feel on her hips, but she finds herself starting to move. The rhythm catches her, William's smile grows wider, and suddenly she remembers – she does know how to dance. She just usually doesn't do it in front of half the French national team.

But tonight? Tonight feels different.

The thing about dancing with a professional athlete is that they know exactly how to move. William's got this natural rhythm that makes it easy to follow his lead, his hands steady on her hips as she finds her groove. The beat switches to "Calm Down" and suddenly they're moving like they've been dancing together forever.

"Look who can dance after all," he murmurs in her ear, pulling her a little closer as she rolls her hips. The shots are definitely helping with her confidence, but it's the way he's looking at her that's really doing it – like she's the only girl in this packed club.

She catches glimpses of the other boys joining the dance floor – Marcus already shirtless (called it), Mike with some girl who looks like she models for Fashion Nova, Cama doing some complicated dance routine that has everyone making space. But she keeps feeling that weight of attention from above, knows without looking that Aurélien's watching every move, every time William's hands slide a little lower, every time she moves a little closer.

"You've been holding out on us," he says against her ear. "All this time in training and we never knew you could move like this."

A particularly bold turn has her back pressed fully against him, and oh – apparently footballers really do have incredible stamina because that's definitely not his phone in his pocket. His thumb traces her jawline, tilting her face up to his, and the look in his eyes makes her mouth go dry.

"I think," he says, voice rough in a way that sends heat straight through her, "we should get out of here."

The reasonable part of her brain, the part that remembers she's technically working, tries to speak up. But then his lips brush her ear and that part of her brain short circuits completely.

"I've got a suite," he continues. "Much quieter than here. Better view of the city."

She knows what he's really saying. Knows exactly what that invitation means. Knows that tomorrow she'll either have the best story for Yolanda or the biggest regret of her career.

From somewhere behind them, she hears Mike shout something that sounds suspiciously like "GET IT, LEI!" She's going to have to fight him later.

William's still waiting for an answer, his body moving against hers in a way that's making thinking very difficult. His hand slides up her spine, leaving fire in its wake, and really – what's the worst that could happen?

Besides losing her job, her dignity, and whatever's left of her heart that isn't already tied up in another footballer who thinks she's just okay.

The music shifts to something slower, something that has William pulling her even closer, and she's about to say yes to everything he's suggesting when someone bumps them hard enough to break their bubble.

"Désolé," Aurélien's voice cuts through the music as he moves past them toward the bar, not sounding sorry at all. Bradley is right behind him, shooting them an apologetic look that seems more amused than anything.

But William's not letting this moment slip. His fingers turned her attention back to him like their captain didn't just try to body check them on the dance floor. "So? That view I mentioned..."

Maybe it's the shots. Maybe it's the way he's looking at her. Maybe it's how Aurélien didn't even acknowledge her when he passed. Maybe it's all of it, mixing with the bass and the heat and the way William's fingers are drawing promises on her skin.

"Show me," she says, and his smile turns dangerous in the best way.

He leads her through the crowd, hand firm on her lower back. They pass the VIP section where Mike lets out another wolf whistle (she's definitely fighting him tomorrow), where Marcus is too busy with his own conquest to notice, where Cama's eyes go wide before he bumps Jules' shoulder with a knowing look.

She catches one last glimpse of Aurélien at the bar as they head for the exit, watches him knock back what looks like straight whiskey while Bradley says something in his ear. His eyes meet hers for just a moment, dark and intense and full of something she can't name.

But then William's guiding her toward the door, and she decides that's tomorrow's problem.

Tonight belongs to different choices.

**************************

The Uber ride is charged with enough electricity to power all of Budapest. William's got his hand on her thigh, thumb tracing circles that are making her brain malfunction, and listen – she might need to text God an apology real quick because the thoughts she's having right now are absolutely not church-appropriate.

He's definitely feeling those shots, all loose limbs and heated looks, but she's right there with him – everything's got that soft-focus feeling that makes bad decisions feel like destiny. The way he's looking at her like she's something to be devoured is doing things to her heart rate that can't be healthy.

But underneath all that liquid courage, panic is starting to set in. Because this man definitely thinks he's about to get the kind of experience his usual conquests provide, and she's over here having never gone past first base. Her virgin self is really about to try to play in the Champions League with no practice, and that's not even counting the fact that this man is built like he was carved from marble.

"You're thinking too loud," he murmurs, leaning in close enough that she can smell his cologne mixed with expensive liquor. His lips brush her ear and – oh. OH. Maybe this is how she dies. At least it's a good way to go.

The hotel appears way too quickly and not quick enough. William helps her out of the car like the gentleman he is, but his eyes are pure sin as they head for the elevator.

Her heart's doing double-time now, a mix of want and worry that has her pressing her thighs together. Because she wants this – wants him – but also? She's seen the gossip blogs. She knows what these football players are working with. And her inexperienced self is really about to—

The elevator doors close and William presses the button for his floor, and suddenly everything feels very, very real.

Lord help her.

It took no time before William got her pressed against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside her head while the other plays with the ends of her hair. They haven't even kissed yet but the anticipation is thick enough to cut.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs, eyes tracking over her face like he's memorizing it. "You know that?"

The elevator dings at his floor and suddenly they're playing this game of trying to walk down the hallway while staying as close as possible. His key card takes three tries to work because he's too busy pressing soft kisses to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth that's trying not to smile too wide.

Then they're through his door and everything shifts. His hands find her waist, pulling her close as he backs her against the door. The first press of his lips against hers is gentle, questioning, like he's asking permission yet when she sighs into it, fingers curling into his shirt, gentle goes out the window.

Listen. LISTEN. William Saliba can KISS. She's got her back against his hotel room door, his hands cupping her face like she's precious while simultaneously trying to steal her soul through her mouth. Everything's hazy with want and Clase Azul when his lips find that spot behind her ear that makes her knees weak. One of his hands slides down to her hip, thumb finding skin where her dress has ridden up, and the noise she makes should be embarrassing but he groans in response like she's driving him crazy.

His mouth is doing ungodly things to her neck, the kind of things that make her understand why people write songs about moments like this, when reality crashes back in.

"Wait," she manages to breathe out. "I should... I need to tell you something."

He pulls back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and intense in a way that makes her forget how to breathe. His thumb traces her bottom lip and for a moment she forgets what she was going to say.

"What's wrong?" His voice is rough in a way that does things to her insides, accent thicker than usual.

They've somehow migrated from the door to the middle of his suite, the city lights of Budapest twinkling behind them through floor-to-ceiling windows. His hands are still on her waist, thumbs drawing circles on her hips that make it hard to think straight.

"I've never..." she starts, then stops, trying to find the words while his mouth is doing devastating things to her collarbone. "I haven't..."

He pulls back again, and this time understanding dawns on his face slowly, his eyes widening. One hand comes up to cup her cheek, and she leans into it despite herself.

"Wait. You're...?"

She nods, warmth rushing to her cheeks that has nothing to do with his kisses or the shots still buzzing through her system.

"But you're twenty-four," he says like he's trying to solve a complicated math problem. His other hand is still on her waist, thumb still moving in those maddening circles. "And you look like... I mean, how has nobody...?"

She shrugs, suddenly finding his gold chain very interesting. "Just never happened. Never felt right with anyone."

His fingers catch her chin, tilting her face back up to his. The heat in his eyes has been replaced by something softer, something that makes her heart do different kinds of flips.

"We can wait," he says, thumbs stroking her cheeks. "Until you're ready. No pressure."

"You sure?"

His answering kiss is gentle now, all sweet promise instead of consuming fire. "Some things are worth waiting for."

They end up on his couch, trading lazy kisses that slowly build and ebb like waves. His hands stay respectfully above clothes even when hers wander a bit (because listen, those footballer abs are a gift and she's only human). They talk about nothing and everything – about growing up in France, about her friends in Georgia, about how nervous she was her first day as a PA.

It's nice. More than nice. The kind of nice that makes her wonder if maybe...

But it's getting late, and her willpower is seriously testing its limits with the way he keeps looking at her like she's something precious. She should go. She needs to go.

"I should head back," she murmurs against his lips.

"Mhm," he agrees, but kisses her again anyway.

Ten minutes and several more "I should really go" kisses later, she finally makes it to his door. He pulls her in for one last kiss that nearly changes her mind about leaving.

"Think about what I said," he says. "About London."

"I will."

She's still floating on cloud nine when she rounds the corner and nearly collides with them – Aurélien and what looks like this evening's conquest. The girl's exactly his type – all curves and confidence, the kind of ass that probably has its own Instagram following. They're wrapped around each other like they can't wait to get behind closed doors, and the sight hits her like a bucket of ice water.

Their eyes meet over the girl's shoulder, and something in his expression makes her stomach drop. She tries to slip past quietly, already planning how many miles she'll need to run tomorrow to forget this moment.

"Good night, Leila."

She freezes mid-step, the sound of her actual name falling from his lips feeling like a slap. Not 'ma puce'. Not his usual pet name that makes her heart flutter. Just Leila.

His hotel room door clicks shut, and she stands there in the hallway like someone just pressed pause on her whole world. In the eight months she's known him, through every up and down, every early morning and late night, every moment of casual intimacy and professional distance, he's never once called her just Leila.

Never once until now, when she's standing in a hallway wearing another man's kisses while he takes another woman to his bed.

The universe really does have a sense of humor.

A cruel one.

………….tbd

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kennasutopia · 3 days ago

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Men his build and height shirts would dust my knees midnight and thats what we call boyfriend material.

#virgil van dijk #liverpool fc #vvd4 #vvd #big virg #short torso long legs

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kennasutopia · 3 days ago

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One of my favorite actresses, I just found shogun and am currently binge watching it.

ANNA SAWAI — Golden Globes 2025

#anna sawai #shôgun

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kennasutopia · 4 days ago

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kennasutopia · 4 days ago

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We see virgil and we reblog 🧡

#virgil van dijk #liverpool fc #vvd4

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kennasutopia · 4 days ago

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VIRGIN TERRITORY (chapter 2) ────── iamquaintrelle

# pairing: aurelien tchouameni x black oc (☔️✨💕)

# tags: @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend @judectrl @ayeshami @greyishbach

# summary: she's been his pa for almost a year and everyday is a struggle to function around him, but he'll never see her more than that...will he? and what will happen if he finds out she's also a virgin? masterlist.

It's been three days since The Comment™️, and Leila's standing in front of her bathroom mirror trying to make her box braids cooperate while simultaneously giving herself a pep talk about professional boundaries. The Madrid morning sun is streaming through her apartment window, making the gold threads in her hair shimmer like they're trying to show off.

"Just another day at the office," she mutters to her reflection. "A very expensive office with a very beautiful boss who thinks you're just okay."

Her phone buzzes – probably Yolanda's daily check-in. Her best friend had been skeptical from day one about this whole situation.

"Girl, you know how them African men be," Yolanda had said when Leila first got the job, and Leila had immediately jumped to defend against the stereotype because hello? It's 2024 and we're really still doing this?

But now? Standing here in her Madrid apartment getting ready to face another day of Aurélien's casual touches and unconscious flirting that apparently meant nothing? Maybe Yolanda had a point. Not about African men in general – that's still a trash take – but about Aurélien specifically.

Because yeah, he's French on paper, but his blood is pure Cameroonian and she's been around him long enough to see it clear as day. The way he'd shown off during that Bridge show with Samuel Eto'o and Francis Ngannou, like he was just kickin' it with his cousins. How he switches between French and that specific Cameroonian-French dialect when he's on the phone with his family. The way his whole demeanor shifts when his mama's cooking pondu.

She reaches for her most professional blazer – the one that says "I'm here to work, not to pine over you like a teenager." No more of those oversized sweaters he likes to cuddle into during morning meetings. No more letting him play with her braids while they review his schedule. No more melting when he calls her "ma puce" in that rough morning voice.

Her phone buzzes again. This time it's a text from the man himself:

Boss Man AT: Can you bring breakfast today? Missing your biscuits...

Three days ago, that message would've had her rushing to the kitchen to whip up his favorites. Now? She types back a crisp: You have a fully stocked kitchen and a recipe book. I'll see you at 9 for the Nike meeting.

She can almost see his confused face, probably wondering why his reliable source of Southern comfort food is suddenly acting brand new. But that's what he wanted, right? Just okay means just business.

"Keep that same energy," she tells her reflection, adjusting her blazer one last time. No more of this Georgia peach sweetness. If he wants okay, she can give him okay. Professional okay. Efficient okay. The kind of okay that doesn't make him honey brown sugar wings or laugh at his bad jokes or pretend not to notice when he falls asleep on her shoulder during long flights.

The kind of okay that doesn't catch feelings for men who see her as nothing more than a convenient source of soul food and schedule management.

Another text from him: Are you mad at me?

She stares at it for a long moment. Types and deletes three different responses before settling on: I'll have your schedule ready when I arrive.

Because what's she supposed to say? "Yes, I'm mad because you called me okay while I've been over here catching feelings like a whole idiot"? "No, I'm not mad, I'm just heartbroken because I let myself forget that I'm just the help"?

Her mama didn't raise no fool, even if her heart's been acting like one lately. Time to remember that this is just a job. A really good job with excellent benefits and a boss who's unfairly gorgeous and who probably has half the models in Europe on speed dial.

"Just another day at the office," she repeats, grabbing her keys and her emotional support water bottle. Just another day of pretending her heart doesn't do backflips every time he smiles.

But this time? This time she's keeping those backflips strictly professional.

Even if it kills her.

The drive to Aurélien's place feels different when you're trying to maintain professional boundaries. No more stopping at that little café he loves for pain au chocolat. No more singing along to his playlist that she definitely hasn't downloaded (okay, she has, but she's not playing it today). Just straight business, straight roads, straight to the point.

When she pulls up to his gate, she hesitates before punching in the code. Three days ago, she'd have walked right in, probably already planning what to cook for his breakfast. Now she hits the intercom instead.

"Yes?" His voice crackles through the speaker, sounding confused because she never uses this thing.

"It's Leila. Here for the Nike meeting prep."

A pause. Long enough that she almost thinks he's not going to buzz her in. Then: "Since when do you use the intercom, ma puce?"

"Since it's the professional thing to do," she answers, proud that her voice stays steady even though that pet name still hits her right in the chest. "Can you let me in? We're on a schedule."

Another pause, then the gate swings open. She drives up the familiar path, noticing Ocho already at the front door, tail wagging like he's personally offended she hasn't been properly spoiling him these past few days.

Aurélien opens the door before she can knock (because yeah, she was going to knock too – new professional Leila is committed). He's standing there in just his training shorts, hair still wet from the shower, looking like some kind of trap God had specifically designed to test her resolve.

"You're really gonna knock?" he asks, that little furrow between his brows that usually means he's trying to figure out a tactical problem on the field. "At your own house?"

"This isn't my house," she corrects him, sliding past without their usual hug even though Ocho is doing his best to trip her up for pets. "It's your house. I'm your PA."

She sets up her laptop at the kitchen island – not the couch where they usually do morning meetings, because that's too comfortable, too familiar, too many memories of him playing with her braids while they go over his schedule.

"Leila."

"The Nike people want to go over the new contract clauses," she says, pulling up her notes without looking at him. "And then you have that photoshoot for–"

"Leila." His voice is closer now, right behind her chair. "Look at me."

"We don't have time–"

"Since when?"

She finally turns, finds him looking at her with an expression she can't quite read. "Since when what?"

"Since when don't we have time? Since when do you use the intercom? Since when do you not make breakfast? Since when are you not you?"

And that? That actually makes her mad. Because who is he to question who she is when he's the one who reduced her entire existence to "okay"?

"Since I remembered what my job actually is," she says, turning back to her laptop. "Now can we focus? The Nike meeting is at nine and you still need to get dressed. Something professional please, not those ripped jeans you love."

"Ma puce–"

"And stop calling me that." The words come out sharper than she intended. "I'm your PA, not your–"

She cuts herself off because what was she going to say? Not your friend? Not your cook? Not your emotional support Black girl who's been stupid enough to catch feelings?

"Not my what?" Now he sounds almost angry, which is rich coming from someone who's the actual cause of this whole situation.

"Not important," she finishes, pulling up his calendar. "Now about the Nike meeting–"

"Who said you're not important?"

The genuine confusion in his voice almost breaks her. Almost makes her want to look at him. Almost makes her want to explain everything.

Almost.

"Your schedule is updated for the week," she says instead. "I've coordinated with Jules about that charity event, and your mother called about dinner on–"

His hand appears in her field of vision, closing her laptop. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. I'm just doing my job. The job you pay me for. Now can you please get dressed? We have a meeting to prepare for and you're..." she waves vaguely at his general shirtless situation, "...distracting."

That last word slips out before she can catch it, and she sees the way his expression shifts, like he's just caught the scent of something interesting on the field.

"Distracting?"

"Unprofessional," she corrects quickly. "You're being unprofessional. Shirt. Now. Please."

He doesn't move, just keeps looking at her like she's a puzzle he's trying to solve. "Did I do something?"

Yes. No. Maybe. You made me fall in love with you and then called me okay and I don't know how to handle any of this.

"You did nothing," she says, and at least that part is true. He did nothing because she means nothing. She's just okay. "But we're going to be late if you don't get dressed."

He stays there for another moment, like he's waiting for something. Then finally: "D'accord. But this conversation isn't over."

"The only conversation we need to have is about the Nike contract," she calls after him as he heads upstairs. "And please wear the blue suit! The grey one needs pressing!"

She waits until she hears his bedroom door close before letting out the breath she's been holding. Just another day at the office. Just another day of pretending her heart isn't breaking.

She can do this.

She absolutely cannot do this.

The Nike headquarters in Madrid is all glass and chrome and people who look like they just stepped out of a lifestyle blog. Leila follows Aurélien into the conference room, tablet in hand, trying to maintain that professional distance even though he keeps finding reasons to touch her lower back as they walk. Old habits die hard, apparently.

She's setting up her notes when she feels it – that distinct sensation of being watched. She glances up to find one of the Nike interns looking at her like she's a whole snack, and not in that lowkey way she's used to dealing with. Man is straight up LOOKING looking.

He's cute, objectively speaking. Marco, according to his badge. All honey-toned skin and warm brown eyes, perfectly styled dark hair and a smile that probably works wonders on dating apps. Not usually her type – she tends to gravitate toward men built like NBA players, dark skin, the kind of smile that lights up rooms (she's not thinking about Aurélien, she's NOT) – but maybe Yolanda's right. Maybe she needs to expand her horizons.

The meeting starts, and she's trying to focus on contract clauses and marketing strategies, but she keeps catching Marco's eyes across the table. He's definitely interested, shooting her these little smiles that make her feel seen in a way she hasn't since... well. Since that comment.

She's so focused on not focusing on Marco that she almost misses the shift in Aurélien's energy. Almost, but not quite. Because she knows this man's moods like she knows her mama's recipes, and right now? He's got that same energy he gets when someone makes a bad tackle in training.

"As I was saying," Marco's speaking now, something about social media integration, but Aurélien cuts him off.

"My PA handles all my social media coordination," he says, voice carrying that edge she usually only hears when journalists ask stupid questions. "Leila has final say on everything."

She blinks because that's... not true? Like, she helps with his social media but she definitely doesn't have "final say" on anything. She's about to correct him when she feels his hand on her knee under the table, a touch that would've made her melt three days ago but now just confuses her.

The meeting wraps up, all handshakes and professional smiles, and she's gathering her things when Marco approaches her desk.

"Hey," he smiles, and yeah, okay, maybe she could get used to this type that isn't her type. "I was thinking, you know, for coordination purposes..."

He slides his business card across the table, and she doesn't need to flip it over to know his personal number is on the back. This isn't her first rodeo with smooth corporate boys.

"For coordination," she repeats, trying not to smile too obviously. Behind her, she swears she can feel Aurélien's attention like a physical weight.

"Purely professional," Marco grins, but his eyes say something entirely different. "Although if you wanted to discuss strategy over dinner sometime..."

"Leila." Aurélien's voice cuts through whatever smoothness Marco was about to deploy. "We have that thing."

"What thing?" she asks, because they absolutely do not have a thing.

"That thing," he insists, and now his hand is back on her lower back, more possessive than guiding. "You know, the important one."

Marco looks between them, something knowing in his expression that makes Leila want to explain that it's not like that, that she's just "okay" actually, that her boss just has boundary issues.

Instead, she takes the card, making sure her fingers brush against Marco's just because she can. Just because maybe she needs to remind herself that she's not completely invisible to the male population. Just because maybe she needs Aurélien to see that she can be more than okay to someone else.

"I'll call if we need to... coordinate," she says, and Marco's answering smile is bright enough to light up the room.

She feels Aurélien's fingers flex against her back.

"Great meeting," he says, but his voice suggests it was anything but. "We should go. For the thing."

"Right," she sighs, gathering her tablet. "The very important thing that definitely exists."

She lets him guide her out, very aware of Marco's eyes following them, even more aware of how Aurélien's hand hasn't left her back. The card feels like it's burning a hole in her pocket, a tiny rebellion against... what exactly? Her type? Her feelings? The man currently trying to speed-walk her to the elevator like she might sprint back to that conference room if he moves too slow?

"So," she says once they're alone in the elevator. "What's this very important thing we're apparently late for?"

"Lunch," he says shortly. "With my mother."

"Your mother is in Paris."

"Then I guess we'll have to FaceTime her."

She looks at him then, really looks at him for the first time in three days. He's got that jaw clench going on, the one that usually means he's stressed about a big match. But they don't have any games this week, so...

"You're really going to pretend we have lunch plans just because that intern was trying to–"

"He wasn't trying to coordinate anything," Aurélien cuts her off, stabbing the lobby button like it personally offended him. "He was trying to–"

"To what?" She's actually curious now. "To ask out your 'okay' PA?"

His head snaps toward her so fast she's worried about whiplash. "What did you just say?"

But the elevator doors are opening and she's already moving, putting that professional distance back between them. She's got Marco's card in her pocket and a whole new perspective on her "type" and maybe, just maybe, a tiny bit of her power back.

She feels his eyes on her all the way to his car, and she's not thinking about what that means.

She's not. She absolutely is.

The drive to wherever they're going is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Leila's pressed against the passenger door of his Urus like she's trying to become one with it, while Aurélien's got both hands on the wheel (for once) and is chewing on his bottom lip like it personally offended him. Every now and then he mumbles something in that mix of French and Cameroonian dialect that she's pretty sure isn't appropriate for polite company.

She pretends to be very interested in her phone, definitely not stealing glances at how his jaw is doing that clenching thing or how his knuckles are white on the steering wheel.

They end up at this little place in the heart of Madrid that she knows for a fact isn't on his approved restaurant list (his nutritionist is going to have WORDS), but she's not about to remind him. Not when he's radiating this energy that's somewhere between "post-loss press conference" and "that time Jude ate his last protein bar."

They're barely settled into their seats when his phone starts ringing, his mama's face lighting up the screen.

"Maman," he answers, immediately softening like he always does for her. "Oui, je suis avec Leila."

"My baby!" His mother's voice carries through the speaker. "Why haven't you been feeding my son, chérie? He's looking thin."

Leila can't help but smile because trust Josette Tchouaméni to get straight to the point. "He has a fully stocked kitchen and knows how to use it."

"Ah, so that's why he's pouting? No more of your cooking?"

"Maman," Aurélien protests, but his mother waves him off.

"Don't 'maman' me. What did you do to make her stop cooking for you? You know Leila only cooks for people she l–"

"How's Papa?" Aurélien cuts in quickly, and Leila pretends not to notice the nervous tick in his neck. "Is his back better?"

They chat for a few more minutes, his mother expertly guilting them both about not visiting enough, before hanging up. The waiter brings their food – definitely not nutritionist approved – and they eat in silence for a moment before:

"I'm headed to Clairefontaine on Thursday."

"Yeah, I know," she doesn't look up from her plate. "I manage your schedule, remember?"

"You should come."

She squints at him across the table. She's only been to Clairefontaine once, before the Euros last summer. It wasn't awful – actually kind of nice, if you ignore how she spent half the time trying not to openly stare at what was essentially a collection of the finest Black men French football had to offer. But still.

"I have a hair appointment that day."

His lips curl into that smirk that usually means trouble. "So catch a flight after. Your girl doesn't close until seven anyway."

She narrows her eyes because how does he know her stylist's hours? "Why do I need to come to Clairefontaine?"

"Because..." he takes a deliberately slow bite of his food, "it's your job, ma puce."

The way he says 'job' makes it sound like something else entirely. She watches him continue eating like he hasn't just completely disrupted her plans for a peaceful Thursday of getting her hair done and definitely not thinking about him.

"My job is to manage your schedule, not babysit you at national team camp."

"Mhm," he hums around another bite. "And since my schedule includes Clairefontaine..."

"I can manage your schedule from Madrid."

"You could," he agrees, finally looking up at her. "But then who's going to make sure I eat properly?"

"The team has nutritionists."

"Who's going to organize my recovery sessions?"

"The physios."

"Who's going to keep me company when I can't sleep before matches?"

"I'm sure one of your many model friends would be happy to–"

She stops herself but it's too late. His eyes sharpen with interest.

"Is that what this is about? The models?"

"This is about maintaining professional boundaries," she says primly, stabbing at her salad. "Something you seem to have trouble with."

"Says the woman who just gave her number to a Nike intern."

"I did not give him my number. He gave me his card. For coordination purposes."

Aurélien actually snorts. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

"You know what?" She pushes her plate away. "I don't actually have to explain myself to you. You're my boss, remember? Just my okay boss with his okay PA who–"

"What did you just say?"

But she's already standing, gathering her things. "I'll book your usual room at Clairefontaine."

She's halfway to the door when his voice stops her:

"It has a spa. For after your hair appointment."

She doesn't turn around, but she doesn't keep walking either.

"And Marcus will be there. You know he loves your cornbread."

Now that's just playing dirty. Marcus Thuram makes actual puppy eyes when she cooks.

"And Ibou's been asking about you."

"Stop trying to bribe me with spas."

"Is it working?"

She finally turns to find him watching her with that look that usually means he's about to score a goal. Like he already knows he's won but he's going to enjoy the game anyway.

"I'll think about it."

His smile is immediate and bright. "I'll have the jet ready after your appointment."

"I didn't say yes!"

But he's already back to eating, that satisfied smirk still playing on his lips. "Whatever you say, ma puce. Whatever you say."

She leaves the restaurant knowing two things:

1. She's definitely going to Clairefontaine

2. She's absolutely screwed

The drizzle at Clairefontaine is doing absolutely criminal things to Leila's press and curl while she stands next to Didier Deschamps, holding an umbrella and questioning all her life choices. Primarily the choice to listen to Theresa about "giving her hair a break from braids" without checking the weather app first, because now she's stuck in three days of rain before they head to Budapest for their match against IsNotReal (and really, of ALL the teams they could've drawn...).

But it's hard to be too mad about anything when she's got what might be the finest collection of Black men outside of Essence Fest running laps in front of her. Because listen. LISTEN. Nobody prepared her for this part of the PA job – standing here getting a whole panoramic view of what happens when God decides to show all the way out.

The French national team lineup has literally a flavor for every girl's type of man, and somebody needs to preserve this in the Louvre immediately because it's giving museum quality. You want light skins with braids? They got that. Light skins with locs? Present. Light skins with fades? Check. Tall dark skin thicker than a Snickers with fades that look like they could bench press a car? Baby, they got that too. Tall dark skin sprinter built with fades that look like they could outrun your commitment issues? Absolutely. Tall basketball player types with perfect taper fades? (She's not thinking about Aurélien, she's NOT.) Brown skins that look like they walked straight out of your prayers? Every single shade in the Fenty foundation range is represented and they're all just... running around like this is normal.

Her eyes might be doing a little too much as they jog past, that subtle up-down-up scanning that would have her mama reaching for a switch if she could see her now. But honestly? She's just doing what any person with working eyes would do – appreciating art. Very fine, very athletic art that's currently glistening in the rain like they're being professionally lit by God's personal lighting crew.

And speaking of divine lighting – here comes Aurélien jogging past with Cama and Jules, looking like every single one of her inappropriate thoughts decided to take human form. His curls are getting damp from the rain, skin gleaming, and this man has the absolute AUDACITY to throw her a wink as he passes. Like he didn't just catch her mentally drafting half the national team like it was fantasy football but make it fine as hell.

She rolls her eyes at him because she refuses to give him the satisfaction, but who is she kidding? That smirk he sends back is doing things to her blood pressure that should probably be illegal in at least twelve countries.

"Everything okay?" Didier asks in his heavily accented voice, and she realizes she might have sighed a little too loudly.

"Just thinking about the rain," she lies smoothly, definitely not thinking about how Aurélien's training shorts are a personal attack at this point. "And my hair."

Didier chuckles like he knows exactly what she's actually thinking about, which is mortifying because here she is thirsting over his players like she's running a whole scouting combine.

Another lap, another parade of fine men, and this time Aurélien breaks formation just to jog backward in front of her, showing off because apparently being a whole football god isn't enough – he has to be extra about it too.

"Hair looks nice, ma puce," he calls out, and she contemplates whether hitting him with her umbrella would violate her contract.

"Yeux devant, Tchouaméni," Didier calls, but she can hear the amusement in his voice.

Aurélien rejoins the group, but not before shooting her another one of those looks that makes her want to call his mama and apologize in advance for all the unholy thoughts she's having about her son.

The rain picks up and she can feel her press and curl starting to revert. Theresa really gonna have to catch her hands when she gets back to Madrid because this is just disrespectful. But then the team comes around for another lap, looking like a whole Nike commercial directed by God himself, and maybe... maybe the rain isn't so bad after all.

She's just here doing her job, really. Managing schedules. Taking notes. Definitely not ranking every player by fine-ness while pretending to pay attention to Didier's tactical discussion.

But she's absolutely getting braids next time.

And probably need to schedule a confession.

Because the thoughts she's having about Aurélien in those shorts are absolutely not suitable for public consumption.

*************************************

Walking into the Clairefontaine cafeteria with her dinner tray feels like high school all over again, except this time instead of mean girls and math nerds, she's surrounded by some of the finest specimens of manhood France has ever produced. The air is thick with rapid-fire French conversations coming from every direction, and listen – Leila's trying her best out here but her Duolingo streak is only two weeks old. All she's got to work with is what Aurélien's taught her, which is mostly just curse words for traffic situations and terms of endearment that make her heart do stupid things.

She's scanning for a quiet corner to recalibrate after spending all afternoon trying not to obviously thirst over the practice session (and maybe say a prayer for her hair which is somehow still holding on), when–

"Mon chérie amour!"

That deep voice could only belong to one person. Her eyes find Marcus Thuram, all 6'4" of him, looking like he walked off a GQ cover. He's waving her over like an excited puppy, except he's built like a whole defensive line and honestly? It should be illegal to be that fine and that adorable at the same time.

Michael Olise scoots over to make room for her, and suddenly she's surrounded by what might actually be the most attractive table in all of France. There's Ibou with his model face, Ousmane with those big doe eyes of his, Khephren (who definitely got the same genes as his brother), Mike Maignan looking like Black Panther's M'Baku's fine ass cousin (which is exactly why she calls him that in her head), and William Saliba who's just... respectfully fine as hell.

And because the universe has a sense of humor, literally a foot away are Jules, Cama, and Aurélien – who's currently looking at Marcus like he personally offended his entire ancestral line. What is his problem?

"You have to cook for us tomorrow," Marcus is saying, fixing her with those puppy eyes that should come with a warning label. "Please?"

"The nutritionists will murder me," she protests, but Marcus's pout could probably end wars. Actually end them.

Khephren says something in French that makes Marcus flip him off, and she catches just enough to know he's teasing his brother about the puppy eyes.

"Maybe I can make something before we leave..."

"Why does he get special treatment?" Mike cuts in, looking absolutely offended. "What about me?"

And suddenly it's like she's unleashed chaos because they're all talking at once in French, each making their case for why they deserve her cooking, and her head is SPINNING.

"Tranquille!" she yells in French, one of the few words she actually knows how to use properly, and they all freeze mid-argument, looking at her with varying degrees of surprise.

"I'll cook for everyone, okay?" She can't help but smirk at their hopeful faces. "Rice and beans..."

"Yes!" Mike's practically bouncing in his seat.

"Macaroni and cheese, fried chicken..."

The way these men start rubbing their hands together like cartoon villains is sending her.

"And," she pauses because she knows what's coming, "the pièce de résistance... collard greens cooked with smoked turkey necks."

"Oh mon dieu!" William actually looks skyward, prayer hands and all, like she just announced the second coming.

"Wait," Jules pipes up, "no cornbread?"

And then they're ALL looking at her like she just canceled Christmas, a whole table of professional athletes about to riot over the possibility of no cornbread.

"Yes," she groans, but she's fighting a smile. "There will always be cornbread."

Marcus grabs her hand and actually kisses it like she just promised him the keys to heaven instead of some soul food, and she catches Aurélien's fork bending slightly in his grip.

"You're an angel," Marcus declares, still holding her hand. "A Black American angel sent to save us from protein shakes and steamed chicken."

"Si tu ne laisses pas sa main," Aurélien's voice carries over, smooth as silk but sharp as a blade, "Vous ne pourrez pas tenir une fourchette pour en manger."

But Marcus just grins wider, because apparently he has a death wish. "Shut up."

Leila looks between them, trying to figure out what's happening, but then Ibou starts listing all his favorite soul food dishes in his accented English, and she's pulled back into what's becoming an impromptu menu planning session with some of the most attractive men in Europe.

Just another day at the office, right?

"The mac and cheese," Mike is saying with the seriousness of someone discussing world peace, "it will have the crust on top, non?"

"Boy, who you think raised me?" Leila puts a hand to her chest, offended. "Of course it has the crust. What kind of woman you think I am?"

"The best kind," Marcus grins, and she swears she hears something snap at Aurélien's table. Probably another fork. RIP to Clairefontaine's cutlery budget.

Khephren leans forward, all earnest eyes and ridiculous cheekbones. "The last time you cooked, Aure brought leftovers to training and wouldn't share."

"Because it wasn't for y'all," Aurélien cuts in, and when did he get close enough to join the conversation? "She made that for me specifically."

"Technically," Jules pipes up because he lives for chaos apparently, "she made it for movie night but you claimed the whole container."

"Speaking of claiming things," William says with a smile that means trouble, "Leila, you free Saturday? There's this nice restaurant in Paris–"

"She's busy." Aurélien doesn't even let him finish.

"I don't remember asking you," William shoots back, still smiling. "Unless you're her secretary now too?"

"I'm her–" Aurélien starts, then stops, jaw working like he's trying to find the right words.

"Her what?" Marcus asks innocently, but his eyes are dancing with mischief. "Her boss who thinks she's just okay?"

The whole table goes quiet and Leila nearly chokes on her water because how did he– she looks at Jules who suddenly finds the ceiling very interesting.

"That's not," Aurélien's actually flustered now, "I didn't mean–"

"Because if she's just okay," Ibou joins in because apparently it's National Roast Aurélien Day, "then you won't mind if she comes to Liverpool next weekend? My mama's been asking about her cooking."

"Your mama hasn't even met her!"

"But she will when Leila comes to visit."

"She's not going to Liverpool." Aurelien said flatly.

"Again," William’s grin is wicked now, "pretty sure that's not your decision, mon ami."

Leila watches this tennis match of tension with growing fascination.

"I'm right here," she reminds them. "And I can decide for myself where I–"

"You should come to Monaco," Khephren cuts in smoothly. "Much nicer than Liverpool. Better weather."

"Excuse me?" Ibou looks personally offended.

"The disrespect," William shakes his head. "Everyone knows London is better than both."

"London?" Mike scoffs. "Milan clears."

And suddenly they're all arguing about whose city is better, each making their case for why she should visit them, and she's sitting there wondering how this dinner turned into The Bachelorette: European Footballer Edition.

"I have an idea," Marcus says loud enough to cut through the chaos. "Why doesn't Leila decide where she wants to go?"

They all turn to look at her expectantly, even Aurélien who's looking like he's one suggestion away from tackling somebody.

"I..." she looks around at all these ridiculous, beautiful men and can't help but laugh. "I haven't even cooked for y'all yet and you're already planning my European tour?"

"The cooking is just a bonus," William winks. "It's your company I want."

"Isn't that right, Auré?" Jules adds with fake innocence.

Aurélien stands up so abruptly his chair scrapes against the floor. "We have an early training session tomorrow. Leila, we should go over the schedule."

"The schedule that's already printed and distributed to everyone?" she asks sweetly.

"Yes. That one. Now."

"But we haven't even gotten to dessert," Marcus protests. "She hasn't told us if she's making sweet potato pie."

"Or banana pudding," Mike adds hopefully.

"Or–"

"Now, Leila."

She looks at his face – jaw clenched, eyes intense – and sighs. "Fine. But y'all better not change any of these dinner requests while I'm gone. My grocery list is already looking like I'm feeding a small army."

"An army of fine men who appreciate you," Marcus says just loud enough for Aurélien to hear, and she's pretty sure she sees a vein pulse in his forehead.

"Five minutes," Aurélien grits out. "I'll be in the conference room."

He stalks off like a man on a mission, and Jules is trying so hard not to laugh he's actually shaking with it.

"So," William grins once Aurélien's out of earshot, "about that dinner in Paris..."

"Don't push it," Jules warns, but he's smiling. "Let him suffer a little longer first."

"Let who suffer?" Leila asks, but they all just share knowing looks that make her feel like she's missing something obvious.

"Just remember," Marcus calls as she gets up to follow Aurélien, "I asked for your cooking first!"

"But I appreciated it more!" Mike argues.

"Shut up," Ibou cuts in, "I offered a whole trip to Liverpool!"

She leaves them bickering, shaking her head but smiling. These men are ridiculous and fine and absolutely too much.

But mostly? She's wondering why Aurélien looked ready to commit multiple homicides over some dinner plans.

The conference room feels too small with just the two of them in it, Aurélien pacing like a caged lion while Leila stands by the door wondering what kind of alternate universe she's stepped into. The "okay" comment is hanging in the air between them like an uninvited guest, but he's apparently choosing to ignore it completely.

"You can't date the team," he says abruptly, stopping his pacing to look at her.

She actually chokes on air because WHAT? "I'm sorry?"

"The team. You can't date them."

"I wasn't–" she sputters, trying to make sense of this conversation. "I wasn't planning to?"

"Good." His jaw is doing that thing it does before big matches, all tense and sharp enough to cut glass. "I'll handle them."

"Handle them?" She's really trying to follow his logic here. "Handle what exactly? They were just asking about food–"

"William asked you to dinner."

"As a joke!"

"Marcus kissed your hand."

"Because I promised him cornbread! Are you hearing yourself right now?"

But he's already heading for the door, radiating big "I'm going to fight everyone" energy. "I'll handle it," he repeats.

"Aurélien–"

"Just... no dating the team." He pauses at the door, not quite looking at her. "It's not professional."

And then he's gone, stalking down the hallway, leaving her standing there wondering what the actual fuck just happened.

Because that wasn't about professionalism. That wasn't about team dynamics. That was...

"What the fuck was that about?" she asks the empty conference room, but the conference room, unhelpfully, doesn't answer.

And she's definitely not thinking about how his eyes looked when Marcus kissed her hand. Or how his voice got all low and dangerous when William mentioned dinner. Or how this whole thing feels a lot like...

Nope. Not going there.

She's absolutely going there, but first, she needs to figure out how to keep him from murdering half the French national team over some cornbread.

Being the only PA at Clairefontaine isn't supposed to feel like a big deal, but it absolutely is. Leila's trying not to think too hard about how many strings Aurélien must've pulled to get her here – because thinking about that means thinking about why, and she's not ready to unpack all that before breakfast.

She's good at her job, sure. Got Didier wrapped around her finger from day one. And yeah, okay, maybe she's particularly good at handling high-maintenance footballers thanks to her natural sociability and endless patience.

But still. This is the French national team. These things don't just happen.

Kind of like how it didn't just happen that she spent three whole days before meeting Aurélien practicing his name, saying it over and over. The way his whole face had lit up when she got it right that first time, like she'd given him a gift instead of just basic pronunciation courtesy.

And maybe that was the beginning of how seamlessly she fit into his life, like there'd been a Leila-shaped space just waiting for her to fill it. Like they were made to–

Nope. Absolutely not. We are NOT doing this today.

She pulls on her wide-leg navy sweats and the national team long sleeve she sweet-talked out of the kit manager last night (her smile works wonders on everyone except apparently the one person she actually wants it to work on). Her silk press is still miraculously holding on, pulled up in a ponytail that Theresa would probably yell at her for, but whatever. She's got bigger problems right now.

The cafeteria is already buzzing when she walks in, full of sleepy footballers trying to fuel up before morning training. She spots her usual suspects – Jules, Cama, and Aurélien – at their regular table, and takes a deep breath before heading over.

"Morning sunshine," Cama greets her in English, because he's actually an angel who notices when people are struggling with rapid-fire French at seven in the morning. "Sleep well?"

"As well as anyone can sleep knowing they have to cook for twenty professional athletes in Sunday," she replies, sliding into her seat.

Jules snorts into his protein shake. "More like thirty. Pretty sure half the staff want in on this soul food situation too."

Aurélien doesn't say anything, just watches her over his coffee cup with those eyes that are entirely too intense for this early in the morning. His voice, when he finally speaks, is still rough with sleep and she hates that it still affects her like this.

"You don't have to cook for everyone," he says, and there's that edge again from yesterday. "They can't just expect–"

"Pretty sure she can decide what she wants to do," Jules cuts in smoothly. "Right, Lei?"

There's that weird tension again, crackling in the air between them like static electricity. Cama looks between them all with raised eyebrows.

"Did I miss something?" he asks. "Because the vibes are really off."

"Nothing to miss," Leila says quickly, focusing on her breakfast. "Everything's fine."

"Mhm," Cama hums, unconvinced. "That's why Aure looks like that?"

Before anyone can respond, Didier's voice cuts through the cafeteria: "Allez, allons-y! La formation commence dans quinze!"

The scramble of twenty-something men trying to finish their breakfast at once would be funny if Leila wasn't hyperaware of Aurélien's eyes still on her. She busies herself with her phone, pretending to check his schedule like she hasn't had it memorized for weeks.

"Don't forget your jacket," he says quietly as he stands. "It's supposed to rain again."

She looks up, caught off guard by the softness in his voice, but he's already walking away. Jules and Cama share a look that she pretends not to see.

"So," Cama grins, "about this tension..."

"Don't you have training to get to?"

"Just saying, if this was a show, I'd definitely binge watch it."

"Go. Run. Now."

His laugh follows him out, leaving her sitting there wondering how this became her life – being the only PA at Clairefontaine, planning soul food feasts for the French national team, and trying very hard not to notice how Aurélien still looks back at her before he exits the cafeteria.

*******************************

The water break comes right as the sun decides to make a guest appearance, and Leila's trying not to obviously appreciate how everyone's training tops are clinging in all the right places. She's professional. She's composed. She's–

"Hey gorgeous."

She turns to find William jogging up to her, all six-foot-whatever of him with that smile that probably has half of London in their feelings. She returns his smile because listen – she might be going through it, but she's not BLIND.

"Need something?" she asks, already reaching for an extra water bottle because she's good at her job like that.

"Actually, yeah." He takes the water but doesn't step back, instead leaning slightly closer. "I was serious about Saturday. Dinner?"

"Oh!" The sound escapes before she can catch it. Her eyes automatically drift to where Aurélien is standing with Mike and Jules, looking like he's trying to murder someone with his mind.

William deliberately steps into her line of sight, blocking her view. "You don't have to ask permission, do you?" It comes out like half joke, half question, but his eyes are kind. He gets it, even if she wishes he didn't.

And you know what? He's right.

Because here's the thing: Aurélien really out here talking about "unprofessional" when this man has used her as a human pillow during team flights. Has played with her hair during meetings like it's his personal stress ball. Has straight up demanded morning cuddles before reviewing his schedule because apparently personal space isn't in his vocabulary.

But she's supposed to maintain "professional boundaries"?

Nah.

"Nope," she says, straightening her spine. "No permission needed."

Because she's grown. Because she needs to get over this embarrassing crush on her boss who thinks she's just okay. Because William Saliba is standing here looking like a whole meal, asking her to dinner with that accent that makes everything sound like poetry, and she deserves nice things.

"Saturday works perfectly," she adds, and his answering smile could power half of Madrid.

"Parfait," he says, and even that one word has her feeling some type of way. "I'll text you the details?"

"Looking forward to it."

He jogs back to practice looking mighty pleased with himself, and she very deliberately doesn't look in Aurélien's direction. She doesn't need to – she can feel his eyes burning a hole in the side of her head.

And you know what? Good.

Let him see what it feels like to watch someone you... to watch someone else get attention. Let him deal with whatever this energy is that has him acting brand new. Let him–

"Cinq minutes!" Didier calls out, and she watches William flash her one more smile before joining the group.

Her phone buzzes almost immediately:

Jules: you really woke up and chose violence huh

Leila: I chose dinner actually

Jules: with Wilo though?? 👀

Leila: what's wrong with Wilo?

Jules: nothing if you're trying to send someone to an early grave

Leila: not my problem

Jules: the violence of it all 😭

She puts her phone away, ignoring the way she can feel Aurélien's attention like a physical weight. Because this is good. This is healthy. This is her moving on from whatever fantasy she'd built up in her head about her boss who clearly doesn't–

"Les yeux sur la balle, Saliba!" Aurélien's voice carries across the field, sharp enough to cut.

William just grins wider. "Oh, ils sont."

And maybe... this is exactly what she needs. A date with a fine man who actually sees her. Who isn't her boss. Who thinks she's more than just okay.

There's something particularly violent about the way Leila's critiquing herself in the mirror right now, turning this way and that like her reflection might suddenly give her different answers. The black sweater dress is doing everything it's supposed to do – hugging every curve, every soft roll, every thick thigh that matches its partner. Her body's built like a direct response to gravity, all hips and breasts with a waist that's not exactly snatched but works with what God gave her.

"It's just dinner," she tells her reflection, but dinner with a whole professional footballer is different than those struggle Tinder dates she's been on. Those guys didn't come with paparazzi risks and teammate drama and a very specific boss who's probably planning murders right about now.

Not that I care what Aurélien thinks.

Her hair's falling just below her collarbone in that middle part that took twenty minutes to get right, makeup subtle enough to look effortless (it wasn't), and she's wearing this new perfume that smells expensive enough to make her feel like she belongs in whatever fancy restaurant William's picked out.

The thought of William has her breaking out in a nervous sweat because listen – the man is fine fine, but she's still very much a virgin and very much not ready to explain that to someone who probably has models in his DMs. What if he expects... what if he wants... what if–

"Get it together," she mutters, grabbing her clutch. "It's just dinner."

The elevator ride down to the main entry hall feels like it takes seventeen years, her heart doing backflips the whole way. She's rehearsing possible conversation topics in her head (please lord don't let her ramble about football statistics) when the doors open and–

"Oh for fuck's sake."

Because there's William looking like a whole meal in his white shirt, jeans, and leather jacket (that gold chain should be illegal honestly), but he's not alone. No, because that would be too easy. Instead, he's surrounded by Mike, Marcus, Ibou, and Jules the Professional Gossip, all of them looking way too pleased with themselves.

She makes her way over, trying to ignore the chorus of French catcalls and whistles (she catches "magnifique" and "sublime" and definitely some words that would make their mothers wash their mouths out with soap).

"Damn, Lei!" Ibou's grin is wicked. "You trying to kill our boy Wilo before the match?"

"The dress is doing God's work," Marcus adds with an appreciative whistle.

"I think you mean doing the devil's work," Mike corrects, fanning himself dramatically.

William rolls his eyes at all of them, but he's smiling as he takes her hand. "Ready?"

She's about to answer when she feels it – that familiar weight of attention that can only mean one thing. She looks back to find Aurélien has joined the group, and the look on his face...

Listen. She's seen this man angry before. Has seen him after bad losses, after red cards, after journalists say stupid things about him and his family. But this? This is different. This is something darker, something that makes her skin prickle even from across the room.

William must feel her tense because he squeezes her hand gently. "You good?"

She turns back to him, forcing herself to focus on this moment, on this very fine man who actually wants to take her to dinner. "Perfect."

He opens an umbrella as they step outside (because of course it's raining again), holding it over her like the gentleman he is. Behind them, she can hear the boys still carrying on:

"Vingt euros disent qu’ils s’embrassent avant le dessert!"

"Cinquante disent qu’Auro casse quelque chose avant qu’ils ne reviennent!"

"Une centaine dit–"

The door closes, cutting off their chaos, leaving just the sound of rain and their footsteps and her heart doing its best to escape her chest.

"They're ridiculous," William says softly, but he's smiling.

"That's one word for it."

They reach his car – another ridiculously expensive SUV because apparently that's issued with the France call-up – and he opens her door for her.

"You look beautiful, by the way," he says it simply, like it's just a fact. Not 'okay'. Not qualified. Just beautiful.

And maybe... maybe this is exactly what she needs.

Even if her traitorous heart still skips when she catches Aurélien watching them drive away in her side mirror.

********************************

The media room at Clairefontaine is thick with tension and the sound of FIFA, Aurélien absolutely demolishing the controller like it personally set up his PA's date with William. Jules and Cama keep sharing these looks that say more than words ever could.

"Je n'arrive pas à croire que Wilo ait fait ça. C'est censé être mon pote." ("I can't believe Wilo did this. He's supposed to be my boy.") Aurélien's voice is tight with something darker than just regular gaming frustration.

"Fait quoi exactement?" ("Did what exactly?") Jules asks, careful and measured like he's defusing a bomb. "Inviter une femme célibataire à dîner?" ("Asked out a single woman to dinner?")

"Elle n'est pas juste une femme célibataire, c'est ma puce!" ("She's not just any single woman, she's my dear!") The words explode out of him before he can catch them, and the room goes deadly quiet except for the game music.

Cama pauses the game. "Ta puce?" ("Your dear?")

"Ma PA," ("My PA,") Aurélien corrects quickly, but it's too late. "Je lui ai dit que c'était pas professionnel de sortir avec l'équipe." ("I told her it wasn't professional to date the team.")

"Et c'est professionnel de la câliner pendant les réunions?" ("And it's professional to cuddle her during meetings?") Jules' voice drips with sarcasm. "De jouer avec ses tresses? De l'appeler 'ma puce'?" ("To play with her braids? To call her 'my dear'?")

"C'est différent." ("That's different.")

"Comment?" ("How?")

Aurélien just grunts, going back to destroying everyone in FIFA. But Jules isn't done.

"Tu sais qu'elle t'a entendu la traiter de 'okay' à la piscine?" ("You know she heard you call her 'okay' at the pool party?")

"Mais elle l'est!" ("But she is!") Aurélien protests, then at Jules' murderous look adds quickly, "Dans le bon sens!" ("In a good way!")

"T'es vraiment con, mon frère." ("You're so fucking stupid, bro.") Jules throws his controller down. "Elle est plus que 'okay' et tu le sais." ("She's more than 'okay' and you know it.")

"Je peux pas..." ("I can't...") Aurélien runs a hand through his curls in frustration. "Je peux pas l'aimer comme ça." ("I can't like her like that.")

"Pourquoi pas?" ("Why not?") Cama asks quietly.

"Parce que... parce qu'elle est ma PA!" ("Because... because she's my PA!")

"Des excuses, toujours des excuses," ("Excuses, excuses,") Jules sighs. "On n'est plus des gosses, AT. On est des hommes maintenant. Si tu ressens quelque chose pour quelqu'un, tu dois le dire." ("We're not kids anymore, AT. We're men now. If you're feeling someone, you have to communicate it.")

Aurélien lets out a laugh that sounds more pained than amused. "C'est différent. Je ne l'aime pas comme ça. C'est ma PA. C'est comme ça qu'on se fait poursuivre en justice." ("This is different. I don't like her like that. She's my PA. That's how people get sued.")

"Et si elle ressentait la même chose?" ("What if she's feeling you too?") Jules asks carefully.

"Leila? Avoir des sentiments pour moi?" ("Leila? Having feelings for me?") Aurélien scoffs. "C'est drôle." ("That's funny.")

The silence that follows is heavy with meaning. Jules and Cama exchange another look that speaks volumes.

"Quoi?" ("What?") Aurélien demands, finally catching their expressions.

But neither of them answer, just watch him with this mix of pity and exasperation that makes him want to throw something.

"Elle portait cette robe ce soir..." ("She was wearing that dress tonight...") he says quietly, almost to himself.

"Oui, pour son rencard avec Wilo." ("Yes, for her date with Wilo.") Jules' voice is pointed. "Pas pour toi." ("Not for you.")

"Tu sais," ("You know,") Cama adds casually, too casually, "pendant que tu es là à dire qu'elle est 'juste okay', Wilo est probablement en train de lui montrer à quel point il la trouve extraordinaire." ("while you're here saying she's 'just okay', Wilo is probably showing her just how extraordinary he thinks she is.")

"Je vais le tuer." ("I'm going to kill him.")

"Le problème," ("The problem,") Jules says quietly, "c'est pas Wilo." ("isn't Wilo.")

And deep down, Aurélien knows he's right, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

"Arrête d'être une putain de chochotte," ("Stop being a fucking pussy,") Jules says, done with the whole situation. "Si tu veux Leila, vas la chercher. C'est aussi simple que ça." ("If you want Leila, go get her. Simple as that.")

"Ce n'est pas si simple," ("It's not that simple,") Aurélien protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. "Elle est ma PA–" ("She's my PA–")

"On a compris!" ("We get it!") Cama throws his hands up. "Elle est ta PA, et alors? Comment tu sais que tu vas tout foutre en l'air si t'es trop chickenshit pour essayer?" ("She's your PA, so what? How would you know if you're gonna fuck it up if you're being chickenshit?")

Aurélien opens his mouth to argue but Cama isn't done.

"Leila est géniale et toi tu te tapes des mannequins pour essayer de cacher que tu craques pour elle. C'est tordu, mec." ("Leila is cool and you're fucking models to try to hide from you feeling her. Twisted as fuck, man.")

"Je ne–" ("I don't–")

"Tu peux la laisser sortir avec Wilo – parce que tu sais à quel point il est persistant quand quelqu'un lui plaît – et être malheureux, ou tu peux régler ça maintenant." ("You can let her date Wilo – because you know how persistent he is with a person he's feeling – and be miserable, or you can nip this in the bud.")

"Exactement," ("Exactly,") Jules concurs, leaning forward. "Tu crois que Wilo va la traiter comme 'juste okay'? Tu crois qu'il va hésiter à lui montrer qu'il la veut?" ("You think Wilo's gonna treat her like 'just okay'? You think he's gonna hesitate to show her he wants her?")

The thought of William showing Leila anything makes something dark appear Aurélien's chest. The image of them at dinner right now, William probably making her laugh, probably touching her hand across the table, probably looking at her the way Aurélien wants to but won't let himself–

"Elle mérite mieux que 'okay'," ("She deserves better than 'okay',") Cama says softly. "Et tu le sais." ("And you know it.")

"Je sais pas comment..." ("I don't know how...") Aurélien trails off, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Comment quoi? Être honnête avec tes sentiments?" ("How what? To be honest with your feelings?") Jules scoffs. "T'as vingt-quatre ans, pas quatorze. Grandis un peu." ("You're twenty-four, not fourteen. Grow up a little.")

"Mais là, tout ce que tu fais c'est regarder un autre mec faire ce que t'es trop lâche pour faire," Cama shrugs. ("But right now, all you're doing is watching another guy do what you're too scared to do.")

Aurélien sits there for a long moment, thinking about Leila in that dress that made his brain short-circuit. About how she looked at William. About how she hasn't really looked at him in days, not since the 'okay' comment. Not since he tried to tell her who she could and couldn't date like he had any right to.

"Elle est probablement en train de l'embrasser maintenant," ("She's probably kissing him right now,") Jules says casually, but his eyes are sharp on Aurélien's face.

The PS5 controller in Aurélien's hands makes an ominous cracking sound.

"Tu vois?" ("You see?") Cama gestures at Aurélien's white-knuckled grip. "C'est ça qu'on appelle de la jalousie, mon pote. Pas très 'professionnel' comme réaction pour 'juste une PA', non?" ("That's what we call jealousy, my guy. Not very 'professional' reaction for 'just a PA', right?")

"Je ne suis pas–" ("I'm not–")

"Jaloux?" ("Jealous?") Jules cuts him off. "Alors pourquoi t'as l'air de vouloir commettre un meurtre chaque fois que quelqu'un la regarde trop longtemps?" ("Then why do you look like you want to commit murder every time someone looks at her too long?")

Aurélien's silence is telling.

"Écoute," ("Listen,") Cama says, serious now. "Wilo est un bon gars. Il va bien la traiter. Il va lui montrer qu'elle est spéciale. Et toi? Tu vas juste rester assis là à te dire que c'est 'pas professionnel' pendant qu'un autre mec fait d'elle sa copine?" ("Wilo's a good guy. He's gonna treat her right. He's gonna show her she's special. And you? You're just gonna sit there telling yourself it's 'not professional' while another guy makes her his girl?")

The controller finally gives up the ghost, splitting right down the middle.

"Putain," ("Fuck,") Aurélien mutters, staring at the broken pieces like they hold some answer he can't find.

"Le choix est simple," ("The choice is simple,") Jules says, standing up. "Soit tu continues à être un lâche et tu la perds, soit tu deviens un homme et tu lui dis la vérité." ("Either you keep being a coward and lose her, or you man up and tell her the truth.")

"Et si je la perds quand même?" ("And if I lose her anyway?") The question comes out smaller than he intended.

"Alors au moins tu auras essayé," ("Then at least you'll have tried,") Cama says. "C'est mieux que de la regarder partir avec Wilo en te demandant 'et si'." ("Better than watching her leave with Wilo wondering 'what if'.")

Aurélien sits there long after they leave, thinking about Leila's smile, about her laugh, about how she's probably giving both to William right now.

And maybe... they're right.

Maybe it's time to stop being a coward, yet first, he owes someone an apology for the controller.

…………tbd

149 notes · View notes

kennasutopia · 4 days ago

Text

Consolation-Virgil Van Dijk

wearning: +18,smut.

Request: yes!

It’s late in the evening, and you’re comfortably seated on your couch, wrapped in a blanket with a cup of hot tea in your hands. You watched the match on TV: a tough loss, with mistakes rarely seen from such a strong team. You know Virgil is the type to carry everything on his shoulders, and you can’t stop thinking about how he might be feeling right now.

A knock at the door pulls you from your thoughts. You’re not expecting anyone, but when you open the door, there’s Virgil, standing in front of you. He’s still in his tracksuit, hood pulled up like he’s trying to hide from the world. His face, though, gives him away: it’s marked by exhaustion and frustration.

“Can I come in?” he asks in a quiet voice.

“Virgil, of course, come in,” you reply, stepping aside to let him in. You close the door behind him and watch as he pulls down his hood, revealing a tense expression and eyes that avoid meeting yours.

“Sorry for showing up so late,” he says, running a hand over his face. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you say, guiding him to the couch. “You know you’re always welcome here. Do you want something? Tea, coffee…?”

He shakes his head, sinking heavily onto the couch. “No, thanks. I don’t think I could get anything down right now.”

You sit beside him, giving him space to speak. You know Virgil isn’t the type to open up immediately, but it’s clear he’s wrestling with something big. After a long silence, he finally breaks it.

“It was my fault, y/N,” he says, staring at the floor. “That missed marking… that goal… I can’t stop thinking about it. I let the team down, the fans… everyone.”

“Virgil, listen,” you begin gently, “one lost match doesn’t define who you are—either as a leader or as a player. You’re one of the best in the world, and you know that. But even the best have off nights.”

“It’s not just that,” he counters, clenching his fists on his knees. “I’m supposed to be the anchor, the one everyone else can rely on. And instead… instead, I feel like I’m sinking. It’s frustrating, y/N. I don’t know how to pull myself out of this.”

You look at him, choosing your words carefully. “Virgil, being a leader doesn’t mean never making mistakes. It means showing others how to handle those mistakes. Your team doesn’t need you to be perfect. They need you to be human, to fight to get better.”

He lifts his gaze, finally meeting your eyes. “But it’s so hard… I feel like I’m letting everyone down, and it’s eating me up inside.”

You lean in slightly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “What really matters is how you respond to this feeling. No one can be perfect, Virgil, but you’ve already shown you can overcome challenges. This is just another one, and I know you’ll get through it.”

Virgil remains silent for a moment, then nods slowly. “Maybe you’re right,” he says with a small sigh. “I need to stop focusing only on what went wrong and think about what I can do to improve. But… it’s easier said than done.”

“That’s why I’m here,” you reply with a reassuring smile. “You don’t have to face this alone. Whatever you need, you know you can count on me.”

He offers a faint smile, the first you’ve seen since he arrived. “Thanks, y/N. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Virgil gently takes your wrist and pulls you to straddle him.You stumble slightly as he pulls you onto him, your thighs resting beside his lap. You look down at him, your heart beating faster now. He looks up at you with an intensity in his eyes that you’ve seldom seen before. He keeps your wrist in his grasp, his fingers wrapped around it almost tenderly, yet with a hint of desire.

You can feel the warmth of his body against yours as he pulls you closer, his free hand coming to rest on your thigh. He watches you silently, his eyes roaming over your face. You take a breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “Virgil…?” you murmur, questioning, uncertain about the situation unfolding.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his gaze holding you captive. There’s a vulnerability in his eyes, something you rarely see from the normally strong and confident man. His thumb begins tracing slow circles over your thigh, the touch sending shivers up your spine. After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice low and a bit hoarse. “I needed this,” he whispers, his hand on your wrist squeezing gently.

You nod softly, hugging him, stroking his hair.Virgil returns your embrace, his arms encircling you, pulling you flush against him. His head dips slightly, his face burying into your chest, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment, he just holds you, his heart beating against your chest, his fingers tracing light patterns over your back.

This tender version of Virgil, all vulnerability and gentleness, melts your heart. You run your fingers through his hair, your touch soft and soothing. You can feel the tension in him slowly start to ease away as he clings to you, seeking comfort in your presence.

After some time, he pulls back slightly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are closed, and he looks weary, but his expression is less troubled than it was when he arrived. “Y/N…” he begins softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how you do it, but being here with you… it helps. Even on nights like tonight.”

"Do you want to spend the night here?" You ask softly, caressing his cheeks.He looks at you for a moment, his gaze searching your face as if to gauge whether you truly mean your offer. Then, a small nod of his head answers your question. "Please," he murmurs, his hand on your thigh squeezing again. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

You nod and kiss his forehead softly, then his nose, and then his cheeks.He watches you intently as you press soft kisses to his forehead, his nose, and his cheeks. A soft sigh escapes his lips, his eyes never leaving your face. His grip on your thigh tightens slightly, as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he let go for even a moment. Each kiss seems to soothe him further, the stress lines around his eyes smoothing out.

The silence in the room feels heavy yet peaceful at the same time. The only sound is your soft breathing and the occasional sigh from him as you continue to pepper his face with gentle kisses. He lifts his hand from your thigh, his fingers tracing your jawline tenderly, before his thumb brushes across your bottom lip. He seems to have calmed down completely now, all the earlier turmoil replaced by a quiet vulnerability.

"Y/N..." he murmurs again, his voice barely above a whisper, "I..." He trails off, his eyes filled with an emotion you can't quite name. He looks like he wants to say something important, but the right words don't seem to come. The atmosphere in the room is thick with unspoken words and untold feelings.

You can sense that there's more he wants to say, more that he's feeling, but it's like a dam holding back a flood of emotions. His hand, still on your jaw, moves to cup the back of your neck, gently pulling you closer. His eyes seem to be searching your face for something, a silent question in the depths of their blue.

The closeness between you is almost tangible now. You're so close that you can feel his breath against your skin, his body against yours. The air feels charged with unspoken tension, the space between you filled with a heady mixture of desire and something else, something deeper and more complex. He keeps touching you, his fingertips tracing over your skin as if he's committing you to memory.

Finally, he speaks again, breaking the silence that hangs between you. His voice is deeper than usual, and raw with emotion. "I need you," he murmurs, his fingers splaying against the nape of your neck. "More than I need anything right now... I just... I need you."

You nod and kiss him softly.As your lips meet his, he responds almost instantly, pressing against you with a hunger that you haven't felt from him before. He pulls you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss deepens, his tongue brushing against your lips, seeking entry. He kisses you like a drowning man gasping for air, as if he's pouring all his unspoken feelings into that one action.

His arms wrap around you, pulling you even closer. You feel the heat of his body against yours, the strength of his embrace. There's an urgency in his kiss, a desperate need he's trying to convey. His hands roam over your body, touching, caressing, as if he's trying to assure himself that you're really there, really with him.

He breaks the kiss, just for a moment, to look at you. His eyes are darker than before, filled with a storm of emotions. He's breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Y/N..." he whispers, his voice hoarse and raw with desire. "Stay with me tonight. Please... just stay."There's a vulnerability in his plea that cuts right to your heart. He needs you, not just now, but deeper, more permanently. He isn't just asking for comfort or physical connection; he's asking for something more substantial, a lifeline to hold onto amidst his storm of insecurities and fears.

You nod, your heart overflowing with affection for this man, who stands so strong in the face of the world, yet crumbles when alone. "I'll stay," you assure him, your voice soft but firm. "As long as you need me to, I'm not going anywhere."

You kiss him with more passion.The passion in your kiss stokes the fire that's been steadily building between you. He reacts instantly, the kiss becoming more intense, more desperate. He pulls you flush against him, his hands roaming over your body, seeking skin to touch, flesh to touch.There's a hunger in the way he kisses you, an intensity that borders on frantic. His tongue tangles with yours, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you even closer.

You gently pulled away to take off your shirt and then reattached your lips to his.His eyes follow your movements as you lift your shirt over your head, baring your skin to him. For a moment he just stares, his eyes raking over your exposed flesh, his gaze hungry and appreciative.As you return to his lips, he responds with a deep, guttural moan. His hands go to your waist, sliding over your bare skin, pulling you flush against him. He kisses you more fiercely now, his tongue delving deeper, his body pressing harder against yours.

He gently laid you down on the couch and took off the rest of your clothes and undressed himself too.As he moves over you, his naked body pressed against yours, you can feel the heat coming off him, his skin hot and smooth. He looks down at you, his eyes dark and heavy with desire. His hands rest on either side of your head, bracing his weight on strong arms, trapping you beneath him.

As he moves over you, his naked body pressed against yours, you can feel the heat coming off him, his skin hot and smooth. He looks down at you, his eyes dark and heavy with desire. His hands rest on either side of your head, bracing his weight on strong arms, trapping you beneath him.

In one sharp thrust he entered you making both of you moan into the kiss.You arch against him as he fills you, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. He moans into the kiss, his body shaking with restrained desire. He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to his size, his hands clenching the fabric of the couch on either side of your head.

“Babe, you're squeezing my cock so good,” he murmurs, moaning, and begins to move quickly. His thrusts were not gentle at all. You could feel inch by inch going in and out.He mouths at your neck, his lips tracing a path from jawline to collarbone. His breath is hot against your skin, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, holding you steady as he sets the pace.

You moan feeling his thrusts getting harder and harder. "Virgil I'm close" you murmur nibbling his neck."I know," he rasps, his voice strained with the effort it's taking to hold back. "Just... hold on a bit longer, please..." His body is tense above you, muscles taut as he tries to maintain his control, not wanting this to end too soon.

He picks up the pace suddenly, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. His lips are back at your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "I can't hold back much longer," he mutters, his words barely decipherable between the gasps and moans.

You can feel the edge approaching, your body trembling, your hands clawing at his back, seeking an anchor in this storm of sensations. "Virgil, I..." you start to say, but your words fade into a guttural moan as he hits a sensitive spot.

"I know," he gasps, his voice hoarse. "Me too." He's struggling to hold back, the need to let go warring with his desire to prolong this moment. His hips pound against yours, his fingers gripping your hips almost to the point of pain, holding you steady as he reaches the limit

"I need..." he moans, the word hanging in the air, half-formulated. He doesn't know what he needs; only that he wants more, more of you, more of this, more of the pleasure that's threatening to consume him altogether.

He pulls out of you and then turns you on all fours and enters you again.He's behind you suddenly, his body pressed against your back, his arms wrapping around your waist. His breath is hot on your neck, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He waits for a moment, letting you adjust to the new position, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your ear.

“fuck” you moan feeling his thrusts get even harder. Virgil grabs a lock of your hair and pulls it making you arch and moan.

"Yeah?" He asks, his voice rough and low, the sound sending shivers down your spine. His grip on your hair is tight, his hand keeping your head tilted back, exposing the vulnerable line of your neck. “You like that, huh?”

“yes” you moan resting your head on his shoulders as Virgil continued to thrust harder. "very much".He chuckles breathlessly, the sound more a exhalation than a laugh. "I thought you would," he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. "You make the best sounds when I pull your hair like this."

You moan feeling his thrusts get stronger. One push in particular had you bent back onto the couch.He follows the motion, the force of his thrust pressing you down into the couch. Your body is arched, your back bowing under the combined weight of his body and the intensity of his movements. You can hear him panting, his breath hot against your neck, his hands roaming over your flesh, seeking to draw out more.

"God, you look beautiful like this," he mutters, his voice rough and gravelly with desire. "Bent over for me like this."Virgil slaps your ass and goes faster.

His hands are everywhere, roaming freely over your flesh, seeking to touch every inch of you. His lips are back on your throat, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin there, leaving a trail of little bite marks in their wake.

“Virgil” you scream loudly moaning.He groans against your neck, your cry of pleasure going straight to his stomach. "Yeah," he mutters, his voice hoarse and raw. "Say my name again. I love hearing you say my name like that."

He moves faster, his hips slamming into you with every stroke, his pace picking up steadily. "Again," he gasps, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. "Say my name."

“Virgil” you moan again.He shudders behind you, the sound of his name on your lips sending a jolt through him. "Again," he demands, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he moves faster. "Say it again. I want to hear you."

You repeat his name, the word becoming a litany, a prayer on your lips as you're pushed closer and closer to the edge. His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he urges you on.

“That’s it," he growls, his voice hoarse. "Just like that. You’re so close, I can tell. I can feel it. Come on, say my name again. Let me hear you say it one more time."His words are like a drug, driving you higher, higher until you feel like you’re going to burst. You repeat his name again, the syllables almost lost in the litany of moans and gasps that fill the air.

as you fall over the edge, your body spasming around him, a cry of pleasure torn from your throat. Behind you he groans, the sound guttural and primal. He follows you over the edge, his body trembling against yours as he comes, your name falling from his lips in a shuddering gasp. For a moment there's only the sound of labored breathing, the aftermath of pleasure leaving you both boneless and weary. He gathers you in his arms, pulling you down with him as he collapses back onto the couch, holding you close against his chest.

"That was..." he starts, his voice thick with emotion. He trails off, unable to articulate the maelstrom of feelings coursing through him. "That was... incredible."

You nod, your legs shaking with pleasure. You rest on his chest as you recover from your climax.He holds you against him, his strong arms encircling you like a protective cocoon. He drops a kiss on the top of your head, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "You okay?" he asks quietly, the concern in his voice belied by the possessive way he's holding onto you.

You nod again, not quite trusting yourself to speak yet. Your body is still quivering with aftershocks, your mind a delightful buzz. You nuzzle against his chest, inhaling the scent of him, letting his presence ground you.

He responds instinctively, his hold on you tightening almost reflexively, as if afraid you might disappear if he lets go. "Good," he murmurs, the relief in his voice palpable. "I was worried I might've been too... rough."

"No," you find your voice at last, though it comes out as a gravelly whisper rather than your usual tone. "It was... perfect. I don't think I can move."Virgil chuckles softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Not surprised," he says, the pride in his voice evident. "I kinda went a bit... uh... overboard, huh?"

You give a weak nod, still feeling like your bones have turned to jello. "Just a bit," you manage to reply, a hint of a laugh in your voice.He tightens his hold on you just a fraction more, a possessive gesture that you don't mind at all. "Well, I'm not sorry," he says, sounding very much unapologetic. "You were making the most delightful sounds. Couldn't help myself."

"I have no complaints," you murmur, your eyes drifting closed. You can feel his heart beating under your cheek, the steady thump-thump like a soothing lullaby. You're tired, boneless, satisfied to the point of exhaustion, and very much not ready to move yet.

He seems to sense this and relaxes under you, his hand continuing that soothing motion on your back. "Get some rest," he whispers, his voice low and soothing. He doesn't seem in any hurry to move either, his body warm and solid beneath you.

You hum a wordless assent, already drifting towards sleep. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the reassuring presence of his body, the exhaustion of your recent activities all combining to pull you inexorably into unconsciousness."Sweet dreams," he murmurs, his voice a quiet whisper. You feel a soft kiss on the top of your head, his lips gentle and tender against your hair.

You murmur something inarticulate, too far gone to form actual words. The last thing you feel before sleep claims you is the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, a soothing thrum that lulls you into darkness.

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kennasutopia · 4 days ago

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@formulafortyfour quit breaking my barrier down. i simply CANNOT add another footballer to my roster. i cannot add another hyperfixation. you can’t make me crumble under pressure.

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kennasutopia · 5 days ago

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VIRGIN TERRITORY ────── iamquaintrelle (✨☔️💕)

⌗ pairing : aurelien tchouameni x black oc

⌗ tags : @whoevenisthiz @irishmanwhore @lettersofgold @deonn-jaelle @sucredreamer @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @rougereds @f1-football-fiend

⌗ summary : she’s been his pa for almost a year and everyday is a struggle to function around him, but he’ll never see her more than that…will he? and what will happen if he finds out she’s also a virgin? ♡ masterlist.

It's actually ridiculous how much of Leila's day revolves around not combusting whenever Aurélien touches her. She is the guardian of his universe when she walks through Real Madrid's training grounds each morning, her tablet hugged close like a shield against her racing heart. Every schedule, every appointment, every little detail of his life bends to her organizational wit. Players nod at her with familiar respect. Staff members share knowing looks when she breezes past, already aware she'll have whatever they need before they ask. She is efficient. She is indispensable. She is absolutely screwed.

Eight months as his PA (thanks to his uncle Claude basically saving her from corporate hell), and she still hasn't figured out how to function when he does things like casually dropping his head into her lap during movie nights, her fingers freezing mid-air because oh god where does she put her hands? Her grandmother back in Georgia always said she had a heart too big for her own good. If only she knew how right she was, how that heart squeezes painfully whenever his sleepy morning voice crackles through her phone.

The thing about being Aurélien Tchouaméni's personal assistant is that nobody warns you about the little moments. Nobody tells you how to handle it when he fixes your collar without thinking, or plays with your braids during strategy meetings, or pulls you into his side when you walk. It's just who he is, she knows that. He does it without thinking, but her stupid heart doesn't get the memo that it's just Aurélien being Aurélien. That to him, she's just his PA who pushes up her glasses too often and stress-bakes cookies at midnight before big matches.

Yet Leila is good at hiding. She is spectacular at pretending, at burying the flutter in her chest when he calls her "ma puce" or rests his head on her shoulder after exhausting matches. The weight of unspoken words has become her closest companion, filling the spaces between their easy laughter and comfortable silences.

Sometimes she catches his uncle giving her these knowing looks, like he's trying not to laugh at how obvious her crush is. And honestly? Fair enough. Because she's the one who memorizes the way his accent gets thicker when he's tired, or how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he's genuinely happy, or how he still hums the same Cameroonian lullaby his grandmother taught him when he thinks no one is listening. She's his PA. She's his safe space.

And she’s hopelessly, utterly, ridiculously in love with him. And that's both the best and worst thing about her life.

Five-thirty in the morning and Leila's already punching in the security code to Aurélien's mansion in Madrid, greeted by the enthusiastic clicking of Ocho's nails against the marble floors. The Belgian Malinois runs toward her, all crazy puppy energy and wet kisses, his tail wagging like he hasn't seen her in years instead of just yesterday.

"At least someone's excited to see me," she murmurs, scratching behind his ears while juggling her work bag and his freshly pressed training kit. The house is quiet except for the noises of the air conditioner, and sometimes she still can't believe this is her life – that his uncle Claude somehow picked her out of hundreds of applicants eight months ago.

She remembers the interview like it was yesterday, sitting across from Claude in that intimidating office, wondering if he'd lost his mind. "You want me to be his PA?" she'd asked, pushing up her glasses nervously. She only applied on a whim because the money looked really good, and she was expecting to be pushed aside for someone else. "I'm the same age as him. I have zero experience with professional athletes..."

But Claude had just smiled, that knowing look in his eyes that she'd come to recognize. "Trust me," he'd said. "You're exactly what he needs."

Now, padding through the kitchen in her loafers (because heels were a disaster waiting to happen), she starts Aurélien's morning routine like a well-rehearsed dance. Protein shake first – one scoop vanilla, one banana, almond milk, a handful of spinach that he pretends not to know about but absolutely needs. Light breakfast next – two slices of wholegrain toast, scrambled egg whites with herbs, half an avocado. His nutritionist would be proud.

She's laying out his training kit when she hears the echo of heels on the stairs, and her heart does that familiar plummet. A gorgeous woman appears, all legs, blemish free brown skin, and perfect 18-inch middle-part bust down weave, wearing what looks like last season's Balmain and carrying this year's Hermès. Their eyes meet, and Leila forces a polite smile as the woman sashays past, giving her a disgusted look as she left the home.

Good morning to you too, I guess.

Just another morning, just another model. They come and go like the house was some sort of an amusement park, each one more beautiful than the last.

Sometimes Leila catches her reflection in the massive windows as she moves through his house – her practical braids with their hint of gold thread, her simple black pants and collared blouse, her sensible shoes. She's pretty, she knows that. The kind of pretty that gets you genuine compliments from grandmas and makes babies smile at you in grocery stores, yet standing in Aurélien's world, surrounded by women who look like they've stepped off Milan runways... it's like being a sparrow in a flock of peacocks.

She's arranging his new predators (black and gold, because apparently Adidas knows exactly what they're doing) when she hears the familiar sound of his bedroom door. In approximately thirty seconds, he'll appear at the top of the stairs, fresh from his shower, probably shirtless because the man has zero concept of proper clothing etiquette. Her heart will do that stupid thing, and she'll have to pretend she's very interested in whatever's on her tablet.

This is her life now. Planning his days, managing his schedule, trying not to stare at his abs, and watching an endless parade of beautiful women float through his house. At least Ocho loves her unconditionally, even if she's not a size two or wore Louboutins.

"The things they don't tell you in the job description," she mutters to the dog, who tilts his head sympathetically. He doesn't care that she shops at Zara instead of Zimmermann. He just wants his morning belly rubs and maybe a piece of turkey from her sandwich later.

Now, she just has to survive another morning of Aurélien's sleepy smile and casual touches without having a complete emotional breakdown. Just another day in the life of being hopelessly in love with your impossibly beautiful boss who dates literal supermodels.

Right on schedule, Aurélien appears at the top of the stairs, and Leila immediately regrets every life choice that led her to this moment. He's shirtless – of course he's shirtless, because God is testing her specifically today – with grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. His skin is still dewy from the shower, curls damp and untamed, and there's a satisfied swagger to his movements that tells her exactly why this morning's model practically floated out the door.

Besides having that stank ass face though…

"Bonjour, ma puce," he calls down, voice still rough with sleep, and honestly? It should be illegal to sound like that at this early in the morning. She busies herself with her tablet, pretending her face isn't heating as he descends the stairs with that lazy grace that makes him look like he's been art directed by God himself.

"Your protein shake is ready," she says to her screen, because it's safer than looking at him right now. "And you have that interview with Marca at ten, so please try to sound awake by then."

He ignores her completely – typical – and instead wraps himself around her from behind, his chin finding her shoulder like it belongs there. His skin is warm against her back, and she can smell his ridiculously expensive body wash, the one she specially orders from Paris because he's particular about these things. "You're my favorite person," he mumbles into her neck, and her traitor heart does backflips.

"That's because I feed you," she manages to say, proud that her voice stays even as his arms tighten around her waist. "Your breakfast is gonna get cold."

"Mmmm, five more minutes." He nuzzles closer, and she can feel him smiling against her skin. "You're too comfortable."

Ocho just wags his tail at them, completely useless against inappropriate morning cuddles from sleepy footballers who don't understand personal space. Or shirts. Or what this kind of closeness does to her blood pressure.

"Aurélien," she tries to sound stern but it it doesn’t work, "you have training in an hour. Ancelotti will actually murder me if you're late again."

"Carlo loves you," he protests, but finally releases her, padding toward the kitchen. She allows herself one quick glance – purely professional, to make sure he's actually moving toward breakfast and not just collapsing on the couch – and immediately regrets it. The morning sun streaming through the windows is doing unfair things to his dark skin, highlighting every muscled plane of his back, and she sends a quick prayer of both thanks and protest to whatever powerful being is responsible for his genetics.

"He tolerates me because I get you to training on time," she corrects, following him with her tablet clutched to her chest. "Which won't happen if you don't eat now."

He drops into a kitchen chair, all loose-limbs, and she pulls up his schedule while he starts on his breakfast. "You're sliding through for dinner tonight, right?" he asks between bites. "Mama's asking about you. She says you never call her anymore."

"I spoke to your mother the other day," she points out, trying not to smile at his pout. "And that's only because you forgot to call her back. Again."

"See? This is why you're her favorite child now." He grins up at her, and her heart does that stupid stuttering thing it always does when he looks at her like that – all soft eyes and dimples, still sleep-warm and touchable. "So, dinner?"

"I have plans," she lies, because she needs at least one evening to reset her emotional boundaries after dealing with Morning Aurélien in all his shirtless glory.

He frowns, and something flickers across his face too quickly for her to read. "Cancel them," he says, reaching for her hand and tugging her closer. "Please? Mama's making that stew you love."

And this – this right here is why she's completely screwed. Because he looks up at her with those eyes, thumb absently stroking her wrist, and she knows she'll say yes. She always does. Even though it means spending another evening pretending her heart doesn't break a little when he unconsciously flirts with her, even though she'll have to smile through stories about his latest hookup, even though his mother will give her those knowing looks that make her want to sink through the floor.

"Fine," she sighs, and his whole face lights up. "But I'm not covering for you when you're late to training tomorrow because you stayed up all night watching game footage again."

He just grins, pressing a quick kiss to her palm before releasing her hand. "Yes, you will," he says confidently. "Because you're the best PA in Madrid."

Right. PA. Because that's all she is. All she'll ever be.

Aurélien disappears into the half bath with his training kit, and Leila lets out the breath she's been holding. She cleans up his breakfast dishes, trying not to think about how domestic this all feels – her in his kitchen, him getting ready for work like they're some kind of... nope. Not going there.

"I really got to get it together," she mutters to Ocho, who's doing his best starving dog impression despite having a bowl full of premium kibble. She sneaks him a piece of turkey anyway, because she's weak and he knows it. "Don't tell your dad."

The sound of Aurélien humming from the bathroom makes her pause mid-wipe of the kitchen counter. It's unfair how even that sounds good – everything he does is just intentionally devastating to her sanity at this point.

He emerges fully dressed in Real Madrid training gear, and somehow that's worse because now he looks like every football fantasy she definitely hasn't had.

"Ready?" he asks, grabbing his keys from the bowl by the door. The black Lamborghini Urus sits in the driveway like a spaceship, because Jules apparently got one last month and Aurélien has never outgrown that best-friend-matching phase. She's not complaining though, because watching him drive it is... problematic for her mental health in the best possible way.

She slides into the passenger seat, tablet clutched in her lap. Aurélien starts the engine with one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for his phone to queue up his morning playlist. Lil Baby's voice fills the cabin, and Aurélien starts rapping along, his French accent wrapping around the English words in a way that should be funny but instead makes her want to crawl into his lap and–

"You okay?" he glances at her, one hand still casually draped over the steering wheel as he navigates Madrid's morning traffic. "You're looking like you’re gonna be sick."

"Fine," she squeaks, because how does she explain that watching him drive one-handed is doing things to her that would have her ancestors clutching their pearls and setting back feminism a few decades. "Just... thinking about your schedule."

He hums along to the music, totally oblivious to her internal crisis. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, and she's definitely not watching the way his forearms flex or thinking about those hands in other contexts. She's a professional. She has a degree. She's read Bell Hooks and Audre Lorde and she is absolutely not having elaborate fantasies about climbing him like a tree while he's parallel parking with one hand.

"We should get some coffee before training," he says, and she knows without looking that he's doing that thing where he glances at her through his lashes while asking for something. "The good café, not the training ground stuff."

"You’re nutritionist is gonna be mad," she reminds him, and he takes a turn with just his palm on the wheel, all casual control that makes her brain go fuzzy.

"But you love their pain au chocolat," he grins, and Lord help her, he's right. "Come on, ma puce. One coffee isn’t gonna be that bad."

And this right here? This is why she's going to hell. Because he smiles at her like that, voice still rough, one hand on the wheel like he's auditioning for Fast & Furious: Madrid Drift, and she just... gives in. Every time.

"Okay," she sighs, "but if Carlo asks, I tried to stop you."

His laugh is low and warm, and she sends a silent apology to every feminist scholar who fought for her right to be seen as more than just a woman losing her mind over a pretty man in an expensive car. But really, they've never seen Aurélien rap trap music while driving one-handed in morning traffic. She thinks they'd understand.

The café is their usual morning hideaway, tucked away in a quiet corner of Madrid where the servers are discrete and the pastries are sinful. Aurélien parallel parks the Urus with one hand.

"The usual?" he asks, already reaching for his wallet as they enter. This is another thing about him – he always pays, without making a show of it. It's just natural, like breathing. His mother raised him right, beyond all the revolving door of gorgeous women (which, fair enough, he's young and single and literally one of the most eligible footballers in Europe, so who can blame him?). He holds doors, pulls out chairs, and never lets anyone else reach for the bill when he's around. It's just who he is.

"You don't have to," she starts, but he's already giving her that look that means she should save her breath.

"Ma puce, when have I ever let you pay?" His accent wraps around the words like honey.

The barista recognizes them – of course she does, they're here often enough – and starts their order before they reach the counter. Aurélien adds an extra pain au chocolat to their usual, shooting Leila a wink.

She's watches him charm the barista (because he charms everyone, it's like his superpower), when her brain decides to remind her that she wouldn't even know what to do if she ever had a chance with him. Like, literally wouldn't know. Because while he's out here probably setting records for most models fucked in a calendar year, she's... well. The most action she's gotten recently was an awkward kiss after a date that ended with her glasses fogged up and her nose bruised.

"Leila," his voice breaks through her spiral, amused and way too close. She blinks to find him watching her with that soft smile that makes her knees weak. "Where'd you go just now?"

Oh, you know, just thinking about how I'm probably the only 24-year-old virgin in Madrid and definitely the only one who works this closely with a footballer who could probably teach a masterclass in... everything.

"Just work stuff," she lies, accepting the coffee he hands her. Their fingers brush, and she nearly drops the cup because she's apparently twelve years old.

They settle at their usual corner table, and she tries not to stare as he tears into his pain au chocolat with the enthusiasm of someone who normally lives on protein shakes and steamed chicken. There's a smudge of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, and her fingers itch to wipe it away. Instead, she clutches her coffee cup.

"You've got a little..." she gestures at his face, because complete sentences are hard now.

He swipes at it with his thumb and then licks it clean, and she sends up a quick prayer for strength because honestly. Her mind helpfully supplies images of other ways he could use that tongue and – nope.

"You should eat yours before it gets cold," he says, nodding at her untouched pastry. "And stop looking at your tablet. We have ten minutes before we need to leave for training."

She takes a bite to stop herself from saying something stupid like 'I love you' or 'please break my back', and okay, maybe the pastry is good enough to justify committing minor nutritional sins. Aurélien watches her with satisfaction, like he's personally responsible for making her enjoy breakfast.

"See? Sometimes breaking rules is good for you," he grins, reaching over to brush some stray chocolate from her lip with his thumb, casual as anything. She stops breathing entirely, because what else can you do when the man you're hopelessly in love with is touching your mouth and you have absolutely zero experience with any of... this?

"You're a bad influence," she manages to say, proud that her voice only shakes a little.

His laugh is low and warm. "You love it."

And that's the problem, isn't it? She loves all of it. Him. This. Everything. Even if she wouldn't know what to do with any of it if she had the chance.

They make it to the training ground with five minutes to spare, because Leila's nothing if not efficient at scheduling buffer time for Aurélien's pastry cravings. As they're pulling into his usual spot, a sleek Mercedes SUV stops nearby, and out comes Jude Bellingham with all the energy of a labrador puppy, his mom Denise waving from the driver's seat.

"Morning, loves!" Denise calls out, and Leila waves back, feeling that familiar warmth she always gets from Jude's mom. There's something so endearingly normal about him still getting dropped off by his mother sometimes, even though he's football royalty now.

And the fact that he can’t drive worth a damn…

"You lot finally made it then?" Jude's Birmingham accent cuts through as he bounces over. "Been waiting ages, ya know what I mean?"

Aurélien just shakes his head at his younger teammate, but Leila grins. When she first started, she'd spent hours watching Peaky Blinders to handle Jude's accent.

"Come 'ere you," Jude opens his arms wide for Leila, and she can't help but laugh as he engulfs her in one of his trademark bear hugs. He's always like this – all sunshine and affection, treating everyone like his best mate two minutes after meeting them.

She hears Aurélien click his tongue behind her, and suddenly there's a warm hand at her waist, pulling her back. "That's enough," he says, voice carrying an edge she rarely hears. Jude just grins wider, if that's even possible, and nudges Aurélien's shoulder.

"Don't be jealous, mate. Plenty of love to go around."

They head into the facility, Leila following a few steps behind with her tablet, trying not to smile too obviously at Aurélien's lingering protectiveness. She can hear Jude chattering away as they walk, his excitement vibrating through the air.

"Bruv, you gotta throw a party soon, yeah? Get some pretty girls over, make it massive," Jude's saying, gesturing enthusiastically. "My mate knows these girls from this modeling agency, absolute baddies, ya know what I mean?"

Leila pretends to be very interested in her tablet, definitely not thinking about the parade of models who already frequent Aurélien's house. She doesn't need to imagine more of them.

"Nah," Aurélien shakes his head, rolling his shoulders in that way he does when he's not really feeling something. "Think I'm good with just having the boys over. Keep it lowkey, you feel me?"

"Say less, say less," Jude nods, like Aurélien's just dropped some profound wisdom. "Just the mandem then. Text me when you sort it, yeah? We can get Cama and Edu over, have FIFA tournament and that."

Leila makes a mental note to stock up on snacks that won't horrify the nutritionist too much. She's learned that "lowkey with the boys" usually means half the team sprawled across Aurélien's living room, screaming at the TV while Ocho tries to steal their food.

"You'll come too, right Lei?" Jude calls back to her, because of course he includes everyone. "Someone's gotta stop this one from murdering Cama when he starts his celebration dances."

"She's busy," Aurélien answers before she can, and she looks up in surprise to find him watching her with an expression she can't quite read.

"Mans really keeping you all to himself," Jude laughs, ducking the smack Aurélien aims at his head. "Selfish, innit?"

Leila feels her face heat up, but before she can stammer out a response, Carlo's voice rings out across the training ground, calling the players in. She watches them jog off, Jude still chattering away, and tries not to read too much into Aurélien's behavior. After all, she's got a full day of meetings to coordinate and his agent to wrangle about some upcoming sponsorship deals.

She's a professional. She's got this.

There's something about watching a bunch of millionaire footballers act like complete fools around a pool that makes Leila question all her life choices. The Madrid sun is beating down on Aurélien's backyard while she stands at the grill, working her magic on another batch of her daddy's famous honey brown sugar wings. Somehow this recipe made its way from her little corner outside of Atlanta all the way to Spain, and now Aurélien straight up refuses to eat wings from anywhere else.

"Ma puce," he'd hit her with those puppy eyes this morning, the ones that should come with a warning label because they're basically emotional warfare. "Please? You know nobody does it like you."

And really, how was she supposed to say no to that? The way he appreciates her cooking isn't some weird thing about women in the kitchen – it's deeper than that, his genuine love for Black American food that sometimes makes her wonder if that's exactly why his uncle Claude picked her. This Georgia peach bringing a taste of home to his nephew in ways those Instagram models could never.

The party (though it's really more of a glorified kickback) is peak chaos right now. Cama's over there trying his hardest to convince Manuel to do some TikTok dance by the pool, while AK and Julio are having what looks like a whole UN summit about their FIFA ratings. Then there's Jude sprawled out with his boys Toby and Noah, all of them looking like they invented sunshine or something.

"Need help with that?"

She spins around (definitely too quick, way too quick) and ends up face-first into Jules's chest. He steadies her with that laugh of his, dreads catching the sunlight as they sway. And look, she isn't blind – Jules is fine fine, with those perfectly maintained locs and that neat goatee, the kind of smile that probably has half of Barcelona in his DMs, but it's different with him. While she can appreciate the aesthetic (because she has eyes and is breathing), he's never made her heart race the way Aurélien does, never made her think inappropriate thoughts about jumping his bones in the weight room downstairs.

"Hi JuJu," she grins, watching him do that eye roll he always does at the nickname. "And no, I don't need help. Last time you tried to 'help' with the grill, you nearly set your eyebrows on fire."

"That was one time," he protests, leaning against the counter all casual like he didn't almost commit arson. "And it was Cama's fault."

Truth is, Jules might be her favorite of Aurélien's friends if she's being honest. He's real – says exactly what he thinks, never plays games, and treats her like his actual little sister instead of just his bestie's PA. Plus, he's the only one who's never tried to set her up with random friends or teammates, which honestly? God bless him for that.

"You good though?" His voice drops lower, just for her. "Saw that Instagram model leaving Aure's place yesterday morning."

And that's the other thing about Jules – man catches EVERYTHING. Including, apparently, her embarrassingly obvious crush on his best friend.

"I'm his PA, not his keeper," she focuses very intently on basting these wings. "He can have breakfast with whoever he wants."

"Mhm," Jules hums, unconvinced. "Pretty sure breakfast wasn't on the menu, petit."

"Jules," she warns, but there's no heat in it. Hard to be mad when he's looking at her with that big brother concern.

"All I'm saying is–"

"JK!" Aurélien's voice cuts through whatever truth bomb Jules was about to drop. "Stop bothering my cook and get your ass over here. Cama thinks he can beat you at pool basketball."

"Your cook?" Jules raises an eyebrow that she wants to smack right off his face, but she just waves him away with her basting brush.

"Go defend your honor or whatever. These wings need a delicate touch."

He gives her one last look – the kind that says this conversation isn't over – before jogging over to the pool and immediately getting into it with Cama about basketball form. She catches Aurélien looking back at her for a moment, something in his expression she can't quite read, before Jude causes chaos with a cannonball that probably just displaced half the pool's water.

Just another day in paradise, she thinks, turning back to her grill. Just another day of pretending she isn't completely gone for this man who probably just sees her as his wing-making PA from Georgia.

The food spread looked like something straight out of her mama's Sunday dinner dreams - honey brown sugar wings arranged on grilled lemon slices (a family secret that made everything taste like heaven), seafood salad that would make her Auntie Janelle proud, and cornbread still warming in the kitchen. Leila stepped back, wiping her hands on her apron and trying not to feel too pleased with herself.

"Food's ready!" she called out, and watching a group of footballers scramble out of the pool like excited kids was actually hilarious, but then Aurélien had to go and do that thing where he made her heart forget how to beat properly - all bright eyes and dimples, rubbing his hands together like she'd just announced Christmas was coming early.

"Everyone better thank Leila," he said, already reaching for a wing with his still-wet hands. "This right here? This is love on a plate."

If you only knew, she thought, ducking back into the kitchen before her face could give her away. The pitcher of Arnold Palmer was waiting in the fridge - another little piece of Georgia she'd brought to Madrid because these boys needed to know what real sweet tea tasted like.

She was heading back out with the pitcher when she heard them, voices carrying through the open doors like they were determined to ruin her whole existence.

"Nah but for real," Noah was saying, "your PA is thick as fuck. You telling me you never tried to get with that? ‘Cuz I would."

Her hands tightened around the pitcher, heart suddenly doing a very different kind of dance.

"Pssh, no," Aurélien's laugh felt like ice down her spine. "Leila isn't that type of girl. She's… okay."

Okay.

OKAY???

Like... OKAY???

Not even pretty. Not even cute. Just... okay. Like a sandwich that's not bad but not good either. Like a movie you watch when nothing else is on. Like a backup outfit when everything else is in the wash.

The pitcher made a too-loud sound as she set it down on the table, and she caught Jules watching her with those too-observant eyes of his. He always saw too much, always knew too much.

"I should go," she said, proud that her voice stayed steady even as her heart was splintering. "Got errands to run."

"You good?" Jules asked all quiet, and she nodded so stiffly her neck almost cramped. His frown got deeper and she wanted to tell him to stop looking at her like that before she lost it.

"I have to return that Aimé jacket – store closes in an hour." Please just let me leave with whatever dignity I have left.

"Leila, that can wait," Aurélien said around a mouthful of HER wings that SHE made with LOVE because she was STUPID. "Sit down and eat."

"I'm not hungry," she managed, gathering her things. "See you later."

She made it to her car before the first tear fell, and then they just kept coming because apparently, her heart didn't get the memo. Because somehow she'd let herself fall for her boss - her very beautiful, very uninterested boss who thought she was just okay while he dated women who looked like they'd stepped out of Vogue.

"Get it together," she muttered, wiping at her cheeks and probably ruining her makeup. "He's your BOSS. Your very male, very beautiful, very uninterested boss who thinks you're OKAY. Just okay."

Her phone buzzed - Jules, because, of course, he'd check on her - but she couldn't deal with his knowing kindness right now. She needed her bed, needed her comfort playlist, and needed to remember that this wasn't some romance novel where the curvy Black girl gets the football star.

This was real life. And in real life, girls like her don't end up with guys like Aurélien Tchouaméni.

They just end up okay.

And somehow, that hurt worse than a straight-up rejection ever could.

................tbd

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