#liverpool fc? i don't know her

[wyn-n-tonic]

i love being a Brighton fan. i love being a Seagal.

[emjayewrites]

written in the stars • ibou konate series (2/16)

GIF by suckmyarschkarte

SYNOPSIS: When duty and destiny collide, Liverpool defender Ibou Konaté finds himself married to a stranger. Their modern values clash with ancient traditions as they navigate a world where neither fully belongs - too faithful for some, too progressive for others. Between Premier League pressure and painful family expectations, they must discover if an arrangement made by others can transform into a love written by their own hearts.

PAIRINGS: Ibou Konaté x Rabia Amal Hassan Farah (fc: @/kingedna_)

WARNINGS: mentions of religion (Islam), fluff, non-sexual intimacy (i.e. kissing, hand holding), very loose depictions of sex (this will not feature smut)

TAGLIST: @kj77 @ibouchouchou, @lev-1-1, @irishmanwhore, @jessnotwiththemess @peyiswriting @tsukishimawhore @themaster2007-blog @sucredreamer @muglermami @rougereds @eriks-girl @amirawrah @t-bpe @butterpas2 @cleverwinnermak @coffeevacation @alika-4466 @thepointlessideas @iamryanl

A/N: Hey everyone, please note that this story is different than others as it will not include explicit smut. It will be some closed-door love scenes to be respectful of his faith. I've done a lot of research on Islam and Ibou, but please let me know if anything is incorrect.

Part II: Football Wife

The Uber driver kept glancing at her in the rearview mirror. Rabia pretended not to notice, focusing on the unfamiliar streets passing by outside the window. Liverpool in daylight was a different city entirely – less mysterious than her rainy arrival had suggested, more vibrant with its mix of historic buildings and modern life.

"First time in Liverpool?" the driver finally asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"Yes," she replied, now familiar with the question. "Just moved here."

"From where, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Dubai most recently. But I grew up in Belgium."

"Long way from home then," he observed. "What brings you to our city? Work?"

Rabia hesitated, weighing her answer. "Marriage, actually."

"Ah, love!" The driver beamed. "Powerful thing, that. Got me to move from Glasgow twenty years ago for my wife. Never regretted it."

Love. The word hung in the air, neither confirmed nor denied. Easier to let him assume than explain the complexities of an arranged marriage to a stranger.

"We're here," he announced as they pulled up to a stylish café on Bold Street. "Leaf's brilliant for lunch. Your husband's got good taste."

"My friend chose it, actually," Rabia clarified, gathering her bag. "But thank you."

The café was busy with the lunch crowd – a mix of professionals, students, and shoppers seeking refuge from Liverpool's perpetual threat of rain. Rabia scanned the tables, anxiety fluttering in her chest. She'd only met Magi briefly at the wedding, and now she was meant to have an entire lunch with her – the veteran footballer's wife guiding the rookie.

"Rabia!"

She turned to see Magi Salah waving from a corner table, looking effortlessly put-together in a modest but fashionable outfit – dark jeans, an oversized cream sweater, and a beautifully arranged hijab in a complementary beige.

"You found it!" Magi stood to greet her with a warm hug. "I was worried you might get lost."

"Thank goodness for Uber," Rabia admitted, settling into the chair across from her. "I haven't quite figured out Liverpool's geography yet."

"It took me months," Magi confided with a sympathetic smile. "Mo kept finding me in random neighborhoods when I first moved here."

There was something instantly comforting about Magi's presence – a warmth and authenticity that put Rabia at ease. Here was a woman who had walked this path before her, navigating the strange intersection of faith, football, and foreign culture.

"I ordered us some tea," Magi gestured to the pot between them. "Hope that's okay. This place is known for their blends."

"Perfect, thank you."

After placing their lunch orders, Magi leaned forward slightly, her eyes kind but direct. "So, how are you really doing? And you don't have to give me the polite answer. I remember those first weeks all too well."

The simple question, asked with such genuine concern, nearly undid Rabia's carefully maintained composure. How was she doing? She barely knew herself.

"I'm..." she began, then stopped, reconsidering. "Actually, I'm not sure. Everything happened so quickly. One minute I was running my boutique in Dubai, the next I'm a footballer's wife in Liverpool."

Magi nodded understanding. "The whiplash is real. One day you're yourself, the next day you're 'Mrs. Whatever' and everyone has expectations."

"Exactly!" Relief flooded Rabia at being so perfectly understood. "And I keep thinking I should have a handbook or something."

"Don't tell me you've been watching those awful WAG shows," Magi groaned.

Caught, Rabia felt heat rise to her cheeks. "For research purposes only."

Magi's laughter was bright and genuine. "Oh honey, those shows are about as realistic as thinking all Muslims are the same. Pure fiction dressed as reality."

"I may have taken notes," Rabia admitted sheepishly.

"Burn them," Magi advised, eyes twinkling. "The real handbook is much simpler. Be yourself, support your husband, and ignore the noise."

"The noise?"

"The press, the fans, the critics, the so-called friends who suddenly appear when your husband gets famous." Magi's expression turned more serious. "Our husbands signed up for the spotlight. We just happened to marry into it."

Their food arrived – vibrant salads topped with grilled halloumi and pomegranate seeds. As they ate, Magi shared stories from her early days as Mo's wife, the culture shock of England, the challenges of making friends in a new country.

"The football world is... different," she explained. "Not bad, just different. There's this strange bubble where normal rules don't quite apply. Money, fame, pressure – it changes the dynamics of everything."

"I'm worried about fitting in," Rabia confessed. "I don't know anything about football beyond the basics."

"You don't need to," Magi assured her. "Ibou doesn't need another coach or analyst. He needs a wife – someone who sees him beyond the game."

"That's the tricky part," Rabia said, pushing a piece of cheese around her plate. "We barely know each other. The whole arrangement happened so fast."

Magi didn't seem surprised by the mention of arrangement. Mo had probably filled her in on the details.

"Mo and I had an arranged marriage too," she revealed, confirming Rabia's suspicion. "Not exactly the same – we'd known each other's families for years – but still, not the romantic fairy tale people assume."

This was news to Rabia. The Salahs always seemed so naturally connected, so in sync. "Really? But you seem so..."

"In love?" Magi smiled. "We are now. But it took time, patience, and a lot of awkward conversations." She reached across the table to squeeze Rabia's hand briefly. "Love can grow from respect and friendship. Sometimes it's stronger that way, because you build it deliberately instead of falling into it blindly."

Something loosened in Rabia's chest at these words. Permission to take time. Acknowledgment that what she and Ibou were navigating wasn't abnormal or doomed – just different.

"How did you... I mean, when did you know it was becoming more than arrangement?" she asked, unable to keep the question inside.

Magi considered this, her expression softening with memory. "There wasn't one moment. It was a collection of small things. The way he remembered how I take my tea. How he called his mother for my favorite recipe when I was homesick. The look on his face the first time I cheered at the right moment during a match." She laughed softly. "I'd been practicing, you see. Learning when to cheer. And he knew it, and appreciated the effort."

"Ibou seemed happy when I remembered something about an upcoming match," Rabia offered, thinking of their morning conversation.

"See? Those little bridges you build toward each other – that's where it starts."

They talked through dessert and second cups of tea – about practical matters like matchday protocols, about the best places to shop in Liverpool, about the challenges of maintaining faith in the spotlight. Magi offered advice without being preachy, shared experiences without suggesting they were universal.

"The most important thing," she said as they prepared to leave, "is remembering that your marriage is yours. Not your parents', not the community's, not the public's. What works for Mo and me might not work for you and Ibou."

Outside the café, they exchanged a warm hug.

"Call me anytime," Magi insisted. "Seriously. Middle of the night identity crisis? I've been there."

"Thank you," Rabia said, meaning it deeply. "For lunch, for the advice, for..."

"Understanding?" Magi supplied with a gentle smile. "That's what friends are for. And you need friends here, outside of just being Ibou's wife."

As her Uber carried her back through Liverpool's streets toward her new home, Rabia felt lighter than she had in days. She wasn't alone in this strange journey. Others had walked this path before her and found not just contentment but joy.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Ibou: "Training finished early. Coming home soon."

Such a simple message, yet her heart quickened reading it. Home. Their home. Where they were building something unique – not a fairy tale romance, but perhaps something equally valuable.

A marriage of choice, even if the initial choice hadn't been entirely theirs.

Rabia was halfway through a virtual tour of her boutique when she heard the front door open. She'd been FaceTiming with her assistant Nadia, checking displays and approving new merchandise arrangements, her laptop open to spreadsheets of quarterly sales figures.

"He's home," she whispered to Nadia, suddenly conscious of how domestic that sounded. "I'll call you back later."

"Give that husband of yours a proper kiss!" Nadia teased before Rabia could end the call, her voice loud enough to possibly carry beyond the living room.

Mortified, Rabia quickly hung up, setting her phone down just as Ibou appeared in the doorway. His hair was damp from a post-training shower, his training gear exchanged for casual clothes. He looked tired but content, his eyes brightening when they landed on her.

"Back early like you said. How was training?" she said, closing her laptop.

"Slot satisfied with the preparation," he explained, setting down his gym bag. "Says too much training makes legs heavy for match."

"How thoughtful of him." She smiled, surprised by how genuinely pleased she was to see him. Lunch with Magi had left her feeling more settled, more open to possibilities.

Ibou gestured to her computer. "I interrupt your work?"

"Just checking in with my assistant. Making sure the boutique hasn't collapsed without me."

"And has it?"

"Not yet," she laughed. "Though apparently one customer threatened to never return because we didn't have her size in our new abayas."

"Terrible crisis," he agreed solemnly, though his eyes crinkled with amusement. He hesitated in the doorway, as if unsure whether to join her or give her space. "Your lunch with Magi was good?"

"Really good," she nodded. "She's wonderful. Gave me lots of insider tips on footballer wife protocol."

"Protocol?" His eyebrows shot up in alarm. "There is protocol?"

"Oh yes," she said, keeping her expression serious. "Very strict rules. For instance, I'm only allowed to wear team colors on match days, must learn the offside rule within thirty days of marriage, and am required to bake cookies for the locker room once a month."

Ibou's face went from concerned to suspicious to amused in the span of seconds. "You are teasing me."

"Maybe a little," she admitted with a grin. "Though Magi did have useful advice."

"Such as?"

"That every football family finds their own balance," she said. "Some wives are completely involved in every aspect, others maintain separate lives entirely. She said what matters is finding what works for us."

He nodded thoughtfully. "This makes sense. No one solution for everyone."

"She also mentioned you and Mo have been talking about us," Rabia added with a raised eyebrow.

Ibou had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Just... comparing notes? This is wrong English maybe."

"Comparing notes on your arranged wives?" she pressed, though her tone remained light.

"More like... asking advice," he clarified. "Mo has successful marriage. I want same."

The simple honesty of that statement disarmed her completely. "I want that too," she admitted softly.

A moment of understanding passed between them, neither quite ready to define what "successful" meant in their context, but both acknowledging the shared goal.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, changing the subject. "I can make early dinner."

"I'd love to see these cooking skills you mentioned," she said, closing her laptop. "Need help?"

In the kitchen, Rabia discovered that Ibou wasn't just being modest – he moved with confidence, preparing ingredients for what he called "footballer pasta" with practiced ease.

"Secret of professional athletes," he explained, dicing vegetables with surprising precision. "Carbs, protein, simple."

"And here I thought you all had personal chefs," she teased, perching on a barstool at the kitchen island.

"Some do," he conceded. "I prefer to know what goes in my food."

"Control freak?" she suggested playfully.

"Defender," he corrected with a small smile. "Always preparing, always careful."

Something about that resonated with her – this instinct to protect, to prevent problems before they arose. She recognized it in herself too, in how she ran her business, how she approached relationships.

"Did you decide if you'll come to match?" he asked, focusing on stirring the sauce.

The question caught her off guard. "I... hadn't thought about it. Should I?"

"Only if you want," he said quickly. "No pressure. But I can arrange ticket. Good seat."

"I'd like that," she decided, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "Magi offered to sit with me, actually. Said the first match can be overwhelming."

His expression brightened visibly. "This is good! She will explain everything."

"Hopefully she can explain why grown men fall down clutching their legs when barely touched," Rabia teased.

Ibou gasped in mock offense. "This is football slander! In my own kitchen!"

"Our kitchen," she corrected automatically, then froze, realizing the casual claim she'd just staked.

Instead of awkwardness, his face softened. "Yes. Our kitchen."

They ate at the kitchen island rather than the formal dining room, the pasta simple but delicious. Conversation flowed more easily than it had before, perhaps because of their separate experiences today – her with Magi, him with training – giving them new things to share, new perspectives to offer.

"Magi mentioned something interesting," Rabia ventured as they finished eating. "She said you and I are both overthinkers. That we probably spend too much time analyzing and not enough time just... being."

"Mo says same thing," Ibou nodded, seeming unsurprised. "Says I prepare too much for life. That some things cannot be tactically planned."

"Like arranged marriages?" she suggested with a wry smile.

"Exactly like arranged marriages," he agreed. "Though imam did good scouting, I think."

That made her laugh – the football metaphor perfectly capturing their situation. "Excellent transfer window strategy."

After dinner, they fell into a comfortable routine – Rabia insisted on washing dishes since he'd cooked, while Ibou made tea. They settled in the living room afterward, the evening stretching before them with no particular plans.

"Magi also mentioned I should see where you work," she said, curling up on the sofa with her tea. "Is there a way to tour Anfield when it's not match day?"

The question clearly delighted him. "Of course! I can arrange private tour. Show you everything – training facilities, locker room, pitch."

"I'd like that," she said, finding it was true. Understanding his world seemed important, even if football itself held little inherent interest for her.

"Tomorrow after match, maybe? If not too tired?"

"Sure, though shouldn't you rest after playing?"

"Light movement is good," he assured her. "Prevents stiffness."

They spent the evening making plans for the weekend – the match, the tour, perhaps exploring Liverpool a bit if weather permitted. It felt surprisingly normal, this domestic planning, this carving out of shared experiences.

Later, as they prepared for bed, Rabia found herself watching Ibou's reflection in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. There was something endearing about seeing this side of him – not the polished professional athlete or the formal groom, but just a man in pajama pants with toothpaste foam on his lip.

"What?" he asked, catching her gaze in the mirror.

"Nothing," she said, then decided on honesty. "Just... this is nice. The everyday things. They're making this feel more real somehow."

He rinsed and considered her words. "Real is good?"

"Real is good," she confirmed. "Better than the strange limbo of 'married but not quite' that we've been in."

Understanding dawned in his eyes. "We find our way," he said quietly. "No rush, but no standing still either."

"Exactly."

That night, as they settled under the covers with their usual careful distance, something felt different. Not a dramatic change, but a subtle shift – like pieces of a puzzle slowly moving into alignment, not quite fitting yet, but getting closer.

Progress wasn't always grand gestures or passionate declarations. Sometimes it was sharing pasta at a kitchen island, making weekend plans, or simply acknowledging that reality – with all its mundane moments and awkward adjustments – was better than any artificial perfection.

Small steps, but deliberate ones. Moving forward together.

Rabia had expected noise, crowds, perhaps some aggression — the stereotypical football atmosphere she'd seen in movies. Instead, what struck her first was the reverence. Fans in red filing into the stadium with something like pilgrimage in their movements, scarves held aloft, voices joining in songs she didn't recognize but felt the power of nonetheless.

"It's something, isn't it?" Magi said beside her, guiding her through the VIP entrance. "First time I came, I actually cried. Mo still teases me about it."

"It's... not what I expected," Rabia admitted, unable to stop herself from taking photos of everything—the pitch emerging like an impossible emerald as they entered their section, the stands filling with rivers of red, the massive scoreboards, the intense focus on the players warming up below.

Their seats were perfect — not too ostentatious in a private box, but excellent views in a section clearly reserved for players' families. Magi introduced her to a few other wives and girlfriends who welcomed her warmly but without fuss, respecting the overwhelmed look that must have been evident on her face.

"Don't worry about remembering everyone today," Magi murmured. "There's time for that. Just enjoy the experience."

Rabia nodded gratefully, her phone constantly in hand, capturing everything. She'd been careful with social media since posting their wedding photos—a decision that had resulted in an explosion of new followers and messages ranging from congratulatory to invasive. Today she was taking photos just for herself, to remember this first.

On the pitch, she spotted Ibou among the warming-up players, his tall frame unmistakable even at this distance. Something fluttered in her chest watching him — pride, perhaps, or simple recognition that this man who kissed her forehead each morning was about to perform for thousands.

"They're quite good, you know," an elderly gentleman said from the seat behind her, noticing her focused attention. "Your Ibou especially. Rock solid at the back."

"Thank you," she replied, uncertain how else to respond to this casual assessment of her husband's professional abilities.

"We were all quite happy to see the wedding photos," the man continued with genuine warmth. "Lovely couple. About time he settled down with someone special."

It was such a normal conversation — the kind any new spouse might have with a well-wisher — yet in this context, from a complete stranger, it reminded Rabia of her new public-adjacent status. The wedding photos she'd posted had apparently been widely shared among Liverpool supporters, who now felt a distant familiar connection to her.

"Liverpool fans are quite protective of their players," Magi explained later, seemingly reading her thoughts. "Especially the ones like Ibou and Mo who represent their values off the pitch too. Faith, family, work ethic — it resonates here."

As the match began, Rabia found herself drawn in despite her limited understanding of the game's nuances. Magi proved an excellent guide, explaining key moments without overwhelming her with details, pointing out Ibou's specific responsibilities in defense.

"Watch how he organizes the line," she suggested as Manchester City mounted an attack. "He's constantly communicating, positioning everyone."

Sure enough, Rabia could see Ibou directing traffic, pointing, shifting slightly, making minute adjustments that somehow neutralized the threat. It was like watching a chess master anticipate moves three steps ahead — analytical, precise, intelligent.

Just like he was at home, she realized. The defender mindset Ibou had mentioned — always preparing, always careful — wasn't just his football identity. It was simply him.

When he made a crucial tackle that had the crowd erupting in approval, Rabia found herself on her feet cheering without even realizing she'd stood. Magi caught her eye with knowing amusement.

"Happens to all of us," she laughed. "One minute you're just being supportive, the next you're screaming about offside traps."

The atmosphere built as the match progressed, Liverpool taking the lead, then City equalizing, tension mounting with each passing minute. Rabia found herself genuinely invested, stomach knotting with anxiety during dangerous moments, breath catching when Liverpool attacked.

"Is it always this stressful?" she asked during a brief lull.

"Always," Magi confirmed. "You never get used to it. Mo plays hundreds of matches, and I still feel sick with nerves every time."

In the eighty-third minute, with the score still level, Ibou rose highest at a corner kick, his powerful header sending the ball crashing into the net. The stadium exploded, a wall of noise that Rabia felt physically, vibrating through her body.

Without thinking, she grabbed Magi in a tight hug, both of them jumping and screaming. Around them, complete strangers were embracing, crying, celebrating as if a war had been won rather than a point scored in a game.

"That's his first goal this season!" Magi exclaimed, her voice barely audible over the continuing roar. "What perfect timing!"

Rabia couldn't stop smiling, her heart racing with vicarious joy. On the pitch, Ibou was being mobbed by teammates, his usual composure replaced by pure elation. She captured the moment on her phone, wanting to preserve this image of her normally controlled husband in a moment of unbridled celebration.

When the final whistle blew — Liverpool 2, Manchester City 1 — the release of collective tension was palpable. Rabia found herself exhausted just from watching, from the emotional investment she hadn't expected to make.

"So?" Magi asked as they gathered their things, preparing to head to the family lounge where they would meet the players after their media duties. "What did you think?"

"I think I understand why people care so much now," Rabia admitted. "It's not just a game, is it?"

"Not here," Magi agreed, gesturing to the still-singing fans slowly filing out. "Not to them."

The family lounge was another new experience —children running around excitedly, partners waiting with varying degrees of patience, staff ensuring everything ran smoothly. Rabia found herself hanging back slightly, still uncertain of her place in this established community.

"Mrs. Konaté?"

She turned to find a club staff member approaching with a smile.

"Ibou asked me to show you to a slightly quieter area," he explained. "He thought you might be overwhelmed by all this on your first visit."

The thoughtfulness of it — Ibou anticipating her discomfort even in his moment of triumph — touched her deeply. The staff member led her to a smaller side room where a few other people waited, mostly older family members who similarly seemed to appreciate the calmer environment.

When Ibou finally appeared, hair still damp from his shower, he scanned the room immediately, his face lighting up when he spotted her. He moved toward her with purpose, seeming to forget anyone else was present.

"You came," he said simply, as if her presence was the real victory of the day.

"Of course I did," she replied, suddenly shy under his intense focus. "Congratulations on your goal. It was incredible."

"You saw?" His smile widened, impossibly boyish for someone of his stature.

"The whole stadium saw," she teased. "We all went a bit mad, actually."

"We?" He raised an eyebrow, clearly pleased.

"I may have caught the football fever," she admitted. "Temporarily."

He laughed, the sound rich with genuine happiness. For a moment they just looked at each other, sharing something new and undefined — a joy that belonged to both of them, experienced from different perspectives but connected nonetheless.

Then, with a glance around to ensure they weren't creating a spectacle, Ibou bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead — their now-familiar greeting. But then, he added a gentle kiss to each cheek, lingering just a fraction longer than usual.

"Thank you for coming," he murmured. "It means... a lot."

The simple sincerity in his voice, the warmth in his eyes — it created a flutter in Rabia's chest that had nothing to do with football excitement and everything to do with the man standing before her.

"I'm glad I did," she said softly. "Though fair warning, I took about three hundred photos and will probably require detailed explanations of at least half the things I saw today."

"Deal," he agreed immediately. "Full tactical breakdown later. But there's someone I want you to meet," Ibou said as they navigated the stadium corridors, his hand a gentle presence at the small of her back. "Many someones, actually."

Rabia felt a flutter of nervous anticipation. "Your teammates?"

He nodded, looking slightly anxious himself. "Is important. They are like family."

She understood then – this wasn't just casual introductions. These were people who mattered to Ibou, whose approval and acceptance would impact their daily lives.

"Lead the way," she said, straightening her hijab slightly and squaring her shoulders. First impressions mattered.

The players' lounge was less chaotic than the family area, with teammates gathered in small groups, some with partners and children, others clustered around a table laden with food. The atmosphere was relaxed but energetic – the satisfied exhaustion of men who had accomplished something difficult together.

"Ibou!" A tall player with an impressive beard approached them first, clapping her husband on the shoulder. "Man of the match! And this must be the famous Rabia."

"Virgil," Ibou made the introduction, "my wife, Rabia. Rabia, this is Virgil van Dijk, our captain."

"The defender who taught my husband everything he knows?" she responded with a smile, recalling details from Ibou's many tactical explanations.

Virgil laughed appreciatively. "I like her already, Ibou. She knows who the real talent is in our backline."

"Do not encourage his ego," Ibou groaned. "Is already too big since he became captain."

The easy banter between them gave Rabia a glimpse into their relationship – respectful but comfortable, the kind of friendship forged through shared challenges and triumphs.

"Welcome to the madhouse," Virgil said warmly. "If you need anything at all, let me know."

"Thank you," Rabia replied, genuinely touched by the sincere offer.

One by one, Ibou introduced her to his teammates. Trent, the local boy with a cheeky grin who immediately proclaimed himself "the cool uncle when you two have kids." Mo and Magi, reuniting with them with the ease of established friendship. The manager, Arne Slot, offering a thanks for "supporting Ibou through this important season."

What struck Rabia most wasn't just the welcome she received, but the clear respect everyone had for Ibou. There were no inappropriate comments or suggestive looks, no assumptions about their relationship – just genuine pleasure at meeting the woman their teammate had married.

"Your Mo had something to do with this, I think," she whispered to Magi during a brief moment alone as Ibou was pulled into a conversation with Slot.

"Perhaps a small warning went out," Magi admitted with a smile. "But honestly, these are good men. They understand faith and family better than most teams."

A younger player approached them – the striker who'd scored Liverpool's first goal, Rabia recalled.

"Mrs. Konaté," he greeted her in careful French. "Je suis très heureux de vous rencontrer."

"Merci," she replied, pleasantly surprised. "Your French is quite good."

"Ibou has been teaching me," he explained, switching back to English with a shy smile. "Said it would help my game to understand his callouts better."

This small revelation – that Ibou took time to teach a younger teammate, that he spoke about her enough for the boy to know French would please her – warmed her unexpectedly.

Across the room, she caught Ibou watching her, a mixture of pride and nervousness in his expression. She gave him a small thumbs up, and the relief that washed over his face was almost comical.

"He was terrified we'd scare you off," Trent confided, appearing at her elbow with a plate of food. "Made us all promise to be on our best behavior. No football stories involving swearing or injuries."

"Really?" she laughed, glancing back at Ibou who was now deep in conversation with Mo but still stealing glances her way.

"Oh yeah. Gave us a proper team talk about it yesterday. 'My wife is coming tomorrow. She is intelligent and cultured. Do not embarrass me with your terrible jokes.'" Trent's impression of Ibou's accent was terrible but endearing.

"He said that?" The thought of Ibou preparing his teammates to meet her, just as carefully as he prepared for matches, sent another wave of warmth through her chest.

"More or less. He really wants you to feel welcome." Trent's usually playful expression turned more sincere. "We all do. Ibou's one of the good ones."

"I'm beginning to see that," she said softly.

Eventually, Ibou made his way back to her side. "Everything okay?" he asked quietly. "Not too overwhelming?"

"Everything's perfect," she assured him. "Your teammates are lovely."

"They are on best behavior," he said suspiciously. "Especially Trent. What did he say to you?"

"Only nice things," she promised. "Though his impression of your accent needs work."

Ibou groaned. "He did not."

"He did," she confirmed with a laugh. "But it was quite sweet, actually."

As the gathering began to wind down, Rabia found herself in conversation with several of the partners – discussing everything from Liverpool's best restaurants to reliable home services. There was no interrogation about her background or relationship, no judgment about her arranged marriage – just practical welcome and genuine inclusion.

"Ready to go?" Ibou asked eventually, appearing at her side. "Or you want to stay longer?"

"I think I'm ready," she admitted. The day had been wonderful but exhausting – full of new experiences, new people, new emotions.

As they said their goodbyes, Rabia was struck by how natural it felt already – this integration into Ibou's world, this extension of her own. These weren't just his colleagues; they were a community that touched every aspect of his life. And now, by extension, hers.

In the car on the way home, comfortable silence settled between them, both processing the day's events.

"Thank you," Ibou said finally as they neared their house. "For coming. For meeting everyone."

"Thank you for scoring a goal on my first match," she replied with a smile. "Setting a high standard for future attendance."

He laughed, then grew more serious. "They liked you. I could tell."

"I liked them too," she said honestly. "They respect you a great deal, you know."

He shrugged modestly, but she could see the pleased expression he tried to hide. "They are good people."

"And they clearly received very strict instructions about meeting me," she added teasingly.

"Trent talks too much."

"It was sweet," she assured him, reaching over to briefly touch his arm. "That you cared so much about making it comfortable for me."

The simple touch – initiated by her for perhaps the first time – hung between them for a moment, significant in its casualness.

"Of course I care," he said quietly, his eyes meeting hers briefly before returning to the road. "You are my wife."

Four simple words, yet they carried weight. Not just duty or arrangement or obligation, but genuine concern for her happiness, her comfort, her integration into his world.

As they pulled into their driveway, Rabia realized something important: for the first time since their wedding, she didn't feel like a visitor in Ibou's life. Today, she had glimpsed what it might mean to truly be his partner – to share in his victories, to know his friends, to understand his passion.

Another threshold crossed. Another small step forward.

The excitement of Saturday's match against Manchester City, which was Rabia's first live football experience, had barely settled when Liverpool's punishing schedule continued. Sunday had been recovery for Ibou, Monday a light training session, and Tuesday more intense preparation for their upcoming midweek fixture against Newcastle.

Just a few days into her introduction to football life, and Rabia was already beginning to understand the relentless rhythm that would govern their lives together.

This Wednesday morning, however, brought unexpected respite. Slot had granted a rare day off after cancelling their scheduled afternoon session, wanting players fresh for tomorrow's final tactical preparation before the Newcastle match.

"So you actually get to stay home all day?" Rabia asked over breakfast, still adjusting to the unpredictable nature of Ibou's schedule.

"Unexpected gift," he confirmed with a smile. "Weather too bad for training, Slot says. Better to rest."

December in Liverpool was proving to be exactly as everyone had warned — bitter winds, horizontal rain, and darkness that seemed to lift for only a few hours each day. Nothing like the bright Dubai mornings she'd left behind.

They'd fallen into the beginnings of routine already, even in these early days of marriage. Fajr prayer before dawn, side by side on their prayer rugs with the proper distance maintained between them. Breakfast together if Ibou didn't have early training. Separate work during the day — Rabia managing her boutique remotely, Ibou at the training ground. Reconnecting in the evenings over dinner and quieter activities.

Today's unexpected togetherness disrupted these nascent patterns, creating space for something new to emerge.

Rabia's phone buzzed on the counter, her mother's contact photo appearing on screen. She turned it face down with practiced quickness, a gesture that didn't escape Ibou's notice.

"Everything okay?" he asked carefully.

"Just my mother," she sighed. "Again."

"You don't want to speak with her?"

"Not really," Rabia admitted. "Not when I know exactly what she wants to talk about."

Though they'd been married only weeks, the expectations were clear — consummation, pregnancy, continuing their respective family lines. Traditional expectations that had followed them despite their otherwise modern approaches to faith and life.

"Ah," Ibou nodded understanding. "My mother similar. Already asking when we will give her grandchildren."

The elephant in the room — their still-unconsummated marriage — seemed suddenly larger in the morning light. They'd established a careful routine of distance since the wedding night, neither pushing for more until they'd built something beyond arrangement.

"Does it bother you?" Rabia asked suddenly, the question escaping before she could reconsider. "That we haven't..."

"No," he said simply, his eyes meeting hers with calm sincerity. "Our marriage, our timeline."

The simple statement — acknowledging both the situation and her autonomy within it — loosened something tight in her chest. For all his traditional faith, Ibou had never once made her feel that her primary value lay in physical obligation or childbearing.

"Thank you," she said softly.

After breakfast, they settled into a comfortable coexistence — Rabia with her laptop at the kitchen island, managing emails and video calls with her boutique staff, Ibou reviewing match footage in the living room despite his supposed day off.

The call to Dhuhr prayer provided natural structure to their day, bringing them together for wudu and prayer before separating again to their respective tasks.

"Do you always watch this much footage on your days off?" Rabia asked later, finding him still focused on his tablet, notebook filled with observations.

"Newcastle has tricky forwards," he explained, not looking up. "Need to understand patterns."

She watched him for a moment — the intensity of his concentration, the methodical way he noted timestamps and positions, the seriousness he brought to his profession even in these private moments.

"You're very dedicated," she observed, settling beside him on the sofa, though maintaining their usual careful distance.

"Job is privilege," he said simply. "Must honor with full effort."

Another piece of understanding slotted into place — his work ethic, his sense of responsibility, his commitment to excellence in his chosen field. Values that mirrored her own approach to her business, creating another point of unexpected connection.

The afternoon brought Liverpool's weather to its full December potential — rain lashing against windows, wind howling through the garden trees, darkness falling by mid-afternoon.

"Too awful to go anywhere," Rabia noted, peering through curtains at the dismal scene outside.

"Good day for movies," Ibou suggested, finally setting aside his match analysis. "Your choice."

They settled in the living room with tea and the box of Lebanese sweets Magi had sent home with them after the match, debating film options with the easy conversation of people slowly becoming comfortable with each other.

Rabia's phone buzzed again — her mother, persistent as always.

"I should answer," she sighed, reaching for it.

"Want privacy?" Ibou offered immediately, already moving to stand.

"No," she decided after a moment's consideration. "Stay."

Something shifted in his expression — appreciation, perhaps, for being included rather than excluded from this family interaction. For being treated as her partner rather than an adjacent presence.

"Mama," she answered, switching to Somali as she always did with her parents. "Yes, I know, it's been a few days..."

The conversation proceeded exactly as Rabia had anticipated — inquiries about her health thinly veiling the real questions. Was she adapting to married life? Was everything "normal" between them? Had she seen a doctor about prenatal vitamins?

"It's only been a few days, Mama," she said finally, reverting to English in her frustration, conscious of Ibou pretending not to listen. "These things take time."

"A few days is plenty," her mother insisted. "Your cousin Kidada was pregnant within six weeks of marriage."

"Everyone is different," Rabia maintained, drawing strength from Ibou's solid presence nearby. "We're focusing on settling in first."

When she finally ended the call, she let out a long breath, letting her head fall back against the sofa cushions. "That was exhausting."

"You handled well," Ibou said quietly. "Very diplomatic."

"I didn't tell her we're still in separate corners of a king-sized bed," Rabia pointed out with a small smile.

"Perhaps best," he agreed, returning her smile with one of his own. "Some things are just for us to know."

Just for us. The phrase lingered between them, highlighting the privacy of their unconventional arrangement, this marriage developing according to its own unique timeline rather than external expectations.

As afternoon deepened into evening, they moved through the now-familiar patterns of dinner preparation and Maghrib prayer, finding comfort in these shared rituals despite the newness of their relationship.

"Newcastle tomorrow," Rabia noted as they cleaned up after dinner. "Will it be as intense as Manchester City?"

"Different challenge," Ibou explained, sliding into analyst mode with evident comfort. "City plays possession, Newcastle more direct. Quick counters, physical style."

"Should I be nervous for you?" she asked, only half-joking.

His smile was warm and genuine. "Already worried about defender husband?"

"Professional interest," she corrected with mock seriousness. "I've invested in Liverpool merchandise now. Need to protect my investment."

That made him laugh — the full, rich sound she was hearing more frequently as they grew comfortable with each other. "Smart businesswoman, my wife."

My wife. The casual claim still sent a small flutter through her chest, even after these weeks of adjustment. Not because it declared possession, but because it acknowledged connection — this arranged union slowly transforming into chosen partnership.

Later, as they prepared for bed in their now-familiar routine — taking turns in the ensuite bathroom, changing in separate spaces out of continued modesty — Rabia found herself reflecting on how quickly they'd established these rhythms together. How natural it felt already, this sharing of space and time, this gradual building of understanding.

As they settled under the covers with their usual careful distance, Ibou turned to her with thoughtful eyes.

"Liverpool weather is terrible," he observed. "Dubai much nicer this time of year."

"Definitely," she agreed, thinking of sunshine and warm breezes.

"Perhaps after holiday fixtures," he continued. "We visit your boutique? You check on business, I see where my wife built her empire."

The suggestion — this interest in her world, this acknowledgment of her professional accomplishments — touched her deeply. "I'd like that," she said softly. "Though your schedule..."

"We make work," he said with simple certainty. "Important to understand each other's worlds."

Rabia found unexpected contentment in these emerging patterns — these daily rituals that were gradually transforming strangers into partners, arrangement into choice.

Not the passionate love story she'd secretly read about in novels as a teenager, but something perhaps more durable. A foundation built brick by careful brick, a structure designed to withstand whatever pressures came — from family expectations to Premier League schedules to their own evolving feelings.

Tomorrow would bring another match, another step in their journey of understanding each other's lives. But for tonight, in this warm space they'd created together, they had built something neither had quite anticipated: the beginnings of a marriage becoming genuinely their own.

___________________________________________________________

Rabia bobbed her head to Burna Boy's latest hit, her AirPods drowning out the pre-match commotion around Anfield as she followed Magi through the VIP entrance. Second match as a footballer's wife, and she'd already learned the essential survival toolkit: noise-canceling headphones, Liverpool scarf (stylishly draped rather than wrapped superfan-style), and a fully charged phone for the inevitable slow moments.

"You're getting the hang of this," Magi observed with approval, noting Rabia's more relaxed demeanor compared to the wide-eyed overwhelm of her Manchester City debut. "Love the outfit, by the way."

Rabia had put genuine thought into today's look — a burgundy hijab that complemented Liverpool's red without screaming "team merchandise," paired with designer jeans and a cream oversized cashmere sweater. Modest, practical for December's bite, but stylish enough to hold her own among the fashion-conscious WAG contingent.

"Professional obligation," she replied with a grin. "Can't have people saying the fashion boutique owner doesn't know how to dress for football."

They settled into their now-familiar seats, Rabia immediately pulling out her phone to capture the pre-match atmosphere for her Instagram stories. Her business account had seen a surprising uptick in Liverpool-based followers since her marriage became public —potential customers she wasn't about to ignore.

"Brand building never stops," she explained when Magi raised an eyebrow at her careful composition of stadium shots. "This is definitely untapped marketing potential."

"Smart," Magi nodded appreciatively. "Mo's always saying I should monetize my cooking posts."

The players emerged for warm-ups, and Rabia instinctively scanned for number five. She spotted Ibou immediately, and she was surprised at how quickly she developed a strange sixth sense for locating him in a crowd.

"Does it ever feel surreal?" she asked Magi, eyes still tracking Ibou as he went through defensive drills. "Watching thousands of people cheer for your husband?"

"All the time," Magi admitted. "Especially when they scream his name. I still think 'yes, that's what I call him too' like it's our private thing, even though it's literally on his shirt."

The observation made Rabia laugh. Three days ago, she'd absentmindedly called him "Ibou" while on a video call with her assistant Nadia, who'd immediately teased her about the casual familiarity with her arranged husband. The nickname that had felt so formal at their wedding was becoming comfortable on her tongue, a small sign of their evolving relationship.

"Newcastle's in good form," warned the elderly gentleman who'd befriended Rabia at her first match, leaning forward from the row behind. "Their striker's scored in the last four matches."

"Ibou's been studying their patterns all week," Rabia found herself replying with unexpected confidence. "Says their movement is predictable if you know what to look for."

The words felt strange in her mouth — football analysis she'd absorbed from Ibou's constant match study around the house. She'd started paying attention despite herself, finding the tactical side more interesting than she'd anticipated.

"Your man's got a good head on his shoulders," the gentleman nodded approvingly. "Always thinking, that one."

Wasn't that the truth. Ibou's analytical nature extended far beyond football — she'd discovered his penchant for chess apps, strategy games, and historical documentaries that he watched with intense concentration. That serious, thoughtful side balanced by unexpected moments of playfulness that were becoming more frequent as they grew comfortable together.

Just yesterday, she'd come downstairs to find him dancing in the kitchen to some French rap song, wooden spoon as microphone, completely lost in the moment until he spotted her. Instead of embarrassment, he'd pulled her into an impromptu dance party, twirling her around the kitchen island until they were both breathless with laughter.

"My husband is the biggest dork," she'd gasped between giggles.

"And all for you," he'd replied with that disarming smile.

The memory warmed her even as Liverpool's December chill seeped through the stadium. The Ibou who existed only in their private moments — the one who made terrible puns in mixed French and English, who could recite entire scenes from Marvel movies, who sometimes hummed under his breath while analyzing match footage.

The Newcastle match unfolded at a frenetic pace compared to the tactical chess match against City. End-to-end action had even Rabia on the edge of her seat, her playlist abandoned as she found herself genuinely invested in the flow of play.

"I'm actually understanding what's happening," she whispered to Magi with surprise after correctly anticipating an offside call. "Is this what becoming a football person feels like? Should I be concerned?"

Magi laughed. "Stage one of football wife transformation. Soon you'll be yelling tactical instructions like you've got a coaching license."

When Newcastle scored first, Rabia felt the goal like a physical blow — especially seeing Ibou's frustrated gesture, the slight drop of his shoulders before he immediately rallied the defensive line. She was learning to read his body language on the pitch, the subtle tells that differentiated disappointment from determination.

"He'll be insufferable tonight if they lose," she muttered, surprising herself with how accurately she could predict his mood already.

"Welcome to the club," Magi patted her hand sympathetically. "Mo doesn't speak for hours after a loss. Just sits watching replays like he can change the outcome through sheer willpower."

Liverpool equalized before halftime, easing some of the tension, but the second half remained a nervy affair with chances at both ends. Rabia found herself clutching Magi's arm during a particularly dangerous Newcastle attack, only releasing her death grip when Ibou made a perfectly timed sliding tackle to clear the danger.

"That's my husband," she exclaimed with unexpected pride, joining the roar of approval from the crowd. "Did you see that tackle?"

The match ended in a frustrating 3-3 draw after a wild second half — defensive errors from both teams creating a chaotic, end-to-end spectacle that had Rabia emotionally exhausted by the final whistle.

"Is it always this stressful?" she asked as they gathered their things.

"This is actually mild," Magi assured her. "Wait until knockout stages in the Champions League. I've been known to hide in the bathroom during penalty shootouts."

In the family lounge afterward, Rabia found herself more comfortable than her first visit — recognizing faces, exchanging greetings with other partners, feeling less like an intruder in this strange football world.

When Ibou appeared, his expression told her everything about his mood — the tightness around his eyes, the slight downturn of his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. Three goals conceded was a personal affront to a defender's pride.

"Hey," she greeted him softly, reaching out to briefly touch his arm — a small gesture of comfort they'd established in these early moments. "You played well."

"Not well enough," he replied, though his expression softened at her touch. "Three goals, Rabia. Poor defending."

"I don't know, that tackle in the second half was pretty impressive," she offered. "Even I could tell that was perfectly timed, and I thought offsides was a disease until two weeks ago."

That surprised a laugh out of him — the reaction she'd been hoping for. "Offside, singular. Not offsides."

"See? I'm learning," she grinned, pleased to have momentarily lightened his mood. "Though I'm still not convinced the referee actually understands the rule either."

His laugh was fuller this time, drawing curious glances from teammates unaccustomed to seeing Ibou's serious post-match demeanor crack so easily.

"You are silly woman," he told her, shaking his head with amusement. "Making jokes when I should be analyzing mistakes."

"Plenty of time for analysis at home," she assured him. "I expect a full tactical breakdown over dinner. With diagrams."

"As you wish," he replied with mock seriousness, though his eyes crinkled at the corners — that special smile she was learning belonged just to her.

On the drive home, Rabia connected her phone to the car's sound system, scrolling through playlists until she found the one she'd created specifically for post-match moods — upbeat enough to lift spirits but not so energetic as to seem dismissive of the disappointing result.

"Your music is good," Ibou commented as an Afrobeats track filled the car. "Always perfect for moment."

"Music therapy," she explained. "Different playlists for different moods. My college roommates used to tease me about it."

"What is playlist for arranged wife driving home with football husband after disappointing draw?" he asked, his tone playful despite the lingering frustration from the match.

"Still working on that one," she laughed. "It's a very specific category."

At home, they fell into their post-match routine —Ibou immediately queuing up match highlights on his tablet while Rabia ordered dinner, neither having energy to cook after the emotional rollercoaster of the game.

"Your tackle really was impressive," she mentioned later as they ate takeaway Thai food in comfortable silence. "Even that old gentleman behind us said so, and he seems to know his football."

"Harold," Ibou supplied. "Season ticket holder for forty years. Knows more than most coaches."

"Well, Harold thinks you're brilliant, so clearly the three goals weren't your fault," she declared with finality.

That earned her another of those special smiles — the ones that reached his eyes and softened his whole face. "You defend me better than I defend goal."

"Someone has to," she shrugged, stealing a piece of chicken from his plate. "You're too hard on yourself."

"And you," he observed thoughtfully, "are not at all what imam described."

"Oh?" she raised an eyebrow. "And what did the imam say about me?"

"Serious businesswoman. Dedicated to faith. Suitable temperament for footballer wife." He counted off the attributes on his fingers. "Nothing about wild sense of humor or music therapy or stealing food from husband's plate."

"Disappointment?" she asked, only half-joking.

"Pleasant surprise," he corrected, his eyes warm as they met hers. "Very pleasant surprise."

Later, as they prepared for bed with their now-familiar choreography ��� taking turns in the bathroom, changing in separate spaces, maintaining modest boundaries despite weeks of marriage — Rabia found herself reflecting on how quickly they were learning each other's rhythms. How natural it felt already, this sharing of space and emotion, this gradual building of understanding.

"Harold invited us for tea next week," she mentioned as they settled into bed with their usual careful distance. "Says his wife wants to meet the woman who's 'brought young Konaté out of his shell.'"

"Carol makes best scones in Liverpool," Ibou replied through a yawn. "We should go."

"Look at us, making couple friends," she teased gently. "Very domestic."

"Terrible, isn't it?" he mumbled, already drifting toward sleep. "Next we get matching sweaters."

"Don't tempt me," she warned. "I know very good knitwear suppliers."

His sleepy chuckle was the last sound before comfortable silence settled between them — another day navigated together, another small brick added to the foundation they were building.

two weeks later….

"And you haven't kissed properly? Not once?" Dr. Yasmin's perfectly arched eyebrows shot up, her stylish glasses slipping slightly down her nose. "When you say 'not intimate,' what exactly do you mean?"

Rabia twisted the ring on her finger, suddenly fascinated by the intricate silver pattern. Four weeks of marriage, and she was sitting in a counselor's office explaining her lack of a love life. Not exactly how she'd imagined spending her Thursday afternoon.

"He does this triple-kiss thing," she explained, gesturing vaguely toward her own face. "Forehead first, then right cheek, then left. Very French. Very... proper."

"But not on the lips?"

"Definitely not on the lips," Rabia confirmed with a slightly nervous laugh. "Not anywhere else either. We've got this invisible force field down the middle of the bed. Very sci-fi, very unsexy."

Dr. Yasmin tried to maintain her professional expression, but a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. She'd been recommended as the best Muslim marriage counselor and was uniquely qualified to understand both faith and local context.

"My cousin Amal calls it our 'three-kiss maximum policy,'" Rabia continued, filling the silence with nervous chatter. "Says we're the most PG-rated newlyweds she's ever heard of. Which, coming from the girl who installed a dating app on my phone the day before my nikkah, is really saying something."

"And how do you feel about this arrangement?" Dr. Yasmin asked, setting her notebook aside and leaning forward slightly. "Not your cousin, not your family—you."

The question caught Rabia off-guard. How did she feel? The careful choreography of their shared life — separate sides of the bed, bathroom turns taken with military precision, that careful distance always maintained — had become so routine she'd almost stopped questioning it.

Almost.

"I don't know," she admitted. "Sometimes it makes sense — we're still getting to know each other, building trust. Other times it feels..."

"Yes?" the counselor prompted gently.

"Ridiculous," Rabia blurted. "Like we're following some rulebook neither of us actually wrote."

---

Across the hall, in a similarly comfortable office, Ibou was navigating his own version of this conversation with Dr. Mahmoud, the male counterpart in the Muslim counseling practice.

"Let me understand," the counselor said, leaning back in his chair as he rubbed his salt-and-peppered beard. "You've been married four weeks, and you've never kissed your wife properly? Just this—" he mimicked the three-kiss gesture with his hand, "—forehead-cheek-cheek routine?"

Ibou rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit he couldn't seem to shake. "Correct. Just forehead and cheeks. Is respectful, yes?"

"Respect is excellent," Dr. Mahmoud nodded. "Essential, even. But I'm curious what's holding you back from more... traditional expressions of affection?"

The question hung in the air between them. What was holding him back? Not lack of interest — Allah knew that wasn't the problem. Every morning when Rabia emerged from the bathroom, hijab freshly arranged, eyes bright with the day's possibilities, it took genuine effort not to cross that invisible boundary they'd established.

"Want to do right by her," he finally said. "Not rush. Not pressure. She didn't choose me, not really."

Understanding dawned in the counselor's eyes. "You're concerned about consent in an arranged marriage."

"Yes," Ibou admitted, relieved at having his jumbled feelings so precisely articulated. "She agreed to marriage, but not specifically to me. Just to suitable match."

"Have you discussed this with her directly?"

"Not exactly," Ibou shifted uncomfortably. "We talk around it. Make jokes sometimes. Never directly."

"And are you attracted to your wife, Ibou?"

The question was asked without judgment, but Ibou felt his ears burning nonetheless. "She is beautiful," he said simply, the inadequate words failing to capture the way his chest tightened when she laughed, or how he found himself watching her hands as she worked, graceful and precise in everything she did.

---

"Of course I find him attractive," Rabia was saying across the hall, trying not to sound defensive and failing spectacularly. "Have you seen him? Those shoulders? Those cheekbones? Those ridiculous ears that twitch when he's embarrassed?" She caught herself, realizing she'd gestured rather dramatically while listing her husband's physical attributes.

Dr. Yasmin's smile was knowing. "It's okay to acknowledge physical attraction to your husband, Rabia. It's natural and healthy."

"I know that intellectually," she sighed, slumping back in her chair. "But growing up, there was always this emphasis on modesty and restraint. 'Good girls don't think about those things.' 'Save it for marriage.' Well, now I am married, and I still find myself holding back, like I'm waiting for... permission? Which sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud."

"Not ridiculous at all," the counselor assured her. "Many women from conservative backgrounds struggle with this transition. You've spent years building mental boundaries around physical desire, and those don't automatically disappear with a marriage certificate."

Rabia nodded, relieved at being understood without judgment. "Plus, we didn't choose each other in the traditional sense. Sometimes I wonder if Ibou would have picked me if given complete freedom of choice. If he's holding back because he's... settling, in a way."

"Have you asked him?"

"Oh, no," Rabia laughed nervously. "We're still in the 'please' and 'thank you' phase of marriage most days. 'Pass the salt' and 'did you see my phone charger?' Not 'do you actually desire me or are you just fulfilling a religious obligation?'"

---

"I worry about being footballer," Ibou confessed, leaning forward in his chair. "In this world, many temptations, many... opportunities with women. Some teammates, not all but some, they treat women as... disposable."

Dr. Mahmoud nodded understanding. "And you don't want Rabia to feel that way."

"Never," Ibou said firmly. "She deserves better. Deserves to be cherished, not just... desired."

"Those aren't mutually exclusive, you know," the counselor pointed out gently. "Physical desire for your wife can coexist with deep respect. In fact, our faith encourages husbands to satisfy their wives both emotionally and physically."

Ibou knew this intellectually, had heard it in pre-marital counseling sessions back in France, but the practical application felt more complicated in this specific situation.

"I think," Dr. Mahmoud continued thoughtfully, "that you might benefit from some more concrete guidance."

He reached into his bookshelf and selected a slim volume with a tasteful cover. "This was written by a respected Islamic scholar and his wife, specifically addressing intimacy in Muslim marriages. It's very practical while remaining true to our values."

Ibou turned the book over in his hands, reading the subtitle: "Guide to Intimacy in Islamic Marriage." His expression must have betrayed his surprise because the counselor chuckled.

"Everything discussed is halal," the counselor assured him. "Many couples find it helpful in navigating these waters, especially when they come from backgrounds where such topics aren't openly discussed."

---

Across the hall, Rabia was staring wide-eyed at an identical book in her hands, having just flipped to a chapter titled "Physical Pleasure: A Gift to Be Shared."

"We can do this?" she whispered, eyes scanning a particularly detailed section about foreplay. "All of this is... allowed?"

Dr. Yasmin nodded, her expression kind but matter-of-fact. "Everything described there is halal between husband and wife. Our faith doesn't discourage pleasure — it simply contains it within the sacred boundary of marriage."

Rabia continued turning pages, her expression cycling between surprise, curiosity, and something approaching embarrassment. "So he's supposed to... touch me? In all these places?"

"Foreplay is not just permitted in Islam, it's encouraged," the counselor explained. "The Prophet, peace be upon him, emphasized the importance of a husband ensuring his wife's satisfaction. Many hadith speak to this directly."

This was revelatory information to Rabia, whose sexual education had consisted primarily of warnings about what not to do rather than guidance on what was permissible and even celebrated within marriage.

"My mother never mentioned any of this," she murmured, still processing.

"Many mothers don't," Dr. Yasmin acknowledged. "Cultural taboos often override religious teachings in this area, unfortunately. It's one reason books like this exist — to realign our understanding with what our faith actually teaches rather than cultural restrictions that have been added over time."

---

"The book explains everything much better than I could," Dr. Mahmoud was telling Ibou. "But I want to emphasize one point: communication is essential. All the knowledge in the world won't help if you and Rabia aren't talking openly about your needs, boundaries, and desires."

Ibou nodded, already feeling somewhat overwhelmed by the direct nature of the conversation. On the pitch, he was confident, decisive — a leader organizing the defensive line with clear communication. In this realm, he felt like a rookie facing his first Champions League final.

"What if she's not ready?" he asked, the question that had been circling his mind for weeks finally finding voice.

"Then you continue to wait," the counselor said simply. "But you won't know unless you have the conversation. And that conversation will be easier if you're both informed about what's permissible and encouraged within our faith."

---

"So what do I do with this information?" Rabia asked, closing the book after glimpsing a chapter titled "Positions of Pleasure" that she wasn't quite ready to explore in her counselor's office.

"Take it home. Read it together if you're comfortable with that, or separately if you prefer. Use it as a starting point for conversation." Dr. Yasmin's tone was practical, normalizing what felt to Rabia like uncharted territory. "The important thing is to start talking openly about your expectations, desires, and concerns."

"And if we're both ready to... move forward?"

"Then you do so at whatever pace feels right for both of you, knowing that physical intimacy is a blessed part of your marriage, not something to feel guilty or uncertain about."

As their session wrapped up, Rabia tucked the book into her bag, still processing the paradigm shift it represented. Years of "not until marriage" messaging had prepared her for permission, but not for the active encouragement of physical pleasure she'd just encountered.

When she emerged into the waiting area, Ibou was already there, looking slightly dazed himself. Their eyes met briefly before both glanced away, a shared awkwardness hanging between them despite having just spent an hour discussing intimacy with strangers.

"Good session?" she asked lightly as they walked to the car.

"Informative," he replied, his ears that telltale twitch that she'd come to find endearing. "Yours?"

"Same," she nodded, wondering if the identical book was hidden in his jacket pocket as securely as hers was tucked in her bag. "Very... educational."

The drive home was quiet, both lost in their own thoughts, the unspoken hanging between them like a physical presence. Rabia found herself stealing glances at Ibou's profile as he drove — the strong line of his jaw, the focus in his eyes, the large hands that handled the steering wheel with the same precision he brought to everything.

Hands that, according to chapter three, were supposed to be quite active in ensuring her satisfaction.

The thought sent heat rushing to her face, and she turned to look out the window, watching Liverpool's winter landscape blur past while her mind raced with new possibilities.

Four weeks of marriage, and it felt like they were starting over with new information, new understanding, new potential for what their arranged beginning might evolve into.

"Hungry?" Ibou asked as they pulled into their driveway, breaking the contemplative silence.

"Starving," she admitted with a small smile, grateful for the mundane question grounding her racing thoughts.

Rabia had faced down ruthless business competitors, negotiated rental contracts that made hardened real estate agents cry, and once talked her way out of a speeding ticket in three different languages. Nervousness wasn't her thing.

Yet here she was, hands actually trembling as she applied another layer of her favorite perfume to her wrists, then behind her ears, then — after a furtive glance at page 47 of Dr. Yasmin's book — a light spray between her breasts.

"Layering scents creates an enticing sensory experience," the book had advised in its matter-of-fact tone. "Areas where blood vessels run close to the skin will naturally warm the fragrance, releasing it gradually throughout your time together."

A date. She was going on an actual date with her husband of nearly eight weeks. The absurdity of it made her laugh out loud in the luxurious bathroom of their Doha hotel suite, the sound echoing slightly against the marble.

The Premier League's winter break had aligned perfectly with her need to check on boutique expansion plans in the Gulf. When Ibou suggested coming with her, extending the trip to include a few days in Doha after her business in Dubai was complete, she'd been surprised but pleased.

"Actual vacation," he'd said with that small smile that still did funny things to her heart. "No football, no design meetings. Just us."

Just us. The phrase had taken on new meaning since their separate counseling sessions two weeks ago. They hadn't discussed the identical books they'd both received — not directly — but something had shifted. Their careful choreography around the house remained, but the invisible barrier seemed less rigid somehow, the air between them charged with new awareness.

And then this morning, Ibou had casually mentioned over breakfast that he'd made dinner reservations. "For tonight," he'd clarified when she looked confused. "Seven o'clock. Restaurant with nice view of the bay."

"Like... a date?" she'd asked, the word feeling strange on her tongue when applied to her own husband.

His ears had that telltale twitch. "Exactly like date," he'd confirmed. "Proper one. Long overdue."

Now, with just an hour before they were supposed to leave, Rabia was in full panic mode, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. She'd packed for business meetings, not romance — her suitcase full of modest but professional attire suitable for Dubai's fashion scene.

The beige dress and matching abaya she'd finally settled on was elegant enough for a nice restaurant but hardly seductive — a standard piece from her work wardrobe. Practical Rabia would have been satisfied with this. Date-Night Rabia, an alter ego she hadn't known existed until approximately three hours ago, was having a full meltdown.

At least I put on heels. Small miracles, Alhamdulilah.

"Stop being ridiculous," she told her reflection firmly. "It's Ibou. You live with him. You've seen him in his Star Wars pajama pants."

But that was precisely the point — they'd skipped all this. The getting-to-know-you dates, the nervous anticipation, the gradual physical progression that normal couples experience. They'd gone straight from strangers to spouses, building a domestic partnership without the relationship foundation beneath it.

Until now, apparently.

Rabia reached into her toiletry bag and pulled out two small books that had traveled with her to Qatar, hidden beneath her skincare products like contraband. Dr. Yasmin's clinical but eye-opening "Guide to Intimacy in Islamic Marriage" and Amal's pre-wedding gift, "The Good Muslim Wife's Guide to Modern Marriage," which had proven surprisingly less ridiculous than its pink cover suggested.

She flipped to the dog-eared page in Amal's book, a chapter titled "Dating Your Spouse: Keeping the Spark Alive."

"Many arranged marriages skip the courtship phase," she read for perhaps the twentieth time. "Creating intentional date experiences allows couples to develop the romantic connection that might have come before marriage in other circumstances."

The advice had seemed sensible when she'd read it in the safety of her home office. Now, facing the reality of an actual romantic evening with the man she lived with but hadn't so much as properly kissed, it felt terrifying.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Amal: "Did you wear the perfume like I told you? The jasmine one drives men WILD."

Rabia rolled her eyes but couldn't suppress a smile. Her cousin had appointed herself unofficial marital advisor since learning about their "three-kiss maximum policy," sending increasingly unsubtle hints about everything from lingerie to bedroom techniques.

"Focus on connection, not perfection," she texted back instead, quoting Dr. Yasmin's more measured advice. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added: "But yes, I'm wearing the jasmine."

Three rapid-fire responses came in succession:

"GET IT GIRL"

"FINALLY"

"Send updates or I disown you as family"

Shaking her head with fond exasperation, Rabia returned to her preparations. Hair already styled in loose waves that would remain mostly covered by her hijab but might peek out enticingly (according to page 52). Subtle makeup that emphasized her eyes, which Ibou had once offhandedly mentioned were "very expressive" (an observation she'd replayed approximately nine thousand times in her head).

The final touch was her hijab — a silk one in deep emerald that complemented her skin tone and, she'd noticed, matched a tie Ibou sometimes wore. The subtle coordination wasn't accidental — another tip from one of the books, though she couldn't remember which one at this point.

A knock at the bathroom door nearly made her jump out of her skin.

"Rabia?" Ibou's voice came through the door. "Reservation is soon. You okay?"

"Fine!" she called back, voice unnaturally high. "Just finishing up!"

She took one last look in the mirror, adjusted her hijab slightly, and took a deep breath. "It's just dinner," she reminded herself. "With your husband. Who's seen you with the flu. Who you've lived with for weeks. Who—"

The mental pep talk dissolved as she opened the door and saw Ibou waiting in the bedroom area of their suite. He'd changed into a thobe that emphasized his athletic build, his usually wild curls somewhat tamed into waves, his expression a mixture of nervousness and appreciation as he took in her appearance.

"You look beautiful," he said simply.

"You too," she replied, then winced. "I mean, not beautiful — handsome. You look handsome."

His smile was warm, reaching his eyes in the way she'd learned meant genuine pleasure rather than polite acknowledgment. "Ready for our first date, wife?"

The way he said "wife" — not as a title or status but with a warmth that suggested genuine connection — made her nervousness shift into something more like anticipation.

"Ready, husband," she confirmed, reaching for her small evening bag where she'd tucked a travel-sized version of the jasmine perfume. Just in case.

As they left the hotel room, Ibou offered his arm — a gesture he'd never made before, creating a physical connection that remained respectful but crossed their usual careful boundaries. After a moment's hesitation, Rabia slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, feeling the solid warmth of him through the fine fabric of his thobe.

Six and a half weeks of marriage, and this simple touch felt more intimate than anything they'd shared before. She wondered if he could feel her pulse racing through the point where her hand rested against his arm.

If he did, he was gentleman enough not to mention it.

The books had been clear on one point that both authors, despite their different approaches, agreed upon completely: marriage wasn't just a legal contract or religious obligation, but a relationship to be nurtured, developed, enjoyed.

And tonight, under the Doha stars, Rabia was finally ready to begin that part of their journey — the part where arrangement became choice, where respect became desire, where carefully maintained distance gave way to intentional closeness.

Her first date with her husband awaited. And despite all the backwards steps that had led them here, she couldn't imagine a more perfect beginning.

______________________________________________

The restaurant Ibou had chosen was exactly the kind of place that would have intimidated Rabia before she built her business — all understated luxury and impeccable service, perched on the forty-second floor of one of Doha's glittering towers. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city's spectacular skyline and the dark waters of the bay beyond, dotted with the lights of boats and distant shores.

"How did you find this place?" Rabia asked as they were led to a corner table that somehow managed to be both private and perfectly positioned for the view.

"Research," Ibou replied with that small, pleased smile that appeared whenever he'd successfully surprised her. "Many hours reading reviews. Wanted somewhere special."

Of course he had. Ibou approached everything — from defensive positioning to restaurant selection — with the same methodical thoroughness. She shouldn't have been surprised that he'd apply that same attention to detail to their first proper date.

The maître d' pulled out Rabia's chair with practiced elegance, and Ibou waited until she was seated before taking his own place across from her. A small, traditional courtesy that nonetheless made her feel oddly cherished.

"The chef has prepared a special tasting menu," the maître d' informed them. "As Mr. Konaté requested."

Rabia raised an eyebrow as the man departed. "You arranged all this in advance?"

"Of course," Ibou nodded, as if pre-planning a multi-course meal at one of Doha's most exclusive restaurants was completely standard date procedure. "Wanted everything perfect."

"For a date with your wife," she teased gently. "Who you already live with."

His expression turned more serious, those expressive eyes meeting hers directly across the table. "Especially for that reason. Makes dating more important, not less."

The simple sincerity of his statement caught her off guard, quieting her nervous tendency toward deflective humor. "That's... actually really thoughtful."

"I can be thoughtful," he defended, though his slight smile took any sting from the words.

"I know," she assured him, remembering countless small kindnesses he'd shown over their weeks together — preparing her favorite tea without being asked, recording a fashion documentary he'd noticed her reading about, always ensuring their prayer rugs were positioned where the morning light would warm them in Liverpool's winter chill.

A server appeared with a bottle of non-alcoholic champagne, presenting it with the same ceremony that would have accompanied the real version. Another thoughtful detail — the festivity of celebration without compromising their principles, though in Doha, all restaurants naturally served halal food and non-alcoholic beverages anyway.

As their glasses were filled with the sparkling liquid, Rabia found herself studying Ibou in the restaurant's soft lighting. She'd grown accustomed to seeing him in training gear or casual home clothes, his athletic frame always partially concealed by flattering attire. The thobe revealed a silhouette she knew too well now — broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, long legs arranged with unconscious grace.

"You're staring," he observed, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Just thinking," she replied, their usual exchange making her smile.

"Always thinking," he completed the familiar routine, raising his glass. "What shall we toast to?"

Rabia considered this, lifting her own glass. "To doing things in our own order?"

"Perfect," he agreed, eyes warming as they clinked glasses. "Our own timeline."

The first course arrived — delicate seafood presented with artistic flair — creating a momentary reprieve from the unexpected intensity of their exchange. Rabia was grateful for the distraction, using the time to regain her equilibrium. This was Ibou, she reminded herself. The same man who argued with her about which Marvel movie was best, who sometimes fell asleep on the sofa with match analysis playing on his tablet, who hummed unconsciously while brushing his teeth.

Except it wasn't quite the same Ibou, was it? This version was... intentional. Present in a way that transcended their comfortable domesticity. His focus entirely on her rather than divided between her and football or her and prayer schedules or her and the hundred other things that usually occupied his analytical mind.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," she said impulsively.

His eyebrows rose slightly. "We live together. What don't you know?"

"Lots, probably," she pointed out. "We skipped all this, remember? The real, unfiltered getting-to-know-you conversations that normal couples have before they start sharing bathroom cabinets."

He considered this, head tilted slightly in that way he had when processing a new tactical concept. "Fair point. Something you don't know..." He thought for a moment, then his expression turned more serious. "Why I agreed to arranged marriage, perhaps?"

The question caught her interest immediately. They'd never directly discussed their reasons for accepting the arrangement, both seemingly content to focus on building their present rather than examining their past decisions.

"Tell me," she encouraged, genuinely curious.

Ibou set down his fork, gathering his thoughts. "Football career is... complicated for relationships. Many temptations, many women interested in status, not person. Teammates with broken marriages, affairs, drama." He shook his head slightly. "Watched this pattern for years. Decided I wanted something different. Something with foundation. When imam suggested arrangement, timing felt right."

"So you chose arranged marriage because it seemed more stable?" she asked, trying to understand.

"More honest," he clarified. "Based on values, compatibility, not just attraction or convenience. No illusions or games. Clear purpose from beginning."

She hadn't expected such a thoughtful explanation, though perhaps she should have. Ibou approached everything in life with careful consideration.

"Your turn," he prompted. "Why did you agree?"

She thought about offering something light, some easy explanation about family expectations or practical considerations. But his honesty deserved reciprocation.

"I almost didn't," she admitted. "I was going to tell my parents no, but then I saw your football highlights."

His eyebrows shot up. "My highlights changed your mind? You don't even like football!"

"Not the football part," she clarified. "There was this moment after a big win. Liverpool had just beaten... I don't remember who. But the cameras caught you helping an elderly steward who'd slipped in the rain. You made sure he was okay before you celebrated with the team. It wasn't staged or showy, just... kind."

Ibou looked genuinely surprised. "I don't even remember that."

"That's why it mattered," she explained. "It wasn't for the cameras. It was just who you are."

Something shifted in his expression — a softening, a vulnerability she rarely glimpsed beneath his composed exterior. "So you agreed to marry me because I helped old man in rain?"

"I agreed to marry you because that moment suggested you might be someone worth knowing," she corrected gently. "Worth taking a chance on."

Their gazes held across the table, the background noise of the restaurant fading as something unspoken passed between them — acknowledgment, perhaps, that their arrangement had always contained seeds of choice, of active decision rather than mere acceptance.

The arrival of the second course created another welcome moment to regroup, the rich aromas of perfectly spiced lamb giving them both something to comment on beyond the unexpected emotional territory they kept stumbling into.

As they ate, conversation shifted to lighter topics — Rabia's meetings in Dubai, Ibou's relief at the break from Liverpool's demanding schedule, mutual amusement at how their families had apparently formed a cross-continental alliance in their campaign for grandchildren.

"My mother asked if the English weather was affecting my, quote, 'marital abilities,'" Ibou revealed with an eye roll. "Suggested I eat more dates for stamina."

Rabia nearly choked on her water. "The fruit kind, I assume?"

"Definitely the fruit kind," he confirmed, his ears doing that endearing twitch that never failed to charm her.

They were halfway through the dessert course — an elaborate concoction involving rosewater and gold leaf — when Ibou's expression turned more serious again.

"I have question," he said, setting down his spoon. "But is perhaps too direct for date."

"Now you have to ask," she insisted, curiosity piqued. "You can't just say that and then not tell me."

He hesitated, then met her eyes squarely. "Are you happy? With this arrangement? With... me?"

The question caught her completely off guard. So much so that her first instinct was to deflect with humor, to make some quip about his cooking skills or hogging the bathroom. But the genuine uncertainty in his expression stopped her.

"Yes," she said simply, then realizing the inadequacy of the single word, continued: "Not in the way I expected, maybe. Not in the fairy-tale sense. But in a real way that keeps surprising me. I'm happy with how we're building something neither of us could have predicted."

Relief visibly washed over his features. "Good," he nodded. "Me too."

"Why do you ask?" she pressed gently. "Have I given you reason to think otherwise?"

"No," he assured her quickly. "Just..." He seemed to struggle for the right words. "In football, even when things work well, we always look for improvement. Areas to develop. I want same for marriage. Not just functional. Exceptional."

There it was again — that earnest sincerity that repeatedly caught her off guard, that transformed what could have been awkward conversations into moments of genuine connection.

"Exceptional is a high bar," she observed, though she couldn't help but smile at his ambition.

"You deserve high bar," he said simply.

The rest of the meal passed in a pleasant blur of excellent food and increasingly comfortable conversation. By the time they stepped out of the restaurant into the warm Doha night, something had shifted between them — a new ease, a shared understanding that hadn't existed before.

Instead of heading directly to the elevators, Ibou nodded toward the observation deck that wrapped around the building. "Walk? View is better at night."

Rabia nodded, and they strolled together along the glass-enclosed pathway, the city spread beneath them like a carpet of jewels. Without conscious thought, she found herself moving closer to him, their arms occasionally brushing in a way that sent small currents of awareness through her.

"Thank you for tonight," she said softly as they paused to admire a particularly spectacular vista. "It was perfect."

"Not over yet," he reminded her, his voice equally quiet.

The simple statement hung between them, charged with possibilities neither had openly acknowledged. The books, the counseling sessions, the growing awareness between them — all creating a foundation for whatever came next.

"No," she agreed, gathering her courage to look up at him directly. "Not over yet."

Ibou turned toward her, his expression a mixture of determination and uncertainty that she imagined mirrored her own. "Rabia," he began, then seemed to reconsider whatever he'd planned to say.

Instead, he reached out slowly, giving her plenty of time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair that had escaped her hijab back behind her ear. The simple touch — so ordinary in most relationships, so extraordinary in theirs — sent a shiver through her that had nothing to do with the air-conditioned observation deck.

"Cold?" he asked immediately, misinterpreting her reaction.

"Not cold," she managed, finding her voice despite the sudden dryness in her throat. "Definitely not cold."

Understanding dawned in his eyes, followed by something that looked remarkably like hope. His hand, which had retreated after fixing her hair, returned to gently cup her cheek, thumb brushing her skin with exquisite care.

For a moment, Rabia thought he might kiss her properly — his gaze briefly dropping to her lips before returning to her eyes. The public setting of the observation deck seemed to register then, reminding them both of their surroundings in conservative Doha. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, then to each cheek in their now-familiar pattern.

But this time, each kiss felt different — imbued with new meaning, with intention, with promise for more when they were in a more private setting. The triple-kiss that had become their ritual transformed from polite greeting to something that felt like a placeholder for desires not yet expressed.

When he pulled back, his eyes held hers with unmistakable meaning. "When you're ready," he said softly. "When we're somewhere more private. If you want."

Six and a half weeks of marriage, and her husband was asking permission for their first real kiss — not demanding it here and now, but offering the possibility for later, respecting both her comfort and their surroundings.

"I want," she confirmed quietly, her usual eloquence deserting her.

Ibou's smile in response was worth every moment of the nervous anticipation she'd felt preparing for tonight. He offered his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow as they made their way back to the elevators, the simple contact now charged with new awareness.

What awaited them back in their hotel room remained unspoken but newly possible — not rushed, not pressured, but available when they were both ready. Their own timeline, as they'd toasted earlier.

But for now, the warmth of his arm under her hand, the memory of his meaningful triple-kiss still tingling on her skin, and the promise of more to discover about each other — both emotionally and physically— felt like exactly enough. The perfect ending to their first date, and perhaps the perfect beginning of something neither had quite anticipated when they'd signed those marriage papers six weeks ago.

TO BE CONTINUED….

[football-and-fanfics]

What Happened Next - Dominik Szoboszlai

Who: Dominik Szoboszlai Request: I’d like an imagine where a girl has had a one night stand with with a guy she meets in a club then a couple of days later starts her new job at the Liverpool training centre just to discover her ONS was Dominik and just how shy, cute and embarrassed they both are. Requested by: @moondancer146 Word count: 710 Warnings: none

It had been a drunken night, a very drunken night, a few weeks ago. After a night out partying you had ended up in bed with some guy you had met at the night club. You barely remembered what he looked like, let alone you still knew his name or had his telephone number. All you you did remember was that it had been a good night, with plenty of fun and pleasure in bed, and that it was all over before you had even fully sobered up.

A few times you still wondered who this handsome stranger was, because you still remembered he had been handsome, and somehow you couldn't shake the feeling that you knew him from somewhere.

But your attention shifted when you were about to start your new job at Liverpool FC. You wanted to make a good impression at this new job, so you made sure you looked well, dressed well, and were well rested. This also meant: no going out to parties and no alcohol for a while. And amidst all that you found that the memories of your one night stand got pushed to the back of your mind.

That was, until the third day of you working at LFC, when everything came crashing back.

As part of the media team, you would be working in close relation to the first team players, and a colleague introduced you to them one by one. You were shown around the cafeteria where the team sat for lunch, shaking hands and introducing yourself. Suddenly you found yourself face to face with an attractive, dark-haired man, and you instantly knew: he was your mystery one night stand from a few weeks back. And from the startled look on his face, he definitely knew who you were, too.

"Hi." He held out his hand to you. "I'm Dominik." You stammered your own name, blushing as you shook his hand. "Nice to meet you," Dominik said politely, even though he was fully aware that the both of you had already thoroughly met. Underneath the stubble of his beard, you saw the redness of his cheeks, too.

Dominik chuckled nervously, not knowing how to hold himself in this current situation. "I believe we have an appointment for an interview this afternoon?" He finally spoke. "Yes." You confirmed, glad he had found a topic you could safely talk about. "I'll see you then."

---

Dominik showed up right on time for your appointment with him that afternoon. You were glad you were allowed to do this interview by yourself, which meant you could also have a private chat with Dominik about this situation you suddenly both found yourselves in.

Dominik closed the door behind him and turned around to face you almost as if in slow-motion, clearly putting off the moment he would have to face you for as long as he possibly could.

"This is quite a predicament we find ourselves in." Dominik smiled shyly as he finally faced you. He looked ill at ease, slightly embarrassed even, and found it hard to meet your eye. "Quite so," you mumbled, equally embarrassed by this whole situation.

An uncomfortable silence fell. Several times you wanted to speak, but didn't, but in the end Dominik was the one to voice his thoughts first.

"Why don't we start over?" He sounded hopeful. You shrugged, confused. "What do you mean?" "Well." Dominik smiled with more confidence now. "As it looks like we are going to have to work together, why don't we get to know each other a little better?" "We slept together." You scoffed. "How much better would you like to get to know me?"

Dominik chuckled. "That was a drunken night, but, if you ask me, not a mistake. You seem like a wonderful person, and.... even though I've seen a lot of you already, I know very little about you. And I would like to change that." "Oh..." You hadn't expected him to say something like this, and you were lost for words. "Please, we'll take it slow. Maybe join me for lunch tomorrow." Dominik's eyes twinkled with the hope for a positive answer from you. You hesitated for maybe a second before you smiled shyly, but confidently. "I would love that."

Writing masterlist

[enbysiriusblack]

december jily bingo: nutmeg, cinnamon, and orange peel @jilychallenge

"Candles?"

Marlene shrugged, "What? They're a great gift because people will use them and they're christmas-y."

Lily laughed, "So you're getting a candle for all your family?"

"Uh, a different candle each," Marlene corrected, glancing around the candle store, "And I'll get ones that specifically encompass them."

"Right."

Lily followed Marlene, glancing at the various candles surrounding her.

"Okay, this one seems like your brother's taste", Lily picked up a large green candle, the label claiming it smelt of bergamot, eucalyptus, and lemon.

"Oh, absolutely," Marlene glanced to it, "Can you put in the basket?"

Lily nodded, carefully placing the candle down, when a man came rushing up to her.

"I need your help."

"I don't work here", Lily frowned.

The man grinned, hand going up to his tousle his hair, "I know. I just overheard you easily pick out a candle for your friend's brother, and I was wondering if you could possibly help me pick one out for my mum?"

"Oh", Lily glanced to Marlene, in the middle of smelling a variety of candles, "Sure."

"Great!" The man held his hand out, "I'm James."

Lily shook it, "Lily."

"Well, Lily, what candle should I get my mother?"

"Um", Lily held back a laugh, "Well, I don't know her, can you tell me some stuff about her?"

"Oh, right, of course. Well, she's extremely nice, very loving, very laidback, she's a brilliant cook, loves baking especially, huge fan of liverpool fc, as am I, of course. Oh, and she's very into some show called gilmore girls right now?"

Lily smiled, "Ok, firstly, I love your mum. Secondly, I think I have an idea."

"Great," James grinned, watching as Lily began scouring the shop.

"Ooh, yes," Lily nodded to herself as she plucked out a large orange & brown swirled candle.

"Nutmeg, cinnamon, and orange peel" James read out the label.

"I think she'll love it", Lily passed it to him.

"Thanks," James lingered.

"Alright, well", Lily began, "Have a good holiday."

"You too."

She began to walk back to Marlene when James called back.

"Wait!"

She turned around.

James' hand went back up to tousle his hair as he spoke, "Could I have your number? To uh, go out some time?"

Lily thought about it for a moment, before nodding.

"Sure."

[alex31624]

Those were really good Football team headcanons 👏 I think each one you mentioned fit great with that sports team.

Could you please share more headcanons about the other characters’ fav teams 👀?

Oh, I love this.

Ok, I think not all the characters would be a football fans. So, if is not in this list, they don't support any team, or don't care about the sport.

Webby - Liverpool

It was hard for Webby, her grandma is an Aston Villa fan, her hero is a Celtic fan. Which team should she support?

What moves Webby is love, dedication, passion. And it was the passion the Liverpool fans show what make her a fan herself.

It was a secret, until she found out Donald is also a Liverpool fan. Just another thing to bond about for them.

Huey - All of them

Huey loves his family and friends, so he can't take sides. He supports all the teams, depending on the circumstances.

Dewey - Manchester United

The second Dewey found out that Della was a Manchester fan, he took her side. You know that's a Dewey thing.

Sadly, he forgot that Manchester was on downhill since 2014. He has to watch the Europa League and begs that next year will be better.

Louie - Liverpool

All the triplets were Liverpool fans thanks to Donald. When their circle grew, Huey decided that he wanted to support all the teams, Dewey took Della's side, but Louie stay by his uncle side. Donald made him a Liverpool fan, he will stay a Liverpool fan.

A bit bias for Donald and Louis relationship? Yes. Always.

May & June - Liverpool

Just like their brother, the twins wanted to follow their dad. Easy.

Violet - Internazionale

Violet was never that interested in football. She knew the basics, the big tournaments and big teams. But then, she got a sister.

An italian sister.

An AC Milan fan sister.

And Violet knew what she had to do, and became an Inter fan. Just to get under Lena's skin. That's such a sisterhood thing to do.

Gosalyn - Borussia Dortmund

One more that has her focus on passion. Gosalyn in 2017 is a latina, but her last name has a bit of german flavour. That's where she found her team, a team who's rebel and loyal.

Perfect for Gos.

The last game of the 2022-2023 season broke her heart.

B.O.Y.D. - Real Madrid

Sweet baby B.O.Y.D. has a whole world to discover. He spends most of his time with the rest of the Team Science, so he listens to Fenton's stories about a team that can make miracles happen, a team that doesn't know how to give up, and their victories can only be described as epic.

Yes, Fenton's influence turned B.O.Y.D. in a Real Madrid fan.

Real Madrid bias? Of course.

José - Flamengo

I asked an expert, @fantasticenthusiasttale, for this one.

She told me that José Carioca lives in a neighborhood in the city of Rio de Janeiro called Vila Xurupita, which has its own soccer team, Xurupita FC. He even played for them.

But, her headcanon is that José is a Flamengo fan. And who I am to disagree?

Panchito - Necaxa

To tell the truth, I know nothing about Mexico football. I stared at Panchito and said, this is the face of a Necaxa fan.

So there you have it.

Gladstone - Manchester City

The notorious freeloader Gladstone Gander of course is a Manchester City fan.

He knows nothing about the team's history, but when he found out the team has a almost bottomless wallet, he became a fan.

Matilda - Rangers

Like Violet, Matilda began supporting Rangers only to get under Scrooge's skin.

With the time, she actually became a passionate fan who enjoyed going to the games. She and Scrooge have been in many Old Firm (Rangers vs Celtic) games.

When the team was sended to the 4th division, she went to every game until Rangers returned to the Scottish Premiership.

Ludwig Von Drake - Rapid Wien

In his youth, professor Von Drake enjoyed seeing the football Rapid Wien showed. A team for the working class, who fights day by day.

Von Drake was happy to see that Rapid still was the most successful team of the country.

But professor didn't see with good eyes the grow of Red Bull Salzburg. A team born of a corporation, who denies its own history.

Von Drake awaits for the resurgence of Rapid.

Mark Beaks - Inter Miami

When Messi signed with Inter Miami, Mark Beaks flew to the city because he knew that was buzz worthy.

That's the only reason he has to go to the games.

This was so much fun. Thanks for the ask @ducktales-and-ducks, sorry I couldn't finish this one earlier.

[doudouneverte]

Next stop... Manchester

a/n: I had to rewrite it but it's okay. Feedback is really appreciated by the way

*Not my PIC*

Pairing: Chloe Kelly x Léon!Reader; Mapi Léon x sister!reader; Ella Toone + Georgia Stanway x Female!Reader (besties)

Summary:

Type: Fluff

Warning: nothing

words count: 3334

--------

London - Manchester. Manchester - London. Whatever the direction, it became a usual trip for you during those recent years. Well, dating a Citizen player while you played for Chelsea, and let's not talk about the fact that you played for Spain and her England, meant you had to make compromises sometimes. 

You came to the WSL in the 2017-18 season; you played for Everton after some good seasons at Athletico Madrid. There you met Chloe; everything was new for you, so she helped you install yourself in the country. She showed you a lot of places, and you met a lot of people who'd become part of the England squad. At the end of the 19/20 season, you moved from Liverpool to London, where you signed a contract with the Blues.

At Chelsea, everything was good except when you had to play in the Champions League finals against your sister and her team. Unfortunately for the London club, you got injured in the semifinal. Without  one of their best defenders in their squad, the Blues lost against FC Barcelona. Except that the other worst moments was when you played against your girlfriend; you know how good she is, and it's really difficult for anyone to defend against her (except McCabe, but she's not really defending).

After three years in the capital's club, you received some interesting offers from different clubs: Bayern, Wolfsburg, Real Madrid, and even Lyon, but you decided to join another club in blue, well, sky blue. But your girlfriend is totally unaware of that, like almost everyone else, because you wanted to surprise her.

~~~

Today was a particular day; the Lionesses should take a flight to Australia the next day, and your girlfriend decided to spend her free time with you. It was still early in the morning when your phone started buzzing next to you. It was disturbing, but you didn't want to wake up yet until the woman next to you groaned.

"Y/n, I swear if you don't tell whoever texted you to shut up, I'll throw your phone through the window." Chloe said with her head pressed harder against the pillow.

"Calmate hermosa; I'll check that." You said before grabbing your phone to see a lot of messages from more people than you expected. 

Maps[yesterday]:

¿Vienes a casa para vacaciones?(Are you coming home for vacation?)

Leila[8:30 a.m]:

The girls know

Ella[8:40 a.m]:

Please tell me you don't join the wrong side

Lauren[8:42 a.m]:

are you really coming?

I need to tell Chloe

Niamh[8:43 a.m]:

Sam and Guro are still pouting

Mama P[8:44 a.m]:

Jessie is still crying you need to do something

Mama M[8:44 a.m]:

Don't forget your sunscreen

Mama P[now]:

Magda reminds you to not forget your sunscreen

"Who are they?" The blonde was a little more awake than earlier.

"Just Magda and Pernille...and Niamh and Mapi." You replied before quickly texting, 'don't tell anything to Chloe; it's not official' to Ella and Lauren.

"Okay, now come back to sleep with me." The winger said, but you reluctantly declined the proposition.

"I really want that, but the girls are coming for lunch and I need to cook something," the Mancunian groaned and grabbed her phone.

"It's only 9 a.m."

"Yeah, I know, but I also have to call my sister and make our breakfast." You informed her and kissed her forehead before leaving the bedroom.

Chloe wanted to go back to sleep, but she couldn't without you, so she just checked her notifications and saw a text from Lauren.

Lauren[8:43 a.m]:

I have a big surprise for you

Chloe [8:57 a.m]:

???

Lauren[now]:

I heard someone say that we will pair together for the world cup

Chloe[now]:

Like always🙄

Your girlfriend knew there was something that her friend didn't tell her, but she didn't want to push her. When the winger finally came to the kitchen, she saw you cook with one of her Manchester City training kits. She approached you carefully, wrapped her arms around your waist, and landed her head on your shoulder.

"How can I help you?" She asked you.

"Just sit and look pretty." You commanded.

A few minutes later, Chole was sitting on the kitchen counter scrolling through TikTok while you were cooking. Everything was good until she found a tik-tok talking about the departure of Ona. It was not surprising at first, but the video caught her attention when the person behind it started to speculate about your possible departure to join Barcelona too. Of course, some fans had theories about you coming back to Spain after a lot of years in England.

You were too focused to not burn your breakfast and texted your sister that you hadn't noticed your girlfriend looking at you suspiciously; honestly, some theories started to gain her attention. She knew that last season you denied the offer of a Spanish team that wanted you, justifying it by the fact that you wanted to finish your contract with the Blues, but now what is keeping you in England?

"Babe? What do you think about going to Barcelona?" The winger asked you.

You took a moment to think about it. "Uh, I don't know; we need to schedule for the next season and wait until you come back from Australia, hopefully with a trophy, and I also need to ask Maps if it's good for her to let us stay in her apartment." You explained, totally unaware of the true meaning behind this simple question.

"Oh, okay." There was a little silence; she continued to scroll on her phone until you finished your episode. You turned your eyes off your phone and made your way to the blonde, leaving some kisses on her face, making the English girl giggle. "What are you doing?"

"I'm hungry." You replied.

"But you're cooking."

"Yes, and I finished it, so let's do something together." You finished your sentence with a trail of kisses from her lips to her neck.

"Babe, the girls are coming in 2 hours." She stopped you.

"I know."

"And you just cook the breakfast."

"I think I can do something in a little more than an hour, so let's have a little time for us." You said lifting her from the chair made her yelp and almost let her phone slip.

"Twenty minutes." She whispered firmly, just a few centimeters away from your lips.

"Twenty minutes." You agreed before leading her to the bedroom.

~~~

Twenty minutes later, you were both in the bathroom taking a bath, and she was sitting in front of you with her back against your chest. You were playing with her hands and the water, trying to steal some kisses between her giggles.

"Did you finish packing your things?" You asked, and she hummed to reply. "Are you sure? Did you pack some tissues? Alana said it was really cold there during this period of the year."

"Yes, don't worry. I checked everything twice." She replied, you wanted to say something, but she cut you off. "No, I'll not unpack everything to let you check." She prevented you.

You sighed and landed your head on her shoulder. "I'm just worried, mi corazon. The last time you flew somewhere without me, you almost forgot your passport." You reminded her, and she chuckled.

"Yes, but don't worry, Lauren will not let it happen again." She joked, and you nodded.

"Okay, I love being here with you, but we will have a lot of hungry girls in one hour, and I need to start to cook." You said getting out of the bathtub.

"How can I help you now?" Chloe asked again.

You thought a moment before replying, "Nothing; just stay there and look good for me." You said and gave her a little on her forehead.

"There is someone who's really looking good right now." She replied with a flirtatious tone.

"Pervert!" You shot just before taking your towel and leaving the room.

~~~

An hour later, you were finishing a paella request by almost every girl while you were making conversation with the citizen until someone rang at the door. When Chloe opened the door, she was met with none less than ten girls chatting loudly. You smiled when you heard the noises coming from the living room. You didn't have time to go to the kitchen before hearing two voices enter the room.

"Y/n!!" Georgia called you very excited.

"Why do you always look surprised to see me, knowing I almost live here?" You asked and accepted her hug.

"I missed you." The midfielder said.

"Me too, pequeña soldadera (little warrior)." 

"You still use this Spanish nickname?" 

"Always." You said with a cocky smile before walking to the other girl in the room. "Hola, I didn't think you would come." You said to Leila, your national teammates, well, not anymore because you were one of 'The 15'.

"Where do you want me to be? I mean, I'll never say no to free food and cooking by the best Spanish cooker in Manchester, no, in England." The older defender said.

"You say it because Ona came back to Barça?" You asked with a raised eyebrow.

"Maybe." She replied, almost questioning herself; you gasped and playfuly slapped her arm.

"Don't worry, Y/n, you're still my favourite Spanish cooker." Georgia said while the three of you were joining the others in the kitchen.

"You say that because you don't have any Spanish teammates in Munich." You replied, and the girls laughed.

In the living room, there were more guests than you planned. There were Ella Toone, Alessia Russo, Maya Le Tissier, Katie Zelem, and Mary Earps, your Manchester's players friends—well, it was no longer valid for Alessia—and there were Chloe's City's teammates: Alana Kennedy, Lauren Hemp, Alex Greenwood, Laila Ouahabi, Laia Alexandri, and Esme Morgan. And some pluses: Keira Walsh and Lucy Bronze were here because they were ex-city players; McKenzie Arnold, who was brought by Alana (you always liked her, so why not); and of course your best friend Georgia Stanway, who brought Leah Williamson to complete their famous trio.

"Now that I see it from here, it's a lot of people." Laila said.

"You even invited some people who don't play for Manchester." Georgia commented, referring to McKenzie and Leah. You and the defender just looked at her before exchanging a confused look.

"A veces me pregunto cómo se hicieron mejores amigos. (Sometimes I'm really wondering how you two became best friends.)" The older woman said to you.

"¿Por qué? técnicamente no es falso. (Why? Technically, it's not false.)" You replied before a body crashed against you. "Wow, calmate Ella." You said laughing a little.

"Please tell me you'll choose the right Manchester." The offensive midfielder whispered to you with a big pout.

"Uh, yes? I mean, yeah, but why do you ask?"

"The girls find an article saying that since Ona made her comeback in Barcelona, you could leave too." Alessia informed you. In the corner of the couch, almost no one noticed, but Chloe tensed when she heard what Alessia said—almost no one because Laia wrapped an arm around the winger to ease her mind.

"Okay, I don't know what you're talking about, but let's eat because it'll get cold." You avoided the question, and that didn't go unnoticed by three players.

After eating in a very good atmosphere, you spent all your time cuddling Chloe and making jokes with Leah and Laila about the fact that you weren't selected for the World Cup. Some girls decided to watch a movie, and you happily agreed. You were in the kitchen making some snacks when you heard someone clearing their throats. Before hearing some footsteps, you turned around to see Ella, Georgia, and Laila exchanging looks.

"Are you alright, girls?" You asked a little confused.

"Y/n, can we talk?" The Red Devil asked a little shyly.

"Yeah, I just need to give this to the girls." You said referring to the plate of snacks in front of you.

"Yes, of course, we will wait." Georgia said you noticed something strange in her tone, but you didn't question it. Only two minutes later, you were back in the room with the three women.

You sat beside Ella in front of Georgia and Laila. "Is there something wrong?" You asked when none of them spoke.

"Y/n, we've known each other for a long time now, don't we?" Ella asked, and you nodded.

You clearly remember the day you met her for the first time and the time you became friends. It was during the season 17/18, you just left Athletico Madrid to try your luck in England at Everton. There you met Chloe for the first time, and it instantly clicked; it was love at first sight. For Tooney, you met her the first time you played against her, when she was playing for the other team in Manchester.

For Georgia, you met her in the street of the city before you saw her again on the pitch, but she was very kind with you, and for someone who had been in a new country for only a few months, you were very grateful. She helped you progress in English, and she even gave you some advice with your girlfriend when she was just your crush.

And for Laila, you met her for the first time while you visited your sister in Spain while she was playing for Barça. When you made your first step on the senior national team, she helped you (with your sister, Jeni, and Alexia, of course) with everything and every question, and you both play as defenders, so you trained together. When she came to Manchester, Mapi made a promise to take care of you, even if it was you who helped her the most when she was still installing.

"Yeah?" You replied, a little unsure of where it would end.

"So can you be honest with us? So about earlier, you know we will not be angry if you leave." Laila reassured you.

"Yeah, I know it's just that everything is complicated, and I don't want to leave Chloe." You said. Talking about her, your girlfriend was about to make her way in the kitchen, but she stopped when she heard her name. She knew it was very bad, but she couldn't help herself.

"Is it Barcelona?" Georgia asked, and you nodded, making the midfielder grumble, "Why do they want you when they already signed Ona?" 

"Because we didn't play at the same position." You said. "But they're not the only ones who made offers. There are also Wolfsburg and Paris Saint Germain." 

"Why don't you come with me to Bayern?" 

"No, if you need to leave, you should come to Manchester City."

"Or you can join me here."

"Okay girls, let's forget about it; they gave me until the end of the month to accept it or not. Now, let's just watch a movie and chill until you have to leave." You stopped their debate. Before you could see her, Chloe quickly came back on the couch beside Lauren, and you sat on her other side.

The rest of the day, your girlfriend seemed preoccupied by something, but she refused to tell you what.

The lunch was very cool; everybody was happy, and the girls didn't split anything. The next day, the girls had to leave, and you had a flight to Spain that you couldn't miss.

~~~

Your holidays were pretty good; you were just enjoying life with your sister, but somewhere you were missing your girlfriend. Because the World Cup was in New Zealand and Australia, you weren't awake at the same time.

On the other side of the world, Chloe was missing you, really missing you. She could handle every time you spent your holiday in Spain with your family, but now it wasn't a holiday for her, and you should be here with your national team. Unfortunately for her, every time she thought she couldn't miss you more, Lauren James, and Niamh were talking about you.

For you, after a week and a half in Spain, you had to fly back to England before going to Australia. You arrived in Australia between two matches of the Lionesses and, more importantly, just two days before the public training.

Knowing you would come to their training session, Lauren Hemp and Ella couldn't stop teasing Chloe about how much she missed you.

At the training, everyone was more focused knowing that it was public. You successfully found a place not so far from the ground as to not be immediately recognized. Chloe nailed it pretty well; she had only one thing on her mind: finish this and quickly come back to the hotel to call you.

When training finished, the citizen stayed behind to talk with fans and take pictures. She was not alone because Georgia and Ella were following her and, most importantly, looking for you. Stopping in front of a group of girls, the three started to do as usual until something caught Georgia's attention.

"Hey, look at that," she said to Ella, holding a Manchester City shirt someone gave her.

"It's the new one." Ella commented, and the Red Devil turned the shirt to find a big surprise. The two midfielders exchanged a confused look before looking at the crowd and finally seeing you.

"No way," Georgia whispered.

"It's a betrayal." You saw Ella mouthing Being too focused on you, they didn't see their teammates coming until the shirt slipped out of the Bayern player's hand.

"Where did you find that?" Chloe asked, but she didn't wait for answers before starting to sign it. It was just after she finished that she decided to look at the back. She paused for a moment. She thought it was a mistake or just a joke until she heard someone speak.

"I hope you like my surprise." You said this after you noticed she was too stunned to speak. Hearing your voice brought the winger back to reality; she looked at you, more surprised and happy than she ever was.

She didn't wait too long before she trapped you in a bone-crushing hug. You stayed like this for a few seconds until she pulled away, immediately closing the gap between you with a lovely kiss.

"I missed you too, mi corazon." You said after you pulled away when oxygen was needed.

"But what are you doing here, and most importantly, what is this?" She asked and showed you the shirt she just signed.

"Let's just say that I have a new team, and I wanted to announce it to you before you see it on the internet." You replied.

"So it's not a joke? We'll really play together next season?" She asked like it was the most unthinkable thing in the world.

"Yes, we will." You confirmed.

"But, Barcelona, and your sister?"

"Well, yeah, I'm really impatient to play with my sister again, but I think it can wait a little longer. And technically, I'm more related to Athletico Madrid than Barça."

"I don't know what to say. It's incredible; I would never believe that this day would come." She cupped your face and pressed her lips against yours just before being interrupted by her teammate.

"Traitor!" Ella yelled, making you laugh.

"Don't worry, I have another one for you." You said before throwing a shirt at her. She made a fake disgusting face, making you laugh again.

"I only keep it because you're my best friend." The United's players informed you.

"Yeah, yeah, but don't forget you also played for them."

"Sorry, I can't hear you." She said with her hands pressing against her ears.

"Okay, now I think you need to go, but don't worry, I'll come stay there to hopefully see you lift the trophy." You said to your girlfriend before giving her a last peck on the lips.

"I already miss you." The blonde striker said.

"I know; now go and win this for us." 

"I promise."

================

[jsprnt]

Healing Hearts PT. 19 | Virgil van Dijk

Would a fresh start bring you more than just a new job?

A/N: AHHH babes, we're done with the story!! Thank you all so much for taking the time to read something I put a lot of time and energy into. Hopefully this story met your expectations when you first started reading! It's going to be weird to be done with this story, but don't worry! My (VVD, other Liverpool players as well) requests are definitely open. Please don't hesitate and send me a request if you want. Again thank you so much for reading. Love you all and stay healthy! <3

W/C: 2.878

Summary: Y/N L/N is a very skilled and praised physiotherapist. A certain event pushing her for a fresh start, as a physiotherapist for Liverpool FC. One question always being in the back of her mind: Will she be able to let go of her past and allow herself to experience new things?

"It is weird, especially since we worked together for three almost four years on the same team." I say, my arms crossed in front of me as I talk to Ten Hag.

He'd pulled me aside after the match, hugging me warmly after noticing me walk back from the team's changing room.

Liverpool had just drawn against Manchester United, a underwhelming game after all of us had grown confidence about winning easily. That was the thing about football, it could go any way- no matter how much you train and prepare.

"We could work together again, if you accept my offer." He says, placing his hand on my shoulder.

I laugh, raising my brows at the sudden comment.

"You know my salary has gotten much higher than when I was at Ajax!" I joke, smile on my face as he laughs.

I could only decline his offer with a joke. In the past when I got a job offer by a rival team than of the one I worked for I didn't really care about the rivalry. It was just work to me. Yes, of course I grew close to players and staff, but it wasn't a factor which I let affect my career choices.

But Liverpool FC was different, nothing close to the bonds I formed in my former work environments. It was a community, a family even. The relationships I had with the players and staff were incomparable to what I had experienced in the past. Adding to this, I didn't really like the vibe the team gave, especially certain players.

So joining a rival team- Manchester United was definitely a 'no' for me.

"If it's you and your expertise- I could easily make sure you'd join our physio team and be paid handsomely."

"Very flattering, but I think-especially now, I'm very happy with my choice."

"Stubborn as always, makes me remember when you insisted the injury time of players could be shortened if we went by your methods."

"I was right every single time though!"

"That's why I'm not going to push this any further. I'm sure you have a good reason."

I feel a sudden presence behind me, turning my head to meet Virgil who had just walked out of the press corner. His expression looking a bit irritated.

"There's our Dutch captain!" Ten Hag exclaims, the men giving each other a handshake and hug.

"Needed to hear what you're convincing my girlfriend to do." He jokes, pearly teeth showing as he smiles.

"Right, my wife told me about you two, you two fit together very well." He compliments, pointing to us.

"Oh how's Bianca? I miss gossiping with her." I say, asking about his wife.

"She's alright, adjusting to life in Manchester still. You know those two didn't stop talking from the second they saw each other until they left each others side." He says to Virgil. 

"Being a baby physio was boring at times!" I shrug, defending myself. Feeling Virgil's arms wrap around my shoulder as he chuckles.

The conversation ends a couple minutes later, Virgil and me getting in my car.

"What did he talk to you about?" He asks as I start the car.

"Old times, tried to convince me to join his team." I laugh, grinning at the thought.

"Oh really?"

"Yeah, but I denied. I don't like some of their players- give me weird vibes." I say, glancing at his confused expression.

"You know who I'm talking about, the punchable looking one, he looks like a super villain." I add, focusing on the road.

"The one with the abuse allegations- Antony, like why haven't they thrown the fucker out yet?" I say, voicing my dislike as my grip on the steering wheel gets tighter.

"Isn't a very easy process, but it's definitely overdue." He says, his hand on my thigh as if to calm me down.

"Exactly.."

I reread my sleepily written e-mail to my lawyer for the hundredth time it feels like. Adding a comma here and there as I feel like my screen is fogging and blurring up. I had finally requested a restraining order against the man who broke into my home, the police finally starting to finalize the charges against him at my request.

He'd thankfully confessed about being ordered by Theo to break in. For now, I could only get a restraining order against the intruder, as getting one for Theo wasn't actually possible due to us living in different countries. I was satisfied as long as he could be charged in any way possible. Then I could finally be at peace.

I finally press the 'send' button, sighing as I lean my head back against the bus seat. Alerting Virgil of my annoyance. We'd been returning from the match against Burnley, the last before some time off until the new year.

He grabs my phone out of my hand, shaking his head at my protest. His hand coming to rest on my jaw, and I look at him, trying to make out his expression in the dim lights of the bus.

"Sleep, you've been up since six this morning. It's like nine thirty." He whispered, taking note of the fact that half of the players had already passed out. Journeys on the bus made everyone sleepy, whether it was being tired after an intense match, or the fact that the bus rocked just enough to make you fall asleep.

I feel him guide my head onto his shoulder, his arms wrapping around me as a content sigh leaves his lips. I don't protest, letting my body relax as my eyes grow heavy. Fatigue washing over me as I slip into a peaceful sleep. The last I remember being the feeling of soft kisses on the top of my head.

I’m nudged awake maybe an hour or two later, feeling confused and disoriented as I open my eyes. I'm not in the team bus anymore, but in Virgil's car. My eyes darting around to see that we were parked the driveway of his home.

"What? Where- how did I get here?" I ask, my eyes moving from Virgil's form to the windows. Rubbing my eyes tiredly, not even caring about smudging all my mascara anymore. Probably because it was already smudged.

"I carried you out of the bus into my car, your bag is in the backseat." He says nonchalantly, shrugging as he pulls the keys out of the ignition.

"Seriously? You couldn't wake me up? Instead, you put on a show?" I ask, closing my eyes as I cringe, imaging the situation.

"You sleep like the dead my love." He says, leaning forward to plant a kiss on my forehead before stepping out of the car. I sigh, unbuckling myself before I watch him open my door. Then he goes to collect our bags from the backseat.

"Come on, let's go inside." He ushers, making me step out of the car. I follow him, punching in his code before we both step into the home. I immediately make a beeline to the sofa, throwing myself onto it. A sigh leaving my mouth as I shift to get comfortable, grabbing the cushions to rest my head on them.

"Hey, get up if you sleep again you'll stay awake all night. Your sleep schedule is going get messed up." Virgil says, coming to shake me awake, making me groan in protest.

"I'm just resting my eyes.." I mumble, knowing damn well I'd already be fully asleep if he didn't shake me.

"That's what you say every time, then you fall asleep." He accuses, making me sit up straight.

"Did you pack your suitcase already?" He adds, sitting next to me.

"Of course- but say, do you have any space left in your suitcase?" I ask, my eyes snapping open.

"I do, why? Is yours full- did you exceed the weight limit? We have like 32 kilograms of allowance, are you serious?" He asks, looking at me shocked.

"You see, heels are pretty heavy and you definitely won't bring 32 kilograms right?" I begin, grinning sheepishly at him before he grabs me, shaking me playfully.

"Alright, you can give me some of your stuff."

"Is this good? You don't want it to be too tight on your head." Virgil asks, his hands adjusting the buckle of my pink helmet as I hold his gloves in my hand and support both of the snowboards with my arm.

I raise my hand, fidgeting with the buckle myself, before look at him with a smile.

"Feels alright, here." I say, handing him the gloves. Watching him put them on, my eyes flickering over the white piste. Since we'd wrapped up the last game of 2023, and finished top of the table. The both of us decided to go on a little ski resort trip in eastern France.

"Ready?" He asks, looking at me as he grabs his board.

I nod, starting to follow him.

"Will you help me get up when I fall?"

He looks at me, my reflection starting back at me through his goggles.

"I thought you were a pro?" He asks, showing me his heart-throbbing smile.

"I have experience but not a pro. Last time I skied or snowboarded- I was like twenty-two." I defended myself, jogging slightly to catch up with him.

He hums, starting to look ahead as we walk up to the ski lift.

"Hey, staying close to me will also minimize your change of getting injured." I add.

"Why? Are you the injury prevention whisperer?"

"No, but I can heal them.."

"I can still feel my legs burn. I forgot how much it hurts.." I complain, jumping into the hotel room bed after showering and pulling the blanket on my body. At least dinner was insanely delicious.

"I'm actually freezing." I say, the iron supplements I was prescribed didn't work at all. Definitely because, when I took them in the morning, I'd throw them up an hour later. I had to revisit the doctor for a lower dosage when we got back.

"Getting in bed already?" Virgil asks, turning on the heating before walking up to me.

I yawn as if on cue, lying on my stomach as I feel the bed dip, making me shift towards him. Bringing my hand up to the side of his face. I caress his cheekbone, my cheek squished against the fluffy pillow.

"You had fun right?" He asks, pulling me closer.

"I did, well after the third time I fell on my ass.." I joke, soft chuckle leaving my lips as I trace the top of his lips with my thumb.

"You'll like it more tomorrow, since you got used to the feeling again." He replies, the collar of shirt moving as he shifts, revealing his collarbone.

I don't respond, my thumb hovering over his lip as my eyes flicker to his, the silence of the night surrounding us.

My heart thumps in my chest, eyes roaming on his features as my palm rests on his jaw.

"You know babe-" he begins, making me return my attention back to eyes. Raising my eyebrows slightly as if to urge him to continue.

"-everything you said could be understood as an innuendo."

My face forms to that of disbelief, recalling my words before groaning in annoyance.

"Why- would you ruin the moment like this?" I exclaim, honestly trying hard to contain a laugh, starting to get up, trying to remove my hand off his jaw, but he grabs my wrist again.

He pulls me closer my chest hitting his, placing my hand back on his jaw, peppering soft kisses on my palm as he murmurs soft apologies.

"I had to say it." He chuckles, his hand still holding onto my wrist. His chest vibrating against mine.

A sudden blasting of my ringtone makes me jump slightly, a gasp leaving my lips as my eyes widen.

"Scared the crap out of me.."

I try to get up, remembering I left it on the sofa, but I'm pulled back again. My wrist still in his hold, though not being painful.

"Stay, get it later.." He whispers lowly, voice deeper as he stares it my eyes. I lower my hand, tracing his jawline, hearing him take in a rushed breath. I ghost my fingers on his skin, trailing my hand down to his collarbone before tracing it.

His grip suddenly returns to my wrist, guiding my hand onto his chest, right on top of his heart. The quick heartbeat thumping underneath my palm.

"You're making it hard to resist- you know that?"

"Open the link I sent you? Right now!" Jul shouts through my phone speaker, making me frown in curiosity as I click the link. It taking me to a news article.

"Dutch Billionaire family caught in fraud and embezzlement scheme."

"What the fuck!" I exclaim, my eyes roaming around the article to understand what had happened. Freezing as I see a picture of Theo handcuffed as multiple police officers escort him.

I feel a sudden rush of adrenaline flow through me. I sit up straight from the sofa, unfolding my legs. Blinking at the screen in front of me.

This is was all I needed.

"Would laughing at this be inappropriate?" I ask Jul, switching to FaceTime again as a laugh threatens to fall from my lip.

"Laugh all you want girl, this is the karma you wished for."

"If I was back home in The Netherlands I'd be lighting fireworks with the teenagers of my neighborhood." I laugh, taking a sip of my drink.

It was New Year's Eve, Virgil and me going out to celebrate with the other teammates. Monet and her boyfriend also flying over to celebrate with us. We weren't drinking at all. Or at least Virgil and the rest of the players. Me deciding to not drink for moral support. Drinking did not bring the fun, however company did and it was great. Besides, the ice-cold virgin mojito with Red Bull I was drinking was enough to keep me up all night.

I feel Virgil's hold on my waist tighten, his lips on my shoulder as we both sway to the music in the club.

"This is better though.."

I remove his hands from my waist, turning and facing him as I wrap my arms around his neck instead.

"You know, new years isn't usually a happy time for me. I used to get so sad when the clock ticked twelve, like it made me emotional. I regretted every single thing I did that year. But this time it feels different.." I confess, running my fingers up and down his nape as he kisses my cheek.

"In a good way?" He asks, his thumb holding up my chin.

"Yeah, I feel good. I think I'm finally feeling positive of the year I had. It was definitely rough at times, and you've been amazing support, but I think the changes I've made lead me to the best outcome of my life."

"That is?"

"Moving here, to Liverpool. Joining the club, meeting you.."

"Yeah, I'm a part of that 'best outcome'?"

"Of course you are. I've never said it directly, but you've been the best companion I've made this year. So really, thank you for everything..." I continue, the sweet words falling off my tongue in a delicate manner.

I watch a smug expression form on his face, but his brown eyes are sweet, like dark molasses.

"Could say the exact same thing about you my love. You've been the best doctor, lover and support. Everything I could have ever dreamed of. You're amazing in every single way, I can't even begin to count all the times you've motivated to keep me going." He tells me, his other hand on the small of my back as he leans in to kiss me.

"So sweet." I mumble in between kisses, pulling him closer by his collar. The sudden shout of everybody starting to count from ten making me pull away as I admire the lights flashing. I grab onto Virgil's bigger hand, squeezing it as we all start counting down.

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Three!"

"Two!"

"One!"

I hold my breath for a moment, feeling Virgil's hand on my jaw as he pulls me in. Our lips crashing together, the cheering of "happy new year!" loud and clear as our eyes flutter shut. The taste addicting as I reach up to hold onto his bicep. We get lost in the moment, not even pulling away to breathe as we lose ourselves in the sensation.

"Happy New Year, my love."

No, this would be my fresh start.

[wjhik]

Buzzkill (Trent Alexander-Arnold)

A/N: Warnings: unnecessarily angry Y/N (ur a bitch) Y/N's POV:

It was media day. I was dreading this day. The boys, however, loved it. They loved spending time with each other, but the blood, sweat, and tears they had to put into training everyday made it slightly miserable for them. Media day was a day for them to spend time together. They get to goof off together all day. The only work they would be doing for the entirety of the day would be posing for pictures.

On the other hand, for me, media day was a nightmare. As the media manager of Liverpool FC, this day was MY day. Everything I say goes. With that comes a lot of work. From approving outfits to keeping the boys from flipping off the camera, out of my 9 months in total of working a year(idk if that is normal i dont work), media days are most important. Trent insists on torturing me on this day alone. He is normally a very calm being, but on this day, he's the devil in disguise.

I'm sitting at my table that is set up right behind the set where Cody and Virgil are posing for their photos. I ignore the lights flashing in my peripheral vision and continue flicking through the hundreds of photos, trying to narrow it down to the best 10. "Y/N, I just wanted to run these by you." Maggie comes up to me with her camera and scrolls through countless photos. "You have to up the exposure. They're too dark. " I reply to her. She goes back to Virgil and Cody and tells them they're done for the day. They walk off set and back into the gaming room with the rest of the boys. I stand up to get the next group of guys.

I walk into the gaming room. All I can hear is curses and screaming. A very intense game of fifa is going on along with a game of chess. "Trent, your turn. Come on." I say looking up from my clipboard and around the room, looking for the man I'm talking to. He looks up from his chess game and locks eyes with me. Hearts floating in his eyes, he says, "Hmm? What did you say?" "Get up, Trent. I don't have time." I say, bitterly. He stands up, noticing my frustrated state, and starts walking with me towards the set. "What's got you in a twist?" He asks me, his hand moving up my back to comfort me. "Nothing. Hey, stop it!" I snap at him, typing away on my phone. I don't hear a cheeky remark, so I decide to look up at Trent. He's looking at me with puppy eyes, genuinely hurt. "Hey, I'm sorry. I'm just really stressed out. I'm loosing my mind here, Trent." I sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to snap at you. You didn't deserve that." He stays quiet, but the way his eyes soften tells me he forgives me.

I'm back to my computer and Trent is laughing away, taking photos with the boss. "Is everyone done?" Trent asks Maggie. "Yeah, we're all done." Maggie replies. "Can we mess around a bit?" Trent asks me for my approval. "Yeah, whatever. But, Maggie, give me the SD card." I say, shooing Trent away. Maggie gives me the SD card and I put it into my computer, finally having most of the photos. The only ones we need now are the group photos, then this nightmare of a day will be over.

"Baby, get in here!" Trent yells across the room to me. Him, Jurgen, and Virgil are giggling like school girls, taking silly photos. Trent knows I don't like it when he calls me that at work. I get enough shit for being appointed as manager straight out of college and coincidentally being Trent Alexander-Arnold's girlfriend. I don't need to be accused of being unprofessional now, too.

I can feel my ears steaming and my face turning red. I simply ignore him to try to keep calm. I already snapped at him for being concerned about me, I don't need to do it again. "Y/N!! C'mon!!" Trent yells. "Don't be a buzzkill!" One of the boys says. Those words ring through my ears. Me? A buzzkill? I could've been out of here, editing the photos in peace. Having a nice cup of tea and cuddling with my boyfriend. Not with Mr. Trent Alexander-Arnold, legendary Liverpool player that doesn't have time to spend his breaks with his girlfriend. I could be at home with Trentski. The one that needs comfort and cuddles onto me like a koala, not the one that won't bat an eyelid at me because his friends are around.

But, no. I'm here. Because I let these boys mess around and have some fun. But, I'm a buzzkill? I stand up from my seat and the chair nearly flips backward. The giggles and chatter instantly stop. "All of you. Back in the room, now." Pointing at the boys, leaving Jurgen out. (jurgen disrespect will not be tolerated here) "Y/N, listen. We were just messing aroun-" Trent tries to keep me from blowing up. He can sense how angry I am. "Now." I interrupt him, coldly. "But baby I-" "GO." I raise my voice, slightly. Not enough to be considered a scream, but enough to convey my anger. The boys walk back into the game room with their heads down. Jurgen comes up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. I look up at him and he gives me a "It'll all be okay" look. I nod at him and smile.

I step outside of set to give myself a breather, as well as the crew a little time to rest before taking group photos with all the boys. Was I too hard on them? Maybe I shouldn't have gotten mad at them. All these thoughts are running through my head as I think back on Trent expressions when I yelled at them.

Trent's POV:

"You alright?" Virgil comes up to me and places a hand on my shoulder. "Yeah. I'm okay. I just feel bad. I know how stressed Y/N's been and I didn't mean to insult her." I sigh and have my head down. She's my girl, and I hurt her. Virgil tries to comfort me by telling me that she was in the wrong. In reality, I'm not trying to be right, I just want her to be happy. "Go get changed. You'll feel better." Hendo suggests. I take his advice and stand up. I'm thinking of all the way I can cheer her up. Maybe take her out for ice cream? She loves that.

Y/N's POV:

I had my breather and I feel much better now. I'm going to apologize to Trent and the boys after the shoot. Lets just get this done. I walk back onto set and head to my desk. I grab the SD card and walk over to Maggie, where she's enjoying her sandwich. "Maggie, once you're done eating get all the boys for me, yeah?" I say to her. She immediately finishes her last bite and dusts off her hands on her trousers. She brings her hand up to her mouth to cover it and says, "What for?" I then say, "For the group photos, remember?" She looks like she saw a ghost. "Oh! Yes, of course! I'll do that now!" She scurries away. Okay, that was weird.

A decent amount of time passes and no Maggie or boys are to be found. I decide to check in on them myself. I walk over to the game room and see Maggie standing outside it, staring at the door, looking frightened. "Maggie? Are you alright? Where are the boys?" I ask her, placing my hand on her back, trying to comfort her. "I think you should take a look for yourself." She says after noticing I'm not mad. She walks away. I place my hand on the door and open it. My eyes instantly fill with anger. The sight was disgusting for someone who spent hours trying to get these men ready. Most of them were half naked, the new kits they were modelling spread around the place. The one thing they had to do was be ready. "Hey, Y/N." Trent says with a smile. "What the fuck???" I question in pure confusion and anger. The team was taken back by my use of language, always insisting on staying professional. "Maggie said we were done for the day." Trent says, looking at my angry expression. "I cannot do this right now." I say throwing my hands up in defeat. I rush to set, take my laptop, SD card, and car keys and rush out the door in a fit of tears.

I'm trying to wipe away my tears with my sleeve, when I realize I forgot my jacket inside. At first, I think "Fuck it, I'll come back for it tomorrow", but then I realize what jacket it is. I wore Trent's academy hoodie, far too small for him now. "Fuck." I think to myself. I pivot myself on my heels 180 degrees and walk back into the training center. I hurriedly stomp towards where I was sitting, trying to avoid anyone and everyone. I search around my table, unable to find it. "Looking for your jacket?" I turn around to see a very apologetic looking Trent with my jacket in his hand. "Here." He hands it to me. "Thank you." I say, looking down as I walk away from him. If I look at him right now, I will break his face. He grabs ahold of my arm and brings me into a hug. I need it right now, so I don't resist. I pull away from him and he's holding my face. "I'll see you at home." I say, leaving him behind, but letting him know we're okay.

Trent's POV:

"Why was she mad?" "What happened" "Is she okay?" All these questions made me realize something. "Guys...Group photos." I say, mentally facepalming. A series of "ooohhh"s and "oh yeah"s followed that realization. "We have to do this." I say to them. They all moan and groan about not wanting to and being too lazy, however make it work.

"Maggie, we have to do these photos for Y/N." I say to her in a panic. "I would, if I could Trent, but she took the SD card." She says, defeatedly. I know she's been working so hard today as well. "Here, use this. Everyone in positions!!" I shove my phone at her and turn back to the boys who are in their designated spots, like Y/N showed us a while back. Maggie giggles at me slightly, but takes the photos. She does the best she can with the phone. "Alright, now a heart." I say to the boys after taking the serious photos. I think this will make Y/N feel loved by us.

After the photos are taken, I get changed again and head home. I stop by a flower shop and buy her a bouquet of her favorite flowers. I get her some snacks and sweets on the way home as well. I finally get home and open the front door. There she is, on the couch, looking so exhausted. "Hey, baby." She looks up at me, tucked in her blanket. "Hey." She says, so tiredly. I know she's mad at me. She just doesn't have the energy to fight me right now.

Y/N's POV:

I'm so sleepy. Trent got me flowers. "I'm sorry for getting so mad and frustrated today." I say, opening up my banket cocoon for him to join me on our abnormally wide couch. "I know how hard you were working. I'm so sorry it didn't go smoothly baby." He's so sweet. He got yelled at all day, and now he's apologizing to me. "If it makes you feel any better, I managed to get the group photos taken. They were taken on my phone, so they're not amazing, but it's what we got. Wanna see?" He did that for me? "Baby, I love you so much. Thank you. I could care less about how they look right now. I'm just glad it got taken." I say, dozing off into his chest. "C'mon, Y/N/N. Let's get you to bed." Is the last thing I heard. The perfect ending to the not so perfect day.

A/N: First post on tumblr.

Wattpad: funkyfishfeet

DM for requests

[stormoflina]

Anon who expects load of G/A from the midfielders of Klopp's system, please don't make me wild and the rants about how much I hate some of our own players and the man himself Klopp. Klopp has PTSD about the goal scoring midfielders. Seeing Dominik and Alexis in defensive duties is a thorn in my flesh. Don't worry even if KDB and Bellingham come to Liverpool, Klopp will only give them defensive duties so even they won't get as much G/A and are only going to be worse off than Dominik and Alexis. They also will have to cover Arnold's ass tbf.

I mean this has been Klopp's system for ages, and for better or worse, but even more so for better, it has worked out very well. Sure, it's open to criticism and I understand if it's not everyone's cup of tea, but both Macca and Domi knew what to expect when they signed for the club to become a Liverpool FC midfielder. Personally, I found it very harsh to hate Klopp or certain players for this - it's a system and it's a system that works.

Still, I'm not going to lie, this season I did also found myself a couple of times frustrated with this set-up. It all comes down to the fact that there are two teams I will always support: Liverpool FC and the Hungarian National Team and in the presence of Dominik, there's now a player who plays for both teams. The thing is I don't worry much about Liverpool in the sense that I know there are world class players who can pick up the pieces and carry the team on their shoulders even if shit hits the fan. In Hungary, this responsibility in every possible sense (for now, at least) is Domi's and his only. So I did have a bit of a 'now what' moment following the Arsenal game ( the one before Christmas), after his couple of hit and miss performances. That match, the Arsenal one, was especially weird, because he was basically playing as a RB, and every good moment he had was a defensive one, meanwhile his passing, creativity, shooting was either bad or non-existent. So, yeah, what I'm trying to say is that for my own selfish reasons I do also had my fair share of bones to pick with this set-up, but I calmed down ever since haha. I love Domi as a singular player and especially as the captain of my country, but I also whole-heartedly love and support and want the best for this team, and he won’t change that. Also, I do have hope that all he needs is time to adjust and adapt and find his feet fully in this team and new role. 

However, I do agree with your opinion towards Jude or any other signing really. I just don't see Klopp changing up his whole tactical system for a new player, not even for someone as good as Jude. And I mean why would he? We are at the top of the league, close to winning our first trophy this season and in for two more as well. As a team, currently this is the perfect system and even as someone, who has her own selfish reasons for wanting change for certain players, I still think it should remain how it is. Once things settle, there will always be a chance to try out new things, but not now. I just really want this team to win everything, because they deserve it so much haha.

Sorry for the rant, I'm not even sure I'm making sense, I’m tired, but even when tired I have so much to say lol.

[detroit-grand-prix]

What was it like meeting Susie? #2queens 🤩

It was incredible.

I mean, it sort of took a little finessing. For one thing, I got to the event (the talk they gave at Harvard Business School) really early to scope out a seat. I brought a small gift to give her, so I wanted to figure out if there was a meet and greet or not. There wasn't, because Toto and Susie had a dinner (with the owner of Liverpool FC/The Boston Red Sox as I found out later) to get to afterward, so I asked the event staff if there was a way I could get the gift to her and they probably thought I was a psycho but it is what it is. They said they'd try their best if I found one of them after the event, but I wasn't sure if that would work very well.

Thankfully, after the event ended, they didn't leave the stage right away. They might have been trying to, I'm not sure, but Toto got caught up at the stage door with people asking for autographs and pictures with him. Thankfully, that made it so Susie was sort of standing onstage by herself for a few seconds, so I took my chance then.

I walked onto the stage (I was in one of the first few rows so it wasn't hard, and the stage was not very high) and tapped her on the shoulder, I told her I'm a big fan, and I have a small gift for her and was hoping to catch her because I didn't want to bring it all the way back to Michigan with me. She said she was surprised I would come all the way from Michigan for the event and asked how far away it was, and said something like, "So you decided to come see Toto speak?" and I told her that if it was just Toto I probably wouldn't have made the trip, but I came more to see her speak, and she seemed genuinely surprised/touched by that, and seemed really grateful/surprised that someone would make such a long trip "just" to see her. I asked very nicely if she would take a picture with me and she accepted, of course, and I thanked her profusely and walked away hoping that I didn't embarrass myself too much.

As far as the gift goes, it was a letter explaining how much her career had come to mean to me in the short time since I'd found out who she was, and a scarf/shawl/wrap thing I crocheted for her. I put my return address/email address on the letter with the hopes that I might receive a response/reply, and I never did, but that's okay - she's an incredibly busy lady and it was kind of a long shot to begin with.

Anyway, it was honestly one of the best moments of my life. I've never been one to idolize celebrities or famous people in general but Susie has become the big exception to that.

I don't know if I've ever posted these in general, or if I've just sent them to friends, but here's the little gift I put together for her. Yes, it took up all of the room in my backpack and gave me a sore back from carrying it around the city of Cambridge all day, but it was worth it.

[the-offside-rule]

Football Oneshots Masterlist

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Liverpool

Andy Robertson - An Evening In

Andy Robertson - Silent Night

Harvey Elliott - Fall Into Me

Trent Alexander Arnold - Not So Expected

Trent Alexander Arnold - Dinner

Trent Alexander Arnold - Mastermind

Trent Alexander Arnold - Feel Better (smut)

Trent Alexander Arnold - Jolly

Trent Alexander Arnold - Good Cop, Bad Cop

Ajax

Jordan Henderson - Emergency? (smut)

FCBarcelona

Eric García - Chaos

Fermín Lopez - loml (smut)

Fermín Lopez - Just A Crush

Frenkie De Jong - Swift Coded

Frenkie De Jong - Baking

Hector Fort - Early Mornings

Pablo Gavi - Dancing In The Dark

Pablo Gavi - Kiss & Tell

Pablo Gavi - Sorpresa

Pablo Gavi - Think Again

Pablo Gavi - For Forever

Pablo Gavi - This Is Nice

Pablo Gavi - Skating Rink

Pablo Gavi - My Golden Boy

Pablo Gavi - Love Lies (smut)

Pablo Gavi - Fangirl

Pablo Gavi - Don't Start

Pablo Gavi - Fantasize pt.1 [smau]

Pablo Gavi - Double Trouble

Pablo Gavi - Sunburn [headcanon]

Pablo Gavi - Jealousy Jealousy

Pablo Gavi - Coffee Date

Pau Cubarsí - Wake Up Call

Pedri Gonzalez - Real Life Lessons

Pedri Gonzalez - Worried Much?

Pedri Gonzalez - Ladrona

Pedri Gonzalez - Smiler

Pedri Gonzalez - Little Imperfections

Pedri Gonzalez - Bakery

Pedri Gonzalez - Stuck With You

Pedri Gonzalez - What Stays In The Camp Nou (smut)

Pedri Gonzalez - Holy

Pedri Gonzalez - Baila Conmigo

Pedri Gonzalez - Duolingo

Pedri Gonzalez - Until I Found You ft. Ferran Torres

Pedri Gonzalez - Peek-a-boo

Pedri Gonzalez - Punto De Vista

Pedri Gonzalez - Come With Me

Pedri Gonzalez - Quiet

Pedri Gonzalez - Nobody Gets Me [smau]

Pedri Gonzalez - Let Her Go

Robert Lewandowski - A City We Barely Know

FCPorto

Nico Gonzalez - New City, New Faces

Newcastle FC

Anthony Gordon - Freezin'

Anthony Gordon - Uh-Oh

Anthony Gordon - The Forward Type

LA Galaxy

Riqui Puig - Surprise

Brighton

Evan Ferguson - Fairytale of New York

Arsenal FC

Declan Rice - Cupid and Psyche

Declan Rice - Triumph

Martin Ødegaard - Isn't It Strange?

Martin Ødegaard - Pinnekjøtt

Real Madrid

Jude Bellingham - When We Were Young

Jude Bellinagham - An Unexpected Gift

Jude Bellingham - Moving

Jude Bellingham - Stop Thinking

Jude Bellingham - Dorada

Kylian Mbappe - The Lights of Paris

Kylian Mbappe - Midnight

Paris Saint Germain

Marco Asensio - Jo Soc Culer (smut)

Manchester United

Alejandro Garnacho - Admire Me Later

Alejandro Garnacho - Cuffin' Season

Gary Neville - Are You Sure?

Mason Mount - Late

Mason Mount - Coffee Talks

Mason Mount - Silent Treatment

Mason Mount - Play Pretend

Mason Mount - Theatre of Dreams

Manchester City

Jack Grealish - School

Jack Grealish - Snowman

Ruben Dias - Test

Atheltico Madrid

Julian Alvarez - Feliz Navidad

Rodrigo Riquelme - Elevator Secrets

Rodrigo Riquelme - Falling For You

Sporting Club

Francisco Trincao - Birthday Cake

Lyon

Houssem Aouar - Emotional Support Person

Chelsea FC

Ben Chilwell - Baby Wrap

Joao Felix - Unrequited Love

João Felix - Fatherhood

João Félix - Pai

Marc Guiu - i like the way you kiss me pt.2

Marc Guiu - Espresso

Juventus

Kenan Yildiz - Let Me Help

[libraryofloveletters]

And because I am lucky I get two 😊 would love to see one for Jordan Henderson where he’s dating a football pundit (she also played but suffered a career ending injury) who works for Sky and Carra basically adopted her as his daughter

No worries if the ideas don’t work, do what works best for you!

I know Alex doesn’t work for Sky but she’s so stunning <333 I had to use her - I tried to fit in some Jamie but im like ?? lmaoo hopefully this is okay  // all photos from instagram and/or pinterest - fc: alex scott - @alexscott2 on insta!

one in the same

youruser

liked by jhenderson, 23_carra, leahwilliamsonn and 58,393 others 

youruser: counting down the days to the season start.

location: anfield  

view 394 comments 

jhenderson: ❤️

ynfan33: stunning!! 

user14: y/n posting Liverpool ??? insane for someone who played for arsenal 

↪️23_carra: my thoughts exactly 

↪️youruser: oh hush just doing my job 🤣

--

jhenderson

liked by youruser, virgilvandijk, darwin_n9 and 94,394 others 

jhenderson: new kit - same jordan

view 493 comments 

youruser: couldn’t come up with a cheesier caption, captain? 

↪️jhenderson: you weren’t home to help me 

user14: 😍

andyrobertson94: ❤️❤️❤️

--

youruser

liked by jhenderson, 23_carra, darwin_n9 and 68,933 others 

youruser: it’s not Thursday but here’s a throwback anyways 

view 283 comments 

jhenderson: not a liverpool uni but you’re still stunning 

↪️youruser: glad to know the clothes don’t matter 🙄

↪️jhenderson: they definitely don't matter 😉

23_carra: you and Jordan in the comments was not what I needed to start my day with. 

↪️ youruser: sorry J! 🤣 ❤️

--

youruser 

liked by jhenderson, virgilvandijk, andyrobertson94 and 83,483 others 

youruser: eu te amo 🇵🇹

location: portugal 

view 203 comments 

virgilvandijk: ❤️

23_carra: come back soon! 

↪️youruser: gonna stay away forever <33

jhenderson: love you even though you use ugly photos of me 

↪️youruser: would I be me if I didn’t? 

leahwilliiamsonn: 😍

↪️youruser: 💕

[wyn-n-tonic]

Happy Sleepover Saturday O! 💙

What's something you're looking forward to? Or your favorite HCs?

I know you're a football fan (Not American football, but I don't wanna call it soccer), who is your favorite team? I saw you getting really excited and it really made me smile big, I'm not a sports fan myself but seeing you get so into it was always a treat!

Hiii!

I've not been ✨well✨ lately so I booked myself a hair appointment with the a wonderful stylist I found around my birthday this year. She fixed my hair and helped me develop a plan to help me start growing back my hair and getting my curls back. She told me to go see her again when I couldn't run my fingers through my hair and that's been the case for a while but I figured with the lil depresh I'm in, it's time to go see her and I'm really excited to show her my progress. I can't believe I have curls again, really.

OMG, you can say soccer, it's totally fine! My favorite club team is Liverpool FC in the English Premier League but my family are all Bayern fans in the German Bundesliga. I was raised watching the German national team (die Deutschefußballnationalmannschaft) for both men and women. I lived in Australia and Poland so both of those national teams have a special place in my heart.

My favorite headcanons right now is that I think Marcus Moreno would be an incredibly snuggly, bear of a man and Javi G would incredibly needy and eager to please.

Sleepover Saturday Asks.

[football-and-fanfics]

My mom saw Luis Diaz just now, and said: "since when does Bad Bunny play for Liverpool?"😳🥴

[footballxixstars]

Trent Alexander-Arnold

Trent Alexander-Arnold born on the 7th of October 1998. He plays for Liverpool FC and England National Team

———

Blurbs

Playing Games

Playing Football

Halloween Party

Childhood Friends

Top of Table Clash

Outing to the World V Man United

Meeting the Guys

Set up Date

Cockwarming turns into something more

Waking you up by sucking your breast

Interrupting a Photo Shoot

Conversation Late at Night with the Brothers

Little Less Attention on FIFA and More on You

Trent Being Teased for Being Cute and Sweet With You

Putting a baby in you even on birth control

Period Leaking

Brentford Match Angst

———

OneShots

Female Footballer ~ Being a female footballer that catches Trent’s attention. Once again.

Teaching to Drive ~ Trent has never noticed that his girlfriend can’t drive so he decides to teach her

Once in a lifetime (maybe probably not) ~ Trent wants to give you the honeymoon that you will never forget so organises a surprise for the first day

Christmas Competition ~ Trent being competitive and the two of you have different Christmas competitions to do

Together Once Again ~ After some time of not having a lot of time together you and Trent both have a week off. Plans have been made however plans sometimes change

Wedding Day ~ It’s yours and Trent’s wedding day and nerves are beginning to build, also everything has to be perfect

Last Christmas ~ Last Christmas you gave Trent your heart and he broke it, never again

Egg Hunt Bets ~ Trent complaining the egg hunt is too easy for your kids so you decide to hide one for him

No Matter What it’s Still Sick ~ Your baby throws up all over Trent. It may be milky but still disgusting

I Guess I’m in Love ~ You play Trent a song that you wrote about your relationship with him "Don't lie to me I know what you did" - One of your friends said they saw Trent cheating on you and of course you confront him

———

Smut

Late Once Again ~ Trent wants a quickie before you have to leave to go to work so he decides to take you in the shower

Champions ~ Trent is on an absolute high from winning the Premier League and cannot wait to get home so takes you in the car

Cuddling, Sex and Praise ~ You just wanting to cuddle Trent but it escalates and he finds something new about you

Something NSFW ~ Trent wanting to try something new during sex and you allow him to

———

MASTERLIST

[sadiiomane10]

Liverpool Football Club ? No, sorry I don't know her. Marbella FC, on the other hand !

marbella is scouse city, its literally home from home, marbella fc is sunshine and fun and the lads roasting each other for being too pale and burning too easily

liverpool fc is stress and heartache and pressure, they all deserve to be marbella fc at all times bc they are perfect