The final whistle felt less like a victory and more like a rescue.

Jude Bellingham stood in the middle of the pitch at the Santiago Bernabeu, his hands resting heavily on his knees. His lungs were burning. For ninety minutes, it had been a total war. Real Madrid and Manchester City had practically tried to destroy each other. Every time Jude had touched the ball, a massive wall of sky blue had been there to meet him.

Usually, Jude handled the pressure perfectly. He was the golden boy, the serious and composed star. But today, operating on pure adrenaline, his entire body felt bruised.

Through the chaos of the celebrating and disappointed players, he caught a glimpse of Erling. The Norwegian striker was laughing with a teammate, looking completely unaffected by the brutal match. His blonde hair was damp, but he looked like he could easily play another ninety minutes. Jude quickly looked away, tightening his jaw.

The media wanted them to be bitter enemies. Right now, Jude was simply too tired to care.

Instead of heading straight to the loud, crowded dressing room with his teammates, Jude slipped away. He needed quiet. He ducked into a narrow, unlit equipment tunnel that connected the away section to the main hall. It smelled of damp concrete and cold air.

He leaned back against the rough wall, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Heavy footsteps echoed from the entrance of the tunnel.

Jude did not even open his eyes. He knew that heavy, confident walk anywhere. The air pressure in the small space seemed to shift completely.

"You look like you are about to pass out, Vicky."

The voice was deep, thick with a familiar Norwegian accent. Jude finally opened his eyes. Erling was standing at the entrance of the narrow hallway, blocking the only exit. Even in the dim light, Erlings massive frame was intimidating. He practically filled the space.

"And you look like an idiot, Brauty," Jude replied, his voice raspy. "Don't you have a locker room to be in?"

Erling just smiled. It was not the terrifying smile he used on the pitch. It was soft, almost playful. He stepped closer. The competitive tension that had been choking them on the field was still there, but in the dark, it twisted into something completely different. Something dangerous.

Erling stopped just a few inches away. The sheer size difference between them was suddenly very obvious. Jude had to tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

Without saying a word, Erling grabbed the hem of his damp, sky blue City jersey and pulled it over his head. His chest was heaving slightly, covered in sweat. He held the crumpled shirt out.

"Take it," Erling said, his voice dropping lower.

Jude swallowed hard. His heart started beating faster, and it had nothing to do with the football match. He reached out and grabbed his own white Madrid jersey, pulling it off his tired body to complete the swap.

As the white fabric left Judes skin, Erlings breath suddenly hitched.

The playful look vanished from the strikers face. Erling stepped entirely into Judes personal space, the heat radiating off his massive body. He reached out with a hand large enough to completely cover Judes side.

Jude froze.

Erlings rough fingertips brushed incredibly gently against Judes ribs. Right there, blooming across his pale skin, was a harsh, dark red bruise from a violent tackle earlier in the game. The touch was so soft it made Judes breath catch in his throat.

"Who did this?" Erling asked. His voice was no longer playful. It was dark, possessive, and entirely serious.

"It is just a game," Jude whispered, trying to sound normal. His skin was burning where Erlings fingers hovered. "People get hurt."

"I do not like it," Erling murmured, his eyes locking onto Judes. "You play too hard."

Before Jude could process the intensity in those blue eyes, Erling pushed the oversized City jersey into Judes chest. Jude instinctively pulled it over his head. The shirt was massive. It fell past his hips, completely swallowing his frame, and it smelled intensely of Erling.

Erling looked at Jude wearing his colors in the dark. A slow, deeply satisfied smile returned to his face.

"It looks better on you," Erling whispered, stepping back. He grabbed Judes white shirt and held it tight. "See you soon, Vicky."

And just like that, the giant Viking turned and walked away into the shadows. Jude was left standing alone in the dark tunnel, wrapped in his rivals jersey, his heart racing completely out of control.

Stealing Haalands Shirt — Chapter 5 The Video Call

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