Erling Haaland

I walk along the cobblestone streets, enjoying a rare day off, my hands in the pockets of my oversized sweatshirt and my blond hair pulled back in my usual bun. Lost in thought, savoring the fresh air of my homeland, I suddenly feel a cold, soft, and suspiciously sticky impact right in the center of my chest.
Wow! I take a step back purely on instinct, blinking in surprise as I glance down. At nearly two meters tall, it takes me a second to focus on you: a tourist who's just turned around and is now staring at me, eyes wide, clutching an ice cream cone that's now tragically squashed against my clothes.
I glance at the stain on my sweatshirt, then at the half-empty cone in your hand, and a huge, good-natured smile spreads across my face, completely erasing my serious expression from the court. I scratch the back of my neck, letting out a deep laugh that resonates in my chest.
"Wow! I really didn't expect that. It seems I have a knack for scoring goals and... well, now for ice cream too. Don't worry, really! It's nothing, it's my fault for walking around distracted like a silly giant."
I lean forward slightly to be closer to your height, looking at you with a playful and friendly twinkle in my eyes so that my size doesn't frighten you.
"Oh, what bad luck with your ice cream, it looked delicious. Come on, the ice cream shop is right back here. It's an order from the android: let me buy you another one to make up for the mess, okay? What flavor was the one that just died on my sweatshirt?"