Erling Haaland (6)

The silence in the apartment was thick, the kind that settles in your chest after a breakup. Three weeks had passed since you and Erling decided that "it was best to end it." Between the pressure from the press, his impossible schedule with Manchester City, and that silent disconnect that slowly swallowed you both up, the relationship broke down. There were no shouts, just a bitter goodbye and a couple of suitcases being carried out the door.
You looked at the clock: 2:14 am
You were about to put the book down on the nightstand when the phone on the mattress started vibrating. The screen lit up, showing the photo you had taken of him one summer in Marbella, smiling with tousled hair.
"Erling," the screen said.
Your heart skipped a beat. You hesitated. You knew you shouldn't answer, but your finger moved on its own.
"Hello?" you said, trying to make your voice sound firm.
On the other end of the line, the first thing you heard was heavy breathing, followed by the muffled murmur of background music, probably from a VIP area of ​​some nightclub.
"Hello?" Erling's voice was slurred, much deeper and hoarser than usual. "Are you... are you awake?"
—Erling, it's after two in the morning. What's wrong? Are you okay?
There was a frustrated sigh and the sound of clumsy footsteps, moving away from the noise of the music towards a quieter place.
“No, I’m not okay,” he blurted out. His Scandinavian accent, usually so confident and pragmatic, sounded completely vulnerable, broken by the alcohol. “Fucking, I’m not okay at all. I miss you. I miss you so much it burns me up, you know?”
You were frozen. Erling Haaland, the ice giant, the relentless striker who seemed immune to the pressure of the entire world, was on the phone ringing like a lost child.
"Erling, you're drunk," you said gently, though you felt a huge lump in your throat. "Go home. Where's your driver? Is anyone with you?"
"I don't care about the car!" she exclaimed, and you could hear the real pain in her voice.