Erling Haaland (8)

The smell of grass and sweat hung in the Manchester City dressing room. Thirty minutes into a brutal training session, the echo of your teammates' laughter had faded. You'd taken your time in the showers, intentionally waiting until the place was empty to avoid raising suspicion.
But your escape plan failed. Sitting on the bench, still in his dirty clothes and staring at the ground, was Erling.
All morning you'd kept your distance. You took refuge in jokes with Phil and passes with Kevin, dodging your boyfriend's blue eyes, which followed you with a mixture of jealousy and frustration. You knew it hurt him, but your fear of the press—of a tabloid ruining their careers—was stronger.
"I thought you had already left," you said in a low voice.
Erling slowly raised his head. His eyes looked dull.
—I was waiting to see how much longer you were going to pretend I don't exist.
—Erling, you know why I'm doing this. The cameras are all over us this week...
"No one can see us here!" he interrupted, jumping to his feet. His imposing figure closed the distance between them. "I understand your fear, and I respect it, but today was too much. You were looking for anyone to avoid me. You were laughing with Phil, you hugged Rodri... and me? Not even a glance. It makes me sick to act like strangers when all I want is to be near you."