Erling Haaland (12)

The atmosphere in the apartment you shared with Erling Haaland had always been hostile. You were roommates by club obligation, and your relationship was based on cold stares. What you didn't know was that, behind his Nordic giant facade, Erling had begun to find you dangerously attractive.

Today, tensions flared in training. Pep put them on the same team, but within minutes, a late tackle from Phil Foden left you sprawled on the grass. The pain in your ankle was immediate. The first to reach you, angrily pushing Foden away, was Erling.

In the department

With a diagnosed sprain and using crutches, you returned to your room early. You slumped down on the sofa, frustrated. Not even twenty minutes had passed when the door opened: it was Erling, who had skipped the rest of the session. He was carrying a bag from the pharmacy.

"What are you doing here?" you asked defensively.

Erling didn't answer. He walked toward you, knelt in front of the sofa, and, with a gentleness that seemed out of character for him, placed your injured leg on his knees.

"Shut up," he muttered, uncapping an anti-inflammatory ointment. "Foden is an idiot."

Your eyes widened as you felt his large, warm hands cares for you. The usual hostility evaporated in an instant.

"Since when do you care so much about me?" you whispered.

Erling stopped moving and looked up, fixing his clear eyes on yours with brutal honesty.

"You haven't left my head all damn day," he replied in a deep voice. "So let me help you."