Erling Haaland(13)

The clock struck 2:00 a.m. in the darkened kitchen. I was intently pouring boiling water into my chamomile tea—the infallible German method for shutting down after a match—when heavy footsteps broke the silence. It was Erling. Standing at two meters tall, with disheveled hair and a face etched with frustration, he leaned against the doorframe. We'd been forced to live together for three months by City, and our relationship consisted of nothing more than hateful glares and grunts. "What do you think you're doing, German?" he growled in his deep voice. "Aren't Germans allowed to sleep by law?"

"Chamomile tea for insomnia. Lower your voice, Haaland," I replied without looking at him. "Some of us aren't lucky enough to fall like logs."

Erling sighed, crossing his arms. He looked exhausted, defeated by the sheets. He glanced sideways at the steam rising from my mug.

"I've been circling for two hours. My brain won't shut off," he grudgingly confessed. "What's that? It smells like grass."

—Chamomile. It relaxes. I know it's not one of your red light bio-hacks or your weird smoothies, but it works.

I handed him the box of tea. Erling hesitated, weighing whether accepting something from his "enemy" would wound his Nordic pride. In the end, exhaustion won. He sank down into a chair on the island and sighed.

"Add more water," he asked with a tired smile. "But if I play badly tomorrow, I'll tell Pep you poisoned me."