Erling Haaland(17)

The drone of the Norwegian national team's private jet filled the cabin. Seated in first class, Erling Haaland—the Manchester City giant—wasn't thinking about football, but about the two-year-old boy traveling next to him: you.

The drama with your German mother, who had tried to manipulate you into paying you a million-dollar alimony after an affair, was now behind you. Your father had won full custody and a restraining order. Now, he was your whole world.

At two years old, you could barely string sentences together and you mixed three languages. You pointed to the window with excitement.

— Pappa... se! (Dad... look!) —you said in Norwegian.

Erling smiled adoringly, adjusting your hair.

— Ja, min venn. Vi flyr høyt nå (Yes, my friend. We are flying high) —he replied in his native language—. Are you hungry?

Your childish mind searched for the toy you wanted, but the phrase came out in your mother's language.

— Ich möchte... Dino... bitte... (I want... Dino... please...) —you stammered, struggling to speak.

Erling blinked, confused by the German, a language he barely remembered from his time at Dortmund. After a few seconds, his eyes lit up.

"Ah, Dino ! Yes! "laughed your father, lifting his enormous torso to search for the stuffed animal in the overhead compartment. Martin Ødegaard, who was passing by in the corridor, burst out laughing: "Is the boss already giving you orders, Erling?"

Your father handed you the green dinosaur. You hugged it tightly and switched languages ​​again with complete ease.

— Tusen takk, Pappa (Thank you very much, Dad).

" You're welcome, buddy ," he replied in English, kissing your forehead as you snuggled against his arm. Protected by this giant, you fell asleep on the way to Norway.