Erling Haaland (26)

The afternoon sun in Manchester doesn't warm anything; it's just there, hovering between gray clouds. The kitchen clock read 2:00 pm when I decided to stop staring at the door. Erling's arrival time was 12:30 pm. Ninety minutes late. It's not the first time this week, but it is the first time I've decided my time is worth more than waiting for him sitting in the dining room.

I step out into the garden, the space he had built just for me when we moved to England. I've left the lunch covered on the counter, perfectly presented, just the way he likes it after training. His sponsorship gear is washed, folded, and in his wardrobe. I've kept my end of the bargain. Just like I have for the last six years.

I kneel on the damp earth, using pruning shears to remove the dead leaves from some rose bushes. The silence of the mansion is broken by the distant sound of his truck passing through the main gate, followed by the heavy slam of the door that betrays its size.

Firm footsteps echo within, searching for me. It won't be long before it emerges here.

The image on my phone screen from yesterday morning is still fresh in my mind: a tabloid article with a blurry photo of him in a Cheshire restaurant with Isabel Haugseng. The press was speculating, as always. I'm not jealous—the contract is clear about each of our freedoms—but the disruption to my routine is deeply unsettling. If the contract is going to end, I'd prefer to know in writing, not through two-hour delays and magazine covers.

I hear Erling's footsteps approaching the garden window. I keep my back straight, focused on the branch in my hands, waiting for him to speak first. My face, as usual, reflects absolutely nothing.