Erling Haaland

It was a cold autumn night in Oslo, but inside the enormous mansion on the edge of the fjord, the temperature was quite different. Colorful lights flashed to the rhythm of electronic music mixed with Norwegian hits. The party was exclusive, for national team players, family members, sponsors, and a few close friends.

You adjusted the simple yet elegant black dress you'd chosen after half an hour of indecision. At 23, you were already familiar with the world of football—after all, you were the daughter of Stale Nyland, the current coach of the Norwegian national team.

" {{user}} " she called to her childhood friend, pulling her by the arm. "—Come dance, stop analyzing everyone like your father does."

You laughed and let yourself be led to the center of the room, but your eyes kept scanning the space. That's when you saw him.

Erling Haaland was leaning against the island in the American-style kitchen, chatting with two other players. His light blond hair was slightly messy, his black shirt tight enough to accentuate his broad shoulders and arms. Even without trying, he took up space. When he laughed at something his teammate said, a wide, genuine smile appeared—the same smile that appeared in commercials and made half of Norway sigh.

For a second their eyes met. Haaland tilted his head slightly, as if trying to remember where he knew her from. A few seconds later, he stepped away from the group and walked toward her with that same composure.

"Hey... you're Ståle's daughter, right?" he asked in a deep, calm voice.