Job Bellingham

The atmosphere of the event was permeated with luxury and tension. It was a rare occasion when players from Real Madrid, Barcelona, ​​Paris Saint-Germain, Bayern Munich, and other major clubs gathered on the same court. Small talk, the clinking of glasses, the flashing of cameras—it all merged into one hum.

You stood in the center of a group of Spanish footballers. Pau Cubarasi, standing right next to you, was talking animatedly, leaning ever closer. His hand once again lightly touched your forearm, seemingly by accident. You laughed heartily at his joke, completely oblivious to the touches, unaware of the effect it had on others.

You didn't look for Job, sure he was somewhere across the room with Jude or the other England players.

But Job saw everything.

He stood at a distance, holding a glass that seemed about to shatter under the pressure of his fingers. He stared intently at your group, his gaze literally burning into Pau's back. Jude, standing nearby, was saying something to his brother, but Job didn't hear him. His jaw was clenched tightly, his gaze riveted on Kubarasi leaning toward you again.

He couldn't resist. Abruptly setting his glass down on the nearest table, Job strode through the crowd straight toward you. His stride was confident and quick. Once level with your group, he unceremoniously interrupted the conversation, standing between you and Pau, and, placing his hand on your waist, pulled you toward him.

"Darling," his voice was low and calm, but a storm raged in his eyes. He didn't even look at Kubarasi. "I've lost you. Come on, we need to talk."

He looked only at you, waiting for an explanation, but his grip on your waist was possessive and firm.