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Love

The Pink Dress and the Parisian Sting

The morning sun over Paris was softer than the stadium lights of the previous night, filtering through the sheer curtains of their hotel suite in hazy, golden ribbons. Mi stood in front of the full-length mirror, smoothing down the fabric of a dusty pink sundress. It was feminine and light, with delicate spaghetti straps and a hem that fluttered just above her knees. With her brown curls pinned back on one side, she looked every bit the part of a girl enjoying a dream vacation in the world’s most romantic city.

Behind her, Jamal was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed over a simple white linen shirt. He was watching her reflection with a look that was half-adoration and half-weariness.

"You look amazing, Mi," he said, his voice still a bit gravelly from sleep. "But are you sure you’re ready for this? Doué and Barcola... they aren't exactly quiet guys. It’s going to be a lot of French energy at one table."

Mi turned around, her eyes bright. "I’m ready! Yesterday gave me a confidence boost. Besides, you’ll be there to translate if I get stuck. It’s lunch, Jamal. What’s the worst that could happen?"

Jamal offered a small, crooked smile, though a tiny flicker of something—perhaps protectiveness, perhaps the first seed of unease—crossed his face. "Right. Lunch. Let’s go then."

The restaurant was a tucked-away gem in the 8th arrondissement, the kind of place that didn't have a sign out front but was filled with people who looked like they lived on the covers of magazines. When they arrived, Désiré Doué and Bradley Barcola were already seated at a corner table, looking relaxed in their designer streetwear.

"The birthday girl arrives!" Doué called out, standing up to greet them.

Barcola stood as well, his tall, lean frame casting a shadow over the table. He was quieter than Doué, his gaze cool and observant, but he offered a polite nod as Jamal introduced them.

"You look very... Parisian today," Doué complimented Mi, pulling out a chair for her.

"Thank you," Mi said, her voice steadier than it had been in the tunnel the night before. "I figured I should try to blend in, even if my French is terrible."

As the appetizers arrived, the conversation flowed easier than Mi had anticipated. The shyness that usually anchored her down seemed to melt away under the influence of the warm bread and the infectious laughter of the two PSG stars. Jamal sat close to her, his hand frequently resting on the back of her chair, a silent anchor in the sea of football talk.

"So, Jamal tells us you’re a scout in disguise," Barcola said, his dark eyes fixed on Mi. It was the first time he had really addressed her directly, and his focus was intense. "Who else do you like, besides the man who scored yesterday?" He gestured toward Doué.

Mi grinned, leaning forward. "Well, I’ve watched almost every game Kylian played here. The way he uses space... it’s terrifying for defenders. And Ousmane Dembélé? I think he’s a magician. I remember that goal you scored against Lorient, Bradley," she added, turning her attention to Barcola. "The way you cut inside and just placed it... it was perfect."

Barcola’s expression shifted, a small, impressed smile tugging at his lips. "You really do watch. Most people just look at the highlights on TikTok."

"She’s the real deal," Jamal chimed in, though his tone was slightly clipped. He reached for his water glass. "She probably knows your stats better than your agent does."

"And what about the German side of things?" Doué asked, leaning back. "How is Michael Olise settling in? We miss him over here, even if he is a man of very few words."

Mi giggled, glancing at Jamal. "Oh, Michael is great. But it’s funny—in the media, everyone says he’s so nonchalant and quiet. But when he’s around Jamal, he’s totally different. He actually talks! I told Jamal the other day that Michael is way less 'nonchalant' when they’re playing video games. He’s actually quite loud when he’s losing."

The table erupted in laughter, Jamal joining in, though Mi noticed he was glancing sideways at Barcola. The PSG winger hadn't joined the laughter as loudly as the others. Instead, he was simply watching Mi, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes tracking the way her curls bounced when she laughed.

As the main course was served, the conversation shifted to the differences between the Bundesliga and Ligue 1, but Barcola remained oddly focused on Mi. He asked her about her life in Munich, what she studied, and what she thought of the fashion in Paris. Every time Mi answered, he nodded slowly, his gaze never wavering.

Jamal was becoming increasingly quiet. He wasn't being rude—he was a professional, after all—but the way he kept shifting in his seat and the way his hand had moved from the back of Mi's chair to firmly gripping her hand under the table told a different story. He felt the weight of Barcola’s attention on his girlfriend, and he didn't like the gravity of it.

"We should probably get going soon," Jamal said abruptly, just as the dessert menus were being handed out. "We have a train to catch later, and Mi wanted to stop by a few shops."

"Already?" Doué asked, looking disappointed. "We haven't even had coffee."

"Jamal is right, we don't want to rush," Mi said, sensing the sudden tension radiating from her boyfriend. She felt a little guilty; she had been having such a good time talking about football that she hadn't realized Jamal felt sidelined.

They all stood up, the atmosphere jovial as the bill was settled. They walked out to the sidewalk where the valet was waiting with their car.

"It was a pleasure, Mi," Doué said, giving her a friendly air-kiss on both cheeks. "Don't let Jamal keep you hidden in Munich too long. Paris suits you."

"Thank you, Désiré. It was amazing," Mi replied, beaming.

Then, it was Barcola’s turn. He stepped forward, his hands in his pockets. The silence stretched for a beat too long.

"You know," Barcola said, his voice low and clear, cutting through the ambient noise of the Parisian street. "You are really, really pretty. Jamal is a lucky man."

The air seemed to vanish from the sidewalk. Doué froze, his eyebrows shooting up. Jamal’s jaw tightened so hard Mi thought she heard his teeth grind. It wasn't a casual compliment; it was delivered with a level of sincerity that made it feel intimate, almost like a challenge.

Mi, caught off guard and feeling the heat rush to her face, stammered the first thing that came to mind. "Oh! Um... thanks. You too."

As soon as the words left her mouth, she wanted to swallow them. *You too?* She had just told a French international player he was pretty in front of her boyfriend, who was currently looking like he wanted to kick a ball through a brick wall.

"Right," Jamal said, his voice flat. He gripped Mi’s elbow gently but firmly. "We’re going. See you guys."

He didn't wait for a response. He ushered Mi into the waiting car and shut the door with a bit more force than necessary. The drive back to the hotel was suffocatingly silent. Jamal stared out the window at the passing landmarks, his profile rigid.

By the time they reached their suite, the tension had reached a breaking point. Jamal tossed his room key onto the marble table with a sharp *clack*.

" 'You too'?" he repeated, finally turning to face her. "Really, Mi? 'You too'?"

Mi kicked off her heels, feeling the sting of the confrontation. "It was a reflex, Jamal! I was nervous. He caught me by surprise. What was I supposed to say? 'Go away, I’m taken'?"

"He was staring at you the entire lunch," Jamal said, his voice rising. "He wasn't even hiding it. And then he says that, right in front of me? It was disrespectful. And you just... you thanked him and complimented him back!"

"I was being polite!" Mi snapped, her own temper flaring. "It’s my birthday trip, Jamal. I was having a nice time talking to your friends, and now you’re acting like I was flirting with him. I wasn't the one who said it!"

"I know you weren't flirting," Jamal sighed, pacing the length of the room. "But it’s the way he looked at you. And the way you didn't even seem to notice how inappropriate it was."

"I noticed!" Mi cried, throwing her hands up. "I noticed that he was being intense, and I noticed that you were being sulky and quiet for the last hour. You acted like you didn't even want to be there."

"Because I didn't want to watch my girlfriend get hit on by a guy I have to play against in the Champions League!" Jamal countered. He stopped pacing and looked at her, his expression a mix of anger and hurt. "I brought you here to have a special time, not to be a spectator at Barcola’s attempt to charm you."

"You’re being ridiculous," Mi said, her voice trembling slightly. "You’re Jamal Musiala. You’re one of the best players in the world. Do you really think I’m going to leave you for someone because they told me I was pretty at lunch? You’re the one I was kissing all night. You’re the one I love."

"I know that," Jamal said, his voice softening but the edge of jealousy still present. "But it doesn't mean I have to like it when other guys treat you like you’re available."

"I’m not a trophy, Jamal! I’m a person. I can have a conversation with another human being without it being a threat to you."

Mi turned away from him, walking toward the balcony. The view of the Eiffel Tower was still there, beautiful as ever, but the magic of the morning had evaporated. She felt a tear prick at the corner of her eye. This was supposed to be the perfect end to her birthday weekend, and instead, they were fighting over a stray comment from a stranger.

She heard Jamal sigh—a long, heavy sound of defeat. A moment later, she felt his presence behind her. He didn't touch her at first, just stood there in the silence.

"I’m sorry," he muttered eventually. "I shouldn't have snapped at you. It’s not your fault he’s an idiot."

Mi didn't turn around. "You ruined the mood, Jamal. I was so happy."

He stepped closer, his chest brushing against her back. He wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her petite frame against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume and the Parisian air.

"I know," he whispered. "I’m a jerk. I just... I see you, and I see how amazing you are, and I forget that other people see it too. I get possessive. Especially in this city."

Mi leaned back into his embrace, her anger beginning to ebb away, replaced by the familiar warmth of his touch. "You don't have to be possessive. I’m already yours. I thought the hand-holding and the kissing yesterday made that pretty clear to the whole world."

Jamal let out a small, dry chuckle. "Yeah, I guess the paparazzi did most of the work for me." He turned her around in his arms, looking down at her with soft, apologetic eyes. "Can we start over? No more PSG players. No more 'you too.' Just us for the rest of the day?"

Mi looked up at him, her dark curls messy from the wind on the balcony. She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. "Fine. But you owe me."

"Oh yeah? What do I owe you?"

"Those crepes you promised me yesterday," she said, a small smile finally returning to her lips. "And you have to tell me I’m pretty at least ten more times to make up for the fact that you made me feel like I did something wrong."

Jamal smiled, leaning down to press his forehead against hers. "Only ten? I can do a hundred. You’re beautiful, Mi. You’re the most beautiful girl in Paris, in Munich, and everywhere else."

"That’s three," she whispered, closing her eyes as he leaned in to kiss her.

The fight wasn't entirely forgotten—the sting of the jealousy still lingered in the back of Jamal’s mind, and the awkwardness of the lunch would probably be a joke between Doué and Barcola for weeks—but as they stood on the balcony overlooking the city, the tension finally broke. In the heart of Paris, surrounded by stars and scouts and the pressure of the world, they were just two people trying to hold onto a moment that belonged only to them.