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Love

The Green-Eyed Monster in the Allianz Arena

The atmosphere at the Allianz Arena was electric, a thick hum of anticipation that always accompanied a Champions League clash against a giant like Paris Saint-Germain. For Mi, these nights were a mixture of adrenaline and pride. She sat in the family section, her eyes glued to Jamal as he glided across the pitch, a master of space and timing. But tonight, there was a secondary layer of excitement.

Ever since the transfer window had closed, Mi had been following the rise of Désiré Doué. There was something about the young Frenchman’s flair, his fearless dribbling, and his youthful energy that reminded her of Jamal’s early days. She had mentioned it once or twice—okay, maybe five times—that Doué was her favorite non-Bayern player in the competition.

After the final whistle blew—a hard-fought 1-1 draw that left both teams exhausted—the usual post-match mingling began. The players swapped jerseys and shared quiet words of respect on the pitch before heading toward the tunnel area where families waited.

Mi stood near the railing, her long curls slightly damp from the humid Munich air. Jamal spotted her immediately, his face breaking into a tired smile as he jogged over, his jersey already swapped for a PSG shirt.

"Hard game," he panted, leaning over the rail to press a quick, sweaty kiss to her cheek. "They’re fast, Mi. Really fast."

"You were amazing, Jamal," she beamed, reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Your ball control in the second half was insane."

He preened under the compliment, his chest puffing out just a fraction. "Yeah? You think so?"

Before she could answer, a group of PSG players began walking toward the tunnel. Among them was the young Frenchman himself, Désiré Doué. He was chatting with Bradley Barcola, looking remarkably calm for someone who had just played ninety minutes against the German giants.

Mi’s eyes widened. "Oh! Jamal, look, it’s him! It’s Doué!"

Jamal’s smile faltered, just a tiny bit. "Oh. Yeah. There he is."

"Do you think... could you ask him if I can get a picture?" Mi asked, her voice brimming with genuine fan-girl enthusiasm. "Please? He was so good today!"

Jamal looked at his girlfriend, then at the nineteen-year-old Frenchman, then back at his girlfriend. He saw the way her eyes were sparkling—a look usually reserved for when he brought home her favorite dessert or when they talked about their future.

"Now?" Jamal asked, his voice a pitch higher than usual. "He’s probably tired, Mi. He probably just wants to go to the dressing room."

"He’s right there, Jamal! Look, he’s stopping for a photo with that kid over there anyway."

Jamal let out a breath that was suspiciously close to a huff. "Fine. Stay here."

He walked over to Doué. Mi watched them exchange a few words. Jamal looked stiff, his posture unusually formal, while Doué was all smiles, nodding enthusiastically. A moment later, Jamal gestured for Mi to come over.

She practically bounced over the barrier. "Hi! I’m Mi. Huge fan, really. You played so well today," she said in English, her face flushed with excitement.

Doué grinned, his eyes crinkling. "Thank you so much! Very kind of you."

Jamal stood to the side, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watched the interaction. As Mi handed her phone to a nearby steward, she stepped closer to Doué. Because of her petite height, she looked even smaller next to the Frenchman, who leaned down slightly to fit into the frame.

"Smile, Jamal!" Mi called out.

"I am smiling," Jamal muttered, though his lips were pressed into a thin, straight line that looked more like a grimace.

The photo was taken—Mi looking radiant, Doué looking like a charming rising star, and Jamal in the background looking like he was contemplating the tactical advantages of a two-footed tackle.

"Thanks so much!" Mi said, tucking her phone into her skirt pocket.

"My pleasure," Doué replied, giving her a polite nod before glancing at Jamal. "See you in Paris, Musiala."

"Yeah. See you," Jamal replied shortly.

The car ride home was unusually quiet. Usually, Jamal would dissect the game, talking about missed passes or tactical shifts. Tonight, he stared out the window at the passing streetlights of Munich, his jaw set.

"The photo came out so good," Mi said, scrolling through her phone. "Look at the lighting! I should post this, right?"

"If you want," Jamal said, his voice clipped.

Mi looked up, sensing the shift in the atmosphere. "Are you okay? You seem... tired."

"I'm fine. Just thinking about the game. We should have won. That midfield transition was sloppy."

"You were great, though," she reminded him, reaching over to rest her hand on his thigh.

He didn't pull away, but he didn't relax either. "I mean, I was okay. Probably didn't have as much 'flair' as some other people on the pitch."

Mi suppressed a smile. Surely not. Surely the world-class Jamal Musiala wasn't feeling threatened by a nineteen-year-old from PSG?

Once they were back in the sanctuary of their apartment, the tension didn't dissipate. Jamal bypassed the kitchen and went straight to the sofa, grabbing his iPad. Mi watched him from the doorway as he pulled up the match highlights.

"What are you looking for?" she asked, walking over to sit beside him.

"Just checking something," he murmured. He paused the video on a frame of Doué dribbling past a defender. "See that? His center of gravity is too high. He’s going to have knee issues if he keeps turning like that."

Mi blinked. "His knees? Jamal, he’s nineteen. He’s fine."

"And his first touch," Jamal continued, as if he hadn't heard her, scrolling to another clip. "It’s a bit heavy, isn't it? If the pitch had been wetter, he would have lost that ball every time. He’s lucky, really."

Mi bit her lip to keep from laughing. "He didn't look lucky to me. He looked skillful."

Jamal stiffened. He set the iPad down on the coffee table and turned to her, his expression one of exaggerated academic concern. "I’m just saying, from a professional standpoint, he’s a bit overrated. The media loves a story, you know? They see a young guy with a bit of pace and they act like he’s the next big thing."

"He is the next big thing, Jamal. Everyone says so."

"Everyone?" Jamal’s eyebrows shot up. "Who is everyone? I don't say so. Thomas doesn't say so. Harry probably hasn't even noticed him."

"Harry told the press he was a 'bright young talent' in the pre-match interview," Mi pointed out helpfully.

Jamal groaned, throwing his head back against the cushions. "Harry is just being polite. He’s British, it’s what they do."

Mi couldn't hold it in anymore. A giggle bubbled up in her throat and escaped. "Oh my god. You’re jealous!"

Jamal snapped his head toward her, his face turning a shade of pink that matched his training gear. "I am not jealous! Why would I be jealous of a kid who hasn't even won a league title yet?"

"You are! You’re sitting here trying to find flaws in his knees and his first touch because I asked for a picture!" Mi laughed, leaning into him. "Jamal, it’s adorable."

"It’s not 'adorable,'" he snapped, though the annoyance was losing its edge to his embarrassment. "It’s a technical analysis. I’m a student of the game, Mi."

"A student of the game who happens to be pouting because his girlfriend thinks another player is cool," she teased, poking his cheek. "Admit it. You’re the green-eyed monster right now."

"I don't pout," he said, pouting. He crossed his arms and looked away. "I just think it’s weird. You’re a Bayern fan. You should be asking for pictures of... I don't know, Phonzie. Or Serge."

"I have a thousand pictures of Phonzie and Serge, Jamal. They’re like my brothers." She moved closer, wrapping her arms around his neck and forcing him to look at her. "But there’s only one player who has my heart. You know that, right?"

Jamal tried to keep his face stern, but his dark eyes were softening. "I don't know. You seemed pretty excited about the 'lighting' in that photo."

"The lighting was good! But he’s not you," she whispered, her voice turning soft and sincere. "He’s just a player I admire. You’re my person. You’re the one I want to build a life with. You’re the one whose jersey I wear even when it’s three sizes too big for me."

Jamal let out a long, defeated sigh, his shoulders finally dropping. "I know. I’m being stupid."

"A little bit," she agreed.

"He’s just... he’s young, and the fans love him, and you were looking at him like he was a superhero," Jamal admitted, his voice dropping to a low mutter. "I guess I just like being your only superhero."

Mi’s heart melted. She leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "You are. Always."

When she pulled away, Jamal didn't look entirely convinced. He still had that tiny crease between his eyebrows. "I still think his first touch is heavy."

Mi laughed and kissed him again. "Okay, okay. His touch is terrible. He’s a Sunday league player at best."

"Exactly," Jamal said, a small smirk finally appearing.

She kissed him a third time, lingering a bit longer. "And his knees are definitely going to explode."

"Probably next week," Jamal added, his hands finding her waist and pulling her onto his lap.

Mi showered his face with kisses—his forehead, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, and finally his lips again. "Feeling better?"

Jamal hummed, his eyes closed as he leaned into her touch. "A little bit. But the trauma of seeing that photo... it’s deep, Mi. I think I might need more 'treatment' to fully recover."

Mi pulled back, seeing the mischievous glint in his eyes. "Oh? You’re still feeling the jealousy?"

"It’s lingering," he lied expertly, his face the picture of mock-suffering. "It’s like a hamstring tweak. You can't rush the healing process. It requires constant attention."

"You’re such a liar," she laughed, but she didn't stop. She pressed a dozen tiny kisses along his jawline. "Is this helping the 'trauma'?"

"It’s a start," Jamal murmured, his hands tightening around her waist. "But I think I heard you mention his dribbling was 'fearless' earlier. That’s going to require at least another twenty minutes of this."

"Twenty minutes?" Mi teased, pulling back to look at him. "I have things to do, Jamal. I have to post that photo on Instagram and tag him."

Jamal’s eyes widened, and he immediately pulled her back down, burying his face in the crook of her neck. "Don't you dare. If you tag him, I’m retiring from football and moving us to a desert island where there are no French people."

"You love France!"

"Not today I don't," he grumbled against her skin.

Mi laughed, the sound bright and clear in the quiet apartment. She continued to pepper his face with kisses, feeling the tension completely evaporate from his body. He was her Jamal—world-class athlete, national hero, and a total dork who got jealous of nineteen-year-olds on the internet.

"I love you," she whispered between kisses.

"I love you more," he replied, his voice thick with affection. He finally opened his eyes, looking at her with that intense, focused gaze that always made her feel like the only woman in the world. "Even if you have terrible taste in French midfielders."

"Hey! I thought you said his touch was heavy?"

"It is," Jamal grinned, finally looking like himself again. "But my touch? My touch is perfect."

To prove his point, he pulled her into a deep, dizzying kiss that left them both breathless. As they sat there on the sofa, tangled together, the Champions League, the viral photos, and the rival players felt a million miles away.

"Better?" Mi asked softly, her thumb tracing the line of his lower lip.

Jamal pretended to think about it for a second, his eyes trailing to the phone on the coffee table where the photo of Doué was still visible on the screen. He turned back to Mi and gave her a slow, playful shake of his head.

"Still feeling a bit of a twinge," he said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Better keep going. Just to be safe."

Mi rolled her eyes, but she didn't complain. She leaned back in, happy to spend the rest of the night "curing" the greatest player in Germany, one kiss at a time. After all, if a little bit of jealousy meant more nights like this, she might just have to start following more French players.

But she didn't tell Jamal that. Some secrets were better kept for the sake of his "knees."