Love
Flashbulbs and Fever Dreams
The blue light of Mi’s phone was the only thing illuminating her bedroom as she scrolled through her direct messages for the hundredth time that week. It had started with a simple "How’s the nose?" from a verified account with a blue checkmark, and somehow, it had spiraled into a digital tether that neither of them seemed willing to cut. Jamal was different in text—playful, using far too many emojis, and surprisingly observant. He remembered her mention of her favorite bakery; he sent her songs he listened to before matches.
The shy girl who had frozen in the infirmary was slowly being replaced by a woman who felt a flutter in her stomach every time the notification sound chirped. But even so, she hadn't expected his latest move.
"I’m tired of talking to a screen, Mi," he had messaged two days ago. "I haven't seen you since the day I nearly took your head off. Come to dinner with me? I know a place that’s quiet. No flying footballs, I promise."
Now, Mi stood in front of her full-length mirror, smoothing out the fabric of a simple black mini-dress. It wasn't anything flashy, but the way the ribbed material hugged her petite curves made her feel a rare spark of confidence. Her brown curls were loose and bouncy, framing a face that was, thankfully, no longer bruised. She looked at her reflection—small, soft, and worlds away from the high-glamour WAGs usually seen on the arms of Bundesliga stars.
When the sleek black car pulled up to her apartment, her heart did a frantic drumroll against her ribs. Jamal was waiting inside, dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, looking less like a golden boy athlete and more like a man on a mission.
The restaurant was tucked away in a quiet corner of Munich, the kind of place where the tables were spaced far apart and the lighting was dim enough to hide a famous face. As they sat across from each other, the initial awkwardness melted away.
"You look... wow," Jamal said, his eyes lingering on her before he quickly looked down at his menu, a faint blush creeping up his neck. "Much better than the last time I saw you. Not that you didn't look great with the bandage, but you know what I mean."
Mi laughed, the sound light and genuine. "I think 'distressing' was the word you were looking for. I’m just glad I can breathe through my nose again."
"I really was worried," he admitted, leaning forward. "I’ve hit people with the ball before, but you looked so... fragile. Like I’d broken a piece of art."
Mi felt her face heat up. "I'm not that fragile, Jamal. I'm just small. There's a difference."
"I’m starting to see that," he murmured, his gaze softening.
The conversation flowed with an ease that surprised her. They didn't talk about football—not really. They talked about his childhood in England, her studies, the pressure of expectations, and the simple joy of a good pizza. For a few hours, the world outside the restaurant didn't exist. There were no fans, no cameras, no viral videos. There was just a boy and a girl, laughing over dessert.
It wasn't until they were back in the car, parked at the curb of her apartment building, that the atmosphere shifted. The interior of the car was quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the engine and the distant city traffic.
"Thank you for tonight, Jamal," Mi said, her hand reaching for the door handle. "I had a really good time. Better than I expected, honestly."
"Wait," Jamal said, his voice dropping an octave.
She turned back to him, and before she could process the movement, he was leaning in. It was sudden—a bit clumsy, as if he had decided to do it at the very last second before his courage failed him. His lips met hers in a chaste, slightly awkward pressure.
Mi froze, her eyes wide. It was the "Frozen Fan" moment all over again, but this time, there was no pain, only the electric hum of his proximity. Sensing her surprise, Jamal pulled back a fraction, his expression panicked.
"Sorry, I—I should have asked. I’m moving too fast, aren't I?"
Mi didn't say anything. She just looked at him, her breath hitching. She wasn't uncomfortable; she was just processing the fact that Jamal Musiala was currently inches from her face, looking at her like she was the only person in the world.
Slowly, she shook her head. "No. It’s okay."
That was all the permission he needed. This time, he was slower. His hand reached out, his fingers grazing her jawline before cupping her cheek. When his lips met hers again, the kiss was deep and lingering. It tasted like the mint from dinner and felt like a slow burn.
Mi let out a soft sigh, her head tilting back as his lips moved to the sensitive skin of her neck. A shiver raced down her spine, a pure, unadulterated jolt of pleasure that made her eyes flutter shut. She was so lost in the feeling of his stubble against her skin and the warmth of his breath that she didn't hear the faint, rhythmic *click-click-click* coming from the shadows of the bushes across the street.
She didn't see the long lens of a camera catching the exact moment her head fell back, her expression one of blissful surrender.
The next morning, the dream didn't just end—it shattered.
Mi woke up to a phone that was vibrating so violently it nearly fell off her nightstand. She groaned, reaching for it, expecting a "Good morning" text from Jamal. Instead, she found a barrage of links from her best friend and hundreds of new notifications on Instagram.
The headline on the biggest German tabloid screamed: *THE GOLDEN BOY’S SECRET AFFAIR: JAMAL MUSIALA SPOTTED WITH 'BLOODY NOSE GIRL' IN STEAMY LATE-NIGHT RENDEZVOUS.*
Below the headline was the photo. It was high-definition, cruel in its clarity. It showed them in the car, Jamal’s face buried in her neck, Mi looking completely undone.
She felt a sick lurch in her stomach. She scrolled down to the comments, a mistake she knew she shouldn't make, but couldn't stop herself from committing.
*“She’s definitely a clout chaser. Who gets hit by a ball and ends up in his bed a month later?”*
*“She looks so plain. He could have anyone, and he chooses the girl who couldn't even stand up straight at the stadium?”*
*“Calculated. She probably stood in the front row hoping to get hit. Men are so easy, especially the young ones.”*
The words felt like physical blows. "Clout chaser." "Plain." "Calculated." Mi curled into a ball on her bed, the black dress from the night before lying discarded on a chair, looking like a mourning shroud. She felt exposed, stripped of the privacy she had spent her whole life guarding. She waited for Jamal to text. She waited for him to tell her it would be okay, that he would fix it.
The hours ticked by. Silence.
By 8:00 PM, Mi was convinced he had seen the comments and decided she wasn't worth the PR nightmare. She sat on her sofa, staring at the wall, until a sharp knock at her door made her jump.
She checked the peephole. Jamal was standing there, wearing a heavy hoodie with the hood pulled up and a face mask dangling from one ear. He looked exhausted.
She opened the door, her voice trembling. "Jamal? What are you doing here? The paparazzi..."
"I took a different car. I went through the basement," he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. He pulled his hood down, revealing messy hair and eyes that were dark with stress.
He stood in the middle of her small living room, looking around as if seeing it for the first time. He looked serious—deadly serious.
"I'm so sorry, Mi," he said, his voice cracked.
Mi felt a lump form in her throat. "Are you mad? The comments... they’re saying I planned it. They’re saying I’m using you."
Jamal stepped toward her, reaching out as if to touch her, then hesitating. "I don't care what they say. I know you didn't plan to get a ball to the face. I’m the one who kicked it, remember? I’m sorry because I brought this into your life. I’m sorry because I wasn't careful enough to protect you from this."
He took another step, closing the distance between them. He was so much taller than her, his presence filling the small room.
"I’ve spent the whole day in meetings with my agents and the club," he continued. "They wanted me to put out a statement saying we’re just friends. They wanted me to distance myself until it blows over."
Mi looked down at her feet. "Maybe you should."
"I told them no," Jamal said firmly.
She looked up, startled.
"I told them no because I don't want to be just friends," he said, his gaze intense. "Mi, I’m really interested in you. Not just as a fan, not just as the girl I accidentally injured. I like the way you think. I like how you look in my jersey. I like how you look when you aren't wearing it, too."
He reached out then, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek. "I want to do this properly. I want to take you out again. Not in secret. I want to be with you."
The weight of his words was heavy. Mi thought of the comments, the vitriol, the way her phone hadn't stopped ringing. She thought of the cameras hiding in the bushes and the way her quiet life had been turned into a tabloid circus overnight.
"Jamal," she whispered, her voice shaking. "I’m just... I’m just a normal person. I don't know how to be a 'headline.' I’m scared."
"I know," he said softly. "I’m scared too. But I think you’re worth it."
Mi looked at him—the boy who had jumped a railing to help her, the man who had kissed her until her head spun. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to dive into the deep end with him. But the fear was a cold, hard knot in her chest.
"Can I... can I have some time?" she asked, her voice barely audible. "I need to think. I need to know if I can handle everyone hating me for liking you."
Jamal’s face fell slightly, a flash of hurt crossing his features, but he quickly masked it with a supportive nod. He leaned down, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her forehead.
"Take all the time you need, Mi," he said. "I’m not going anywhere. I’ve already waited this long to find someone like you. I can wait a little longer."
As he turned to leave, slipping his mask back on to face the world that wanted a piece of him, Mi watched him go. She was no longer the girl with the bloody nose, and she was no longer just a face on a screen. She was a girl at a crossroads, wondering if love was worth the price of her peace.