The Red Jersey and the French Follow

The Allianz Arena was a pulsating cauldron of red and white, the roar of seventy-five thousand fans creating a vibration that Mimi could feel in the very marrow of her bones. Usually, being here filled her with a sense of quiet pride, a secret thrill that the man currently sprinting across the emerald grass was the same man who had held her until she fell asleep the night before. Today, however, the pride was slightly dampened by the presence of the woman sitting to her left.

Anne had insisted on coming. Not only had she insisted on coming, but she had also insisted on "showing her support" in the loudest way possible. She was wearing a pristine, home-kit jersey with *MUSIALA 42* emblazoned across the back. It was tucked tightly into high-waisted jeans, and she had spent the better part of the pre-match warm-up taking selfies, making sure the name on the back was visible in every shot.

Mimi, by contrast, had opted for comfort. The Munich summer heat was oppressive, a thick blanket of humidity that made the idea of polyester jerseys feel like a death sentence. She wore a pair of simple denim shorts and a thin, breezy white linen blouse that tied at the front. Her curly hair was piled haphazardly on top of her head in a messy bun, and her cheeks were already flushed a dusty rose from the sun. She felt small and plain next to Anne’s calculated glamour, but she tried to focus on the game.

"Don't you have a jersey, Mimi?" Anne asked, her voice cutting through the chant of the Sudkurve. She adjusted her hair, checking her reflection in her phone screen. "I mean, if I were dating the star of the team, I’d be his biggest billboard. It’s almost like you’re trying to hide that you’re with him."

Mimi offered a tight, polite smile. "Jamal knows I’m his biggest fan. I don't need a shirt to prove it. Besides, it’s thirty degrees out."

Anne chuckled, a sound that was lost in the crowd's roar as Jamal intercepted a pass. "I guess. But look at the cameras, honey. You have to think about the image."

Mimi ignored her, jumping to her feet as Jamal danced past two defenders. The sheer grace of his movement always took her breath away. When he slotted the ball into the bottom corner of the net, the stadium exploded. Mimi was on her feet, clapping wildly, her face lit up with a radiant, uninhibited joy. She didn't notice the way her blouse shifted as she reached her arms up, exposing a sliver of her waist, nor did she notice the cameras catching the moment.

By the time the final whistle blew and Bayern had secured a 3-0 victory, Mimi was exhausted but happy. They waited in the VIP lounge for Jamal to finish his post-match duties and shower. Anne was hunched over her phone, her thumb scrolling rapidly, her expression souring by the second.

"People are so disgusting," Anne hissed, tapping her screen with a manicured nail.

Mimi looked up from her water bottle. "What happened?"

"The internet," Anne snapped. "I posted a photo of us in the stands, and the comments are just… vile. Look at this."

She shoved the phone toward Mimi. The post was a selfie of Anne and Mimi, though Mimi was caught mid-blink and looked slightly out of focus, while Anne was perfectly posed. The comments, however, were not what Anne had expected.

*Who is this girl in Jamal’s jersey? So disrespectful to Mimi.* *Mimi looks like a natural beauty even in the heat, while the friend is trying too hard.* *Why is she wearing his shirt when his actual girlfriend is sitting right there? Know your place.* *Jamal definitely chose the better option. Mimi is stunning.*

Mimi felt a pang of sympathy, but also a strange, illicit spark of vindication. "I’m sorry, Anne. Trolls are always looking for something to complain about."

"It’s not just trolls!" Anne complained as Jamal walked into the room, smelling of soap and victory. "Jamal, your fans are being horrible to me! Look at what they’re saying just because I wore your jersey to support you."

Jamal took the phone, squinting at the screen. He read a few comments, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "That’s strange. The fans are usually really nice. They’ve always been so sweet to Mimi."

"That’s because they like her!" Anne huffed, snatching her phone back. "They’re acting like I’m trying to steal you or something. It’s just a shirt!"

Jamal rubbed the back of his neck, looking at Mimi for help. "I mean, it’s just the internet, Anne. Don't take it to heart. They’re just protective of Mimi, I guess."

Anne rolled her eyes and marched toward the exit, leaving the couple alone for a moment. Jamal turned to Mimi, sliding an arm around her waist. "You okay? You look a bit pink. Was it too hot out there?"

"A little," Mimi admitted, leaning into him. "But you were amazing today."

"I saw you standing up when I scored," he whispered, kissing her temple. "I always look for you first."

***

Later that night, the apartment was quiet. Anne had gone back to her parents' place, still fuming about the "toxic" football culture. Jamal was sprawled on the sofa, his legs draped over Mimi’s lap as she scrolled through her own phone.

"Oh no," Mimi whispered, her eyes widening.

"What now?" Jamal asked, not looking up from the game highlights on the TV.

"I’m… I’m a meme."

Jamal sat up instantly. "A meme? How?"

Mimi turned her phone toward him. It was a high-resolution paparazzi shot from the game. She was standing, her back partially turned, her arms raised in celebration. The sunlight hit her perfectly, highlighting the soft curves of her figure and the delicate line of her waist where her blouse had ridden up. But the reason it had gone viral wasn't just her; it was the man sitting in the row behind her. He was caught in a state of absolute, wide-eyed trance, staring directly at her exposed waist with an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.

The captions were endless. *Find someone who looks at you the way this guy looks at Mimi’s waist.* *When the Midfield Maestro scores on the pitch, but his girl scores in the stands.* *Jamal, come get your man, he’s lost in the sauce.*

Jamal’s face went through a rapid succession of emotions: confusion, realization, and then a dark, possessive flicker of jealousy that Mimi rarely saw.

"Who is that guy?" Jamal muttered, snatching the phone to get a closer look.

"Just a fan, Jamal," Mimi giggled, though she felt a bit self-conscious. "I didn't even know he was there."

"He’s staring," Jamal noted, his voice dropping an octave. "He’s staring a lot."

"Well, the internet thinks it’s funny," she said, trying to soothe him. She took her phone back and navigated to her notifications to distract him. "Anyway, something else happened. Look."

She opened her Instagram. Mimi’s profile was modest—she wasn't an influencer. She had a few hundred followers, mostly friends from school and Jamal’s family. Her most recent post was a grainy, cozy photo from December: her holding her mother’s ginger cat in front of a sparkling Christmas tree, with Jamal tagged as the photographer.

At the top of her new followers list was a verified account with a blue checkmark.

*Desire Doue followed you.*

Jamal froze. He knew the name well. The young French star was one of the hottest prospects in Europe, a player whose talent was spoken of in the same breath as his own.

"Desire Doue?" Jamal asked, his voice suspiciously neutral. "Why is he following you?"

Mimi’s face lit up, her inner football fan coming to the surface. "I don't know! I followed him a few weeks ago because I think the new generation of French players is so talented. I love his style of play. I can't believe he followed me back!"

Jamal stared at the screen. He looked at the picture of Mimi with the cat—the only photo of her on her grid. She looked soft, innocent, and breathtakingly beautiful in the glow of the Christmas lights.

"You followed him first?" Jamal asked.

"Yeah," Mimi said, oblivious to the slight tension in his jaw. "I follow a few players. You know I love the sport. It’s so cool, right? Maybe he saw the meme today and realized I was your girlfriend?"

"Maybe," Jamal said, though he didn't sound convinced. He knew how the football world worked. Players didn't just follow "girlfriends" out of professional courtesy, especially not when the girlfriend looked like Mimi and was currently trending for being the most beautiful woman in the stadium.

He looked at Mimi—his shy, clingy, petite Mimi, who was currently beaming because a French winger liked her cat photo. She was so innocent, so unaware of the effect she had.

"You’re a big fan of the French players, huh?" Jamal asked, leaning back and pulling her against his chest, his grip just a little tighter than usual.

"Just their technique," Mimi said, tilting her head back to look at him. "Why? You're not jealous of a follow, are you?"

Jamal looked at her, his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the same one the guy in the stadium had been gawking at. He thought about Anne and her loud, desperate need for attention, and then he looked at Mimi, who drew the world’s gaze without even trying.

"I’m not jealous," Jamal lied, his heart doing a strange little skip as he saw a new notification pop up on her screen: *Desire Doue liked your photo.*

"Good," Mimi said, snuggling into his neck. "Because you're the only number 42 for me."

Jamal didn't say anything. He just resolved to play even harder in the next match. If the rest of the football world was starting to notice his "peace," he was going to have to make sure they knew exactly who she belonged to. One week until Anne left, he reminded himself. But apparently, the rest of the world wasn't going anywhere.