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The Red Thread of Jealousy
The Allianz Arena had always felt like a colosseum, but tonight, it felt like a stage. Now that the secret was out, Mi no longer had to hide under oversized hoodies or tuck her curls beneath a nondescript cap. She didn't have to sneak through side entrances or wait for Stefan the security guard to give her a silent nod of approval.
Tonight, she walked through the main VIP entrance, her head held high. She had chosen her outfit with a newfound sense of liberation. She wore a vibrant red top that hugged her petite frame, the color of Bayern Munich, paired with a black leather miniskirt that showed off her legs. It was an outfit that screamed confidence, a far cry from the "ghost" she had been for the past few months.
As she took her seat in the section reserved for players' families, she could feel the lenses of a dozen long-range cameras swiveling toward her. The paparazzi were relentless. Every time she tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear or adjusted the strap of her purse, a chorus of shutter clicks erupted from the media pit.
"Eyes on the pitch, boys," she muttered to herself, though a small, mischievous part of her enjoyed the attention. She wasn't just 'a girl' anymore; she was *the* girl.
On the field, Jamal was a whirlwind. He seemed to play with a different kind of intensity tonight, knowing she was there openly. Every time he scored—and he scored twice—he didn't just celebrate with his teammates. He turned toward her section, searching for her face, and blew a subtle kiss that sent the commentators into a frenzy.
By the time the final whistle blew and Bayern had secured a 4-1 victory, Mi’s phone was already vibrating in her purse. She didn't check it until she was safely in the back of the car Jamal had arranged for her. When she finally opened her social media, she gasped.
"Oh, no," she whispered, her eyes widening.
The pictures were everywhere. High-definition shots of her laughing, cheering, and standing up to applaud. The red of her top popped against the green of the pitch, but it was the miniskirt that had the internet in an absolute tailspin. Headlines were already popping up: *Musiala’s Mystery Woman Revealed: The Lady in Red Steals the Show at the Allianz.*
The comments were a battlefield of opinions. Some praised her style, calling her a fashion icon in the making, while others—mostly the protective or jealous fans—were busy debating if the skirt was "appropriate."
By the time she reached Jamal’s apartment, she was half-convinced she should have stuck to the oversized hoodies.
She let herself in, the quiet of the penthouse a sharp contrast to the roar of the stadium. She kicked off her heels and headed to the kitchen to pour a glass of water, waiting for Jamal to return from his post-match interviews.
Twenty minutes later, the door swung open. Jamal walked in, still carrying the scent of grass and expensive cologne. He looked energized, his eyes bright with the thrill of the win, but as soon as his gaze landed on Mi, his expression shifted. It wasn't anger, but a sort of brooding, focused intensity that made her stomach do a slow somersault.
"You're home," she said, leaning against the counter. "Great game, Bambi. Two goals? You were incredible."
Jamal didn't answer immediately. He dropped his bag and walked toward her, his eyes traveling slowly from her face down to her hemline. He stopped just inches away from her, his presence warm and overwhelming.
"The whole world is talking about you," he said, his voice lower than usual.
Mi laughed nervously, taking a sip of her water. "I noticed. I think the red top was a bit much, huh? I didn't realize the cameras would be that focused on me."
"It wasn't the top, Mi," Jamal said. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist. "It’s this."
Before she could react, he knelt down in front of her. He didn't say a word as he flattened his palm against her thigh, right at the edge of the black leather. He measured the distance between the hem of the skirt and her knee with the span of his hand.
"Jamal, what are you doing?" she giggled, trying to step back, but he gripped her hip gently to keep her in place.
"I’m measuring," he muttered, his brow furrowed in mock seriousness. "I think my hand is actually longer than this skirt, Mi. How did you even sit down in the stands without giving the front row a heart attack?"
"It’s fashion, Jamal! It’s supposed to be short," she defended, though she was blushing furiously. "Besides, I was wearing tights earlier. I took them off because it got warm in the car."
Jamal looked up at her, his dark eyes swirling with a mixture of possessiveness and amusement. "I’m looking at the pictures on my phone right now. Well, I was in the locker room. Leroy and Serge wouldn't stop teasing me. They said I need to buy you a blanket for the next game."
He stood up, towering over her again, but he didn't pull away. He looked down at her, his jaw set in a stubborn pout that she found incredibly endearing.
"I don't like it," he grumbled, though his hands were still resting on her waist, pulling her closer. "Everyone was looking at you. I’m out there trying to focus on the ball, and I look up and see a sea of photographers pointing their lenses at my girl's legs."
Mi reached up, cupping his face in her hands. She loved this side of him—the quiet, protective streak that only came out when he felt his "secret" wasn't just his anymore.
"They can look all they want, Jamal," she whispered, standing on her tiptoes to bring her lips closer to his. "But they don't get to come home to me. You do. You’re the one who scored the goals, remember? You’re the star."
Jamal huffed, a small smile finally breaking through his sulking expression. "I don't feel like the star. I feel like the guy who needs to go buy his girlfriend some longer pants."
"Oh, shut up," Mi laughed, pulling his head down.
She kissed him, a soft, lingering press of lips that tasted like an apology and a promise. Jamal groaned into the kiss, his hands sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pressing her firmly against him. The leather of the skirt creaked slightly against his palms, a sound that seemed to ignite something in the air between them.
He broke the kiss for a second, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hitching. "Next time, wear the hoodie. Please?"
"Maybe," she teased, nipping at his lower lip. "Or maybe I'll wear a yellow dress next time. To match the away kit."
"Don't you dare," he warned, but he was smiling now, his eyes dancing with light.
He picked her up effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist. As he carried her toward the bedroom, the noise of the fans, the flash of the cameras, and the viral pictures on the internet faded into nothingness.
"I mean it, Mi," he whispered against her neck, his voice thick with affection. "The skirt is retired. It’s going in the back of the closet."
"We'll see about that, Musiala," she whispered back, her fingers tangling in his hair. "We'll see."