emjayewrites

[emjayewrites]

ball in your court • aurélien tchouaméni [2/20]

SUMMARY: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson is a force on the court…and a nuisance off of it. From fights to partying mere hours before important games, Jiana needs a redemption tour, and her agent thinks Madrid may be her best option. But navigating Madrid during the WNBA off-season requires more than learning Spanish, the country’s culture, and understanding the cutthroat fan base. Jiana finds herself in the line of sight of Real Madrid’s midfielder Aurélien Tchouaméni, who, just like every other man with eyes, is instantly attracted to her. However, just like any other man who comes her way, she spits him out before he can even figure out what’s happening. Too bad for Jiana that Aurélien is already head over heels.

PAIRINGS: Aurélien Tchouaméni x Jiana Jackson (fc: Rickea Jackson)

WARNINGS: cursing, graphic sexual scenes, mentions of sexual/emotional/physical abuse, mentions of group homes/foster care system, depression/mental health issues, romantic!aurelien (18+/minors dni)

TAGLIST: @rougereds @kjlovesbigwilo @amirawrah @mufasathatniggatho @captainwithoutmakingitlove @reveuseetoiles @yeea-nah @aurelover @judesvirtual @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @mariejuli @dexastres @beauty-gurl @virgilsgurl @iamryanl @muglermami @jessnotwiththemess @bbgkoo @peyiswriting @imjustheretomanifest @127hydrangeas @sailurmewn @cocobutterqwueen @irishmanwhore @dima-lfc @iam-lulu @lewisangel

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Jiana wakes up to sunlight streaming through the unfamiliar windows of her Madrid apartment, and for a moment, she forgets where she is. The silence is different here—no constant hum of LA traffic, no sirens wailing in the distance. Just the distant sound of Spanish conversation and someone practicing guitar in another apartment.

Her phone buzzes on the nightstand, pulling her fully into consciousness. Seventeen missed calls from her half-brother Jamari, three from a number she doesn't recognize, and a text from her teammate Nneka back in LA: Saw the highlights from your game. You looked good out there. Miss you already.

The game. Right. Her debut with Real Madrid Baloncesto. Twenty-four points, ten rebounds, eight assists, and a win that felt more satisfying than any victory she'd had with the Sparks in months. For two hours, she'd remembered why she fell in love with basketball in the first place.

She ignores Jamari's calls—whatever he wants, it's probably money she doesn't have to spare—and opens Instagram instead. The notifications are already piling up.

Her mentions are flooded with posts from last night's game, but what catches her attention are the photos of three very familiar faces sitting courtside. Real Madrid footballers, the captions say. Her teammates had mentioned they were there, but seeing the actual photos makes it real.

Real Madrid posted a photo of the three players with the caption:

liked by baloncestofemenino, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 305k others

realmadrid: Supporting our baloncestofemenino family 🏀⚪ tagged; judebellingham, camavinga, aurelientchm

The comments are predictably thirsty:

madridista_4ever: JUDE LOOKED SO GOOD LAST NIGHT ����

football_wag_dreams: Why is Camavinga so fine though??? The way he was watching the game 🥵

tchouameni_wife: AURÉLIEN IN THOSE PANTS >>> my man was LOOKING GOODT

basketball_babe23: Who's the tall girl in the leather pants though? She's gorgeous

⤷ wnba_stan: basketball_babe23 That's Jiana Jackson from the LA Sparks! She's playing for Madrid this season

thirst_trap_central: The way all three of them were watching her play 👀 I see y'all

Jiana rolls her eyes at the comments but finds herself curious despite herself. She clicks on Aurélien's tagged profile—aurelientchm—and immediately regrets it.

His feed is a mix of training photos, inspirational quotes, and lifestyle shots that scream "professional athlete with too much money and time." There's a shirtless gym selfie from two days ago with the caption "The Lab 🔬 #NeverSettle" that makes her pause longer than she'd like to admit. His body is ridiculous—all defined muscle and smooth dark skin that she definitely shouldn't be noticing.

She scrolls further and stops at a photo that makes her heart skip. It's from this past summer, taken in what's clearly Los Angeles based on the palm trees in the background. He's wearing a LA Sparks jersey—her team's jersey—and throwing up the chill sign with his friends. The caption reads: LA vibes with the crew. Respect to all the athletes grinding 💪🏾

The photo does something to her that she doesn't want to acknowledge. There's something sexy about the casual way he's posed, the genuine smile on his face, the fact that he was repping her team months before she even knew he existed.

"No," she says out loud to her empty apartment. "Absolutely not."

She locks her phone and tosses it aside. She's here to work, to focus on basketball, to figure out her life without distractions. The last thing she needs is to develop some schoolgirl crush on a footballer who probably has women throwing themselves at him daily.

Men are assholes anyway. Every single one she's ever known has either wanted something from her, tried to use her, or worse. The familiar weight of old trauma sits heavy in her chest, and she pushes it down like she always does. Some things are better left buried.

Besides, she has a free day ahead of her, and Madrid is waiting to be explored.

In the bathroom, she wrestles with her lace front wig, trying to make it look less obvious that it's a wig. The Spanish humidity is already making the edges lift, and she makes a mental note to find someone who can do Black hair in this city. For now, she pulls it back into a high bun and carefully lays her edges with the small brush she never travels without.

The shower helps clear her head, and by the time she's dressed in a simple black tank top, denim shorts, and her favorite Adidas Sambas, she feels more like herself. She grabs her black Telfar bag—a splurge from her first endorsement check that she'll never regret—and heads out into the Madrid heat.

October in Spain feels exactly like October in LA, which is to say it doesn't feel like October at all. The sun is already beating down at ten in the morning, and she finds herself grateful for the familiar warmth on her skin. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend she's walking down Melrose instead of through the narrow streets of Malasaña.

The metro system is easier to navigate than she expected, though she gets plenty of stares on the train. Being 6'2" tends to attract attention anywhere, but in a country where the average woman is significantly shorter, she might as well be wearing a neon sign. A group of teenage girls whisper and point, and she catches enough Spanish to know they're commenting on her height.

"¿Jugadora de baloncesto?" one of them asks her friend.

"Tiene que ser. Es muy alta."

Jiana keeps her earbuds in and her expression neutral. This part never gets easier—being a spectacle wherever she goes, people assuming things about her because of her size. At least they're not recognizing her face, which means she can explore in relative peace.

She's taking photos of the Puerta del Sol when her phone rings. Carmen's name flashes on the screen.

"Hola, Jiana," Carmen's warm voice comes through. "¿Cómo estás? How are you feeling after last night?"

"Good," Jiana says, dodging a group of tourists taking selfies. "Sore, but good. Just exploring the city a bit."

"That's wonderful. Where are you right now?"

Jiana looks around at the bustling square. "Puerta del Sol, I think? There's a big statue of a bear."

"Perfect. I'm going to come pick you up."

"Why?" Jiana's defenses immediately go up. "I'm fine on my own. Just sightseeing."

"I know, and I'm glad you're getting out," Carmen says patiently. "But I want to take you somewhere special today. To meet the rest of the Real Madrid family."

"The rest of the—what do you mean?"

"You'll see. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Look for the black Mercedes."

Before Jiana can protest, Carmen hangs up, leaving her standing in the middle of one of Madrid's busiest squares feeling confused and slightly annoyed. She doesn't like surprises, especially ones that involve meeting new people. But Carmen has been nothing but kind since she arrived, so she supposes she can trust her for one afternoon.

Fifteen minutes later, she's sliding into the passenger seat of Carmen's familiar Mercedes, grateful for the air conditioning.

"You look lovely," Carmen says, pulling away from the curb. "Very... how do you say... effortless?"

"Thanks," Jiana mutters, still not sure where they're going. "So what's this about meeting the Real Madrid family?"

Carmen's smile is mysterious. "You'll see."

The drive takes them through parts of Madrid that Jiana hasn't seen yet—wider streets, modern buildings, areas that scream money and prestige. When they finally pull through security gates and into a sprawling complex that looks like something out of a sports movie, Jiana understands.

"The men's training facility," Carmen explains, parking near a building that's all glass and steel and Real Madrid logos. "I thought you should see where the other half of the family works."

"I don't really know anything about soccer," Jiana admits as they walk toward the entrance. "Like, at all. I know Messi and Ronaldo, obviously, but that's about it."

Carmen looks at her with mock horror. "Fútbol," she corrects dramatically. "In Spain, we call it fútbol. And you absolutely must come to a match while you're here. The atmosphere at the Bernabéu is unlike anything else in the world."

Jiana just nods politely, though privately she thinks watching a bunch of men kick a ball around for ninety minutes sounds about as exciting as watching paint dry.

Their tour guide is a young man named Miguel who speaks perfect English and clearly loves his job. He walks them through a facility that makes even Madrid Baloncesto's impressive setup look modest. The trophy room alone is overwhelming—cabinet after cabinet of silverware spanning decades.

"Real Madrid is the most successful club in the history of football," Miguel explains proudly. "Fifteen Champions League titles, thirty-six La Liga championships, twenty Copa del Rey victories..."

The numbers blur together as Jiana tries to look interested. Miguel points out photos and jerseys of legendary players—names she's never heard but that clearly mean everything to him.

"And of course, our current squad is exceptional," Miguel continues as they walk down a hallway lined with current player photos. "Jude Bellingham, our young English star. Kylian Mbappé, the French sensation who joined us this season. Aurélien Tchouaméni, another brilliant French midfielder..."

Jiana's attention snaps back at the familiar name, and she finds herself looking at a professional photo of the man whose Instagram she was stalking this morning. In his Real Madrid jersey, all serious expression and focused eyes, he looks every inch the elite athlete.

"They're all incredibly talented," Miguel goes on, apparently not noticing her sudden interest. "You should really come to a match. I think you'd enjoy it more than you expect."

"Maybe," Jiana says noncommittally, though she's still looking at Aurélien's photo.

Miguel leads them through more hallways, past meeting rooms and offices, until they reach a set of glass doors that open onto the training pitches. The Spanish sun is brutal out here, and Jiana immediately understands why several of the players practicing have stripped off their shirts.

And wow. Professional footballers, it turns out, are very easy on the eyes.

She finds herself appreciating the view more than she'd care to admit—all that melanin and muscle working under the Spanish sun. As a tall woman, she's always struggled with dating. Most men are either intimidated by her height or fetishize it, and finding someone who can literally look her in the eye is rare. But out here on this training pitch are men who are not only tall enough but clearly built like the elite athletes they are.

Not that she's interested in dating anyone. She's not. She's here to work.

"Mister Ancelotti," Miguel calls out in accented English, waving to an older man in coaching gear. "Come meet our new basketball player."

The legendary coach approaches with a warm smile, and Carmen immediately launches into rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow. She catches her name and something about basketball, but the rest is lost on her.

"He says it's wonderful to have you here," Carmen translates. "And that he heard you played beautifully last night. He's looking forward to watching more of your games."

"Gracias," Jiana says, one of the few Spanish words she's confident about. Ancelotti beams and says something else that makes Carmen laugh.

"He says you're very tall, and that's good for basketball," Carmen translates with obvious amusement.

Before Jiana can respond, a group of players jogs over, clearly curious about the visitor. Miguel immediately launches into introductions.

"Jude Bellingham," he says, gesturing to a young man who's somehow even prettier in person than in photos. He's got the kind of face that belongs in magazines, all sharp jawlines and bright eyes, and when he grins, Jiana understands why teenage girls worldwide lose their minds over him.

"Alright," Jude says in an accent she immediately recognizes as British. "You're the basketball player, yeah? Saw your game last night. You're proper class."

"Thanks," Jiana says simply.

"Eduardo Camavinga," Miguel continues, indicating a slightly older player whose smile is infectious. He's beautiful in a completely different way from Jude—more mature, with micro dreads and the kind of confidence that comes from knowing exactly who he is.

"Enchantée," Camavinga says with a French accent, taking her hand briefly. "Welcome to Madrid."

"And—" Miguel starts, but is interrupted by another player jogging over, and Jiana's breath catches in her throat.

Because Aurélien Tchouaméni in person, shirtless and slightly sweaty from training, is apparently her kryptonite.

He's taller than she remembered—maybe 6'3" or 6'4"—with the kind of build that comes from years of professional athletics. His dark skin gleams with perspiration, and there's something about the way he moves that suggests power held in check. When he stops in front of their group, she has to actively work to not let her eyes wander down his chest.

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," Miguel says unnecessarily, because Jiana very much knows who he is.

"We've actually met," Aurélien says, his accent wrapping around the English words in a way that causes shivers down her spine. "Briefly, in the parking garage. Welcome to Madrid, Jiana."

"Thanks," she says, proud of how level her voice sounds.

"You were brilliant last night," Jude jumps in enthusiastically. "That three-pointer in the fourth quarter was mental. Proper clutch."

"The footwork on your fadeaway was beautiful," Camavinga adds. "Very technical."

They're both talking to her like they actually know basketball, which surprises her. Most footballers she's encountered barely acknowledge that women's sports exist.

"You really watch basketball?" she asks, genuine curiosity overriding her usual guard.

"Course," Jude grins. "Love the game."

"Cool," she says simply.

The conversation continues around her—Jude asking about the differences between American and European basketball, Camavinga wondering if she's adjusting well to Madrid—but Jiana finds herself giving mostly one or two-word answers. It's her default mode with new people, especially men. Keep the walls up, don't give them anything to work with, don't let them think they have an opening.

But she's very aware of Aurélien standing there, still shirtless, still looking at her with those dark eyes that seem to see more than she's comfortable with. Every time he speaks, his voice does something to her that she doesn't like, and she finds herself looking everywhere except directly at him.

This is exactly what she was afraid of. Distraction. Complication. The kind of mess that always seems to follow her when she's trying to focus on basketball.

She came to Madrid to get her life together, not to develop some ridiculous attraction to a footballer who probably has a different woman in his bed every night.

No matter how good he looks without a shirt on.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

"So you actually follow women's basketball?" Jiana asks again, still not quite believing it. Most guys her age either don't know the WNBA exists or think it's some kind of joke.

"Religiously," Aurélien says, and there's something in his voice that makes her believe him. "Started watching during the bubble season. Got hooked after that."

"The bubble was crazy," she admits, letting her guard down just slightly. "Playing without fans was weird as hell, but the level of play was insane. Everyone was so locked in."

"Your performance against Seattle in the semifinals," Aurélien says, his eyes lighting up. "That fourth quarter was crazy. Twenty-one points in twelve minutes."

Jiana blinks. She's used to people knowing her basic stats, but that's specific. That's someone who actually watches games, not just highlights.

"You really do watch," she says, and for the first time since arriving in Madrid, she sounds genuinely impressed.

Before Aurélien can respond, another voice cuts through their conversation.

"What's all this?"

They turn to see another player jogging over, and Jiana immediately recognizes him even though she knows nothing about football. Kylian Mbappé is the kind of famous that transcends sports—the kind of face that shows up on billboards and magazine covers worldwide.

He's smaller than she expected but moves with the fluid grace of someone who's spent their entire life perfecting their craft. When he smiles, it's the kind of expression that's launched a thousand endorsement deals.

"Kylian," Miguel says quickly, "this is Jiana Jackson, the American basketball player who's training with our women's team."

"Ah," Kylian says with a French accent. "The famous Jiana Jackson. I saw some highlights from last night. Very impressive."

"Thanks," Jiana says simply, because even she knows who Kylian Mbappé is.

"You should try football while you're here," Miguel suggests enthusiastically. "Would you like to practice? Just kick the ball around a bit?"

Jiana's face immediately goes blank with terror. "I don't play soccer."

The collective groan from all four footballers is immediate and dramatic.

"Football," they all say in unison, with varying degrees of exasperation.

Jude throws his hands up. "How many times, mate? It's football."

"Soccer is what Americans call it when they're being wrong," Camavinga adds with a grin.

"The disrespect," Kylian says, shaking his head sadly.

Aurélien just laughs, not joining in the mock outrage, and something about that makes Jiana look at him differently.

"Come on," he says, stepping closer to her. "I'll show you. It's not that hard."

"Ooh, he'll show her," Jude immediately starts teasing, making exaggerated kissing noises.

"Aurélien's got game," Camavinga joins in, grinning widely.

"Look at him being all smooth," Jude adds, puckering his lips mockingly.

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly, but he ignores his teammates completely, keeping his attention on Jiana. "Ignore them. They're idiots."

Jiana looks confused as hell by the teasing, and Kylian looks equally lost by the banter flying around them.

"What are they even talking about?" she mutters.

"Nothing important," Aurélien says firmly, shooting his teammates a look that clearly says 'shut up.' "Just... come on. I'll show you some basics."

Something in his voice—patient, not mocking—makes her nod reluctantly. "Fine. But I'm probably gonna be trash at this."

"Everyone's trash at first," he says, leading her toward the center of the pitch in front of one of the goals. "That's how learning works."

The other players follow, clearly entertained by the prospect of watching an elite basketball player attempt football. Miguel produces a ball from somewhere, and suddenly Jiana finds herself standing on a football pitch with five men staring at her expectantly.

"Okay," Aurélien says, positioning the ball at his feet. "Football is all about control and precision. Watch."

He demonstrates a simple pass, sending the ball exactly where he wants it with what looks like minimal effort. The movement is so fluid, so natural, that it takes Jiana a moment to appreciate the technical skill behind it.

"That looked easy," she says.

"It is easy," he grins. "When you've been doing it for sixteen years."

"Damn," she says, watching as he effortlessly juggles the ball with his feet. "How long you been playing... football?" She says the word carefully, like she's testing out a foreign language.

Aurélien's laugh is warm and genuine. "Since I was eight. Basically my whole life."

"That's wild," Jiana says. "How's that even work here? Like, did you play for your school or something?"

"Not really," Aurélien explains, still casually controlling the ball while he talks. "I went to a youth academy in Bordeaux when I was eleven. Football was the main thing, school came second. Though my parents made sure I kept my grades up."

"Your parents were cool with that?" Jiana asks, genuinely curious. "My grandma would've lost her shit if I'd told her I wanted to skip school for sports."

"My parents are African," Aurélien says with a grin. "Education is everything to them. They made sure I understood that football could end at any time, so I needed backup plans. Made me get good marks, go to university, all that."

"Wait, what?" Jiana's eyes widen. "You went to college? Like, actual college?"

"Université," Aurélien nods. "Did my degree while playing professionally."

"In what?"

"Accounting and finance."

Jiana stares at him like he's grown a second head. "You're shitting me."

"I'm not," he laughs. "Why is that so surprising?"

"Because..." She gestures vaguely at him, at the football pitch, at the entire situation. "You're like, a superstar athlete. Most of us can barely handle practice and games, let alone actual school."

"It wasn't easy," Aurélien admits. "But my parents weren't hearing any excuses. Plus, it's good to have something to fall back on."

Jiana makes a self-deprecating sound. "Man, I dropped out of USC after my sophomore year to go pro. Should've been smart like you and actually finished."

"You could still do it," Aurélien says, and his tone is completely serious. "It's never too late for education."

Jiana shrugs noncommittally. "Maybe. Right now I'm just trying to figure out basketball, you know?"

"Fair enough," he says. "But the offer stands. If you ever want help with university applications or anything, I know people."

There's something about the casual way he offers help—not condescending, not trying to fix her, just genuinely supportive—that makes something warm settle in Jiana's chest. She's not used to men offering assistance without expecting something in return.

"Thanks," she says quietly, and means it.

"Right," Aurélien says, clearly sensing the shift in mood and moving back to safer territory. "Ready to try this?"

He places the ball at her feet, and immediately Jiana understands why she stuck to basketball. The ball feels foreign under her feet, completely different from the weight and bounce she's used to.

"Just try to pass it back to me," Aurélien says, backing up a few yards. "Don't overthink it."

Jiana approaches the ball the way she'd approach any athletic challenge—with determination and zero fear of looking stupid. She swings her leg and immediately sends the ball flying way over Aurélien's head.

"Shit," she mutters as Jude jogs off to retrieve it.

"Too much power," Aurélien says, not mockingly. "Try again, but softer. It's more about placement than strength."

Jude rolls the ball back, and Jiana tries again. This time she barely makes contact, and the ball dribbles pathetically a few feet in front of her.

"This is harder than it looks," she admits.

"Everything is," Aurélien says. "I probably couldn't make a solid free throw to save my life."

"Free throws are mental," Jiana says, grateful for the change of subject. "Like, ninety percent psychological. The physical part is easy once you get the mechanics down."

"See? Every sport has its moments," Aurélien says. "Try one more time. Just focus on hitting the ball."

This time, Jiana manages a decent pass that reaches Aurélien's feet. It's not pretty, but it's functional.

"There you go," he says, grinning. "You're getting it."

"That was trash and you know it," Jiana says, but she's almost smiling.

"Everything's trash until it isn't," Camavinga chimes in. "I couldn't juggle the ball five times when I started. Now look."

He proceeds to demonstrate about fifty different ways to control the ball, showing off in the way that only elite athletes can.

"Show off," Jude mutters good-naturedly.

"Says the man who spends twenty minutes on his hair every morning," Camavinga shoots back.

"My hair is a work of art," Jude says with mock seriousness. "It requires proper attention."

"You're all ridiculous," Kylian observes, but he's grinning.

Jiana finds herself almost relaxing as she listens to their banter. It reminds her of being around her teammates—the easy camaraderie that comes from spending too much time together, the way athletes can shift from intense competition to playful teasing in seconds.

"You want to try shooting?" Aurélien asks. "At the goal?"

"I'm gonna miss by like ten feet," Jiana warns.

"Probably," he agrees cheerfully. "But that's how you learn."

He sets up the ball about twenty yards from the goal, and Jiana stares at the target like it's personally offended her.

"Just hit it clean and aim for the corners," Aurélien advises. "The goalkeeper can't save what they can't reach."

"There's no goalkeeper," Jiana points out.

"Pretend there is. Aim like someone's trying to stop you."

Jiana takes a deep breath and approaches the ball. This time, she makes solid contact, and the ball flies toward the goal in something resembling the right direction. It goes wide, but not embarrassingly so.

"Better," Aurélien says. "You're getting the hang of it."

"I'm really not," Jiana says, but there's something satisfying about making contact with the ball properly. "This shit is hard."

"Language," Miguel says automatically, then immediately looks embarrassed. "Sorry, I forget you're American. Different standards."

"Nah, you're good," Jiana says. "My grandmother would've smacked me for cussing in front of adults too."

The mention of her grandmother brings with it the familiar ache of loss, and she immediately regrets bringing it up. Aurélien must notice the shift in her expression because his voice becomes gentler.

"Want to try one more?" he asks.

This time, when she lines up for the shot, Aurélien steps up beside her.

"Here," he says, "let me show you the technique."

He demonstrates the motion slowly—the approach, the plant foot, the follow-through. When he strikes the ball, it rockets into the top corner of the net with a satisfying thud.

"Show off," Camavinga calls out.

"It's not showing off if it's just technique," Aurélien calls back, but he's grinning.

"Try to copy that one," he tells Jiana. "Don't worry about power, just focus on hitting it cleanly."

Jiana attempts to replicate what she saw, and while her shot doesn't have nearly the same power or accuracy, it at least goes in the general direction of the goal.

"Progress," Aurélien says approvingly.

"Barely," Jiana mutters, but she's secretly pleased with the improvement.

"You know what?" Jude says, jogging over. "For someone who's never played football before, that's not terrible."

"Damning with faint praise," Jiana says dryly.

"I'm being serious," Jude insists. "Most people can't even make contact with the ball their first time. You've got good coordination."

"I'm a professional athlete," Jiana points out. "I'd hope I have decent coordination."

"Different sport, different skills," Kylian says. "The fact that you can adapt this quickly says something."

"It says I'm not completely hopeless," Jiana says. "That's about it."

"Give yourself more credit," Aurélien says quietly. "You're being way too hard on yourself."

There's something in his tone that makes Jiana look at him more carefully. Most people, when they try to build her up, sound like they're reciting from a self-help book. But Aurélien sounds like he actually means it.

"Thanks," she says, and is surprised by how genuine she sounds.

"Right," Miguel says, checking his watch. "I think that's enough football education for one day. We should let these gentlemen get back to their training."

"Wait," Jude says, "you should come to our match this weekend. Against Celta Vigo. You'd get to see what real football looks like."

"I don't really know anything about the rules," Jiana admits.

"Doesn't matter," Camavinga says. "The atmosphere is incredible even if you don't understand what's happening."

Jiana feels the familiar urge to make excuses, to politely decline, to maintain the distance she's comfortable with. But something about the genuine enthusiasm in their voices makes her hesitate.

"I don't know," she says finally. "Maybe."

"That's not a no," Jude says triumphantly. "We'll take it."

"Don't pressure her," Aurélien says, shooting his teammates a warning look. "She's got her own things to focus on."

"I'm not pressuring," Jude protests. "Just extending a friendly invitation to experience the beautiful game."

"The beautiful game," Jiana repeats skeptically. "Y'all really call it that?"

"Some people do," Aurélien says. "Usually the pretentious ones."

"Oi," Jude says in mock offense. "I'm not pretentious."

"You spent fifteen minutes yesterday explaining why your hair gel is superior to everyone else's," Camavinga points out.

"That's not pretentious, that's educational," Jude defends. "You need to learn about proper hair care."

"My hair is fine," Kylian says, running a hand through his cropped cut.

"Basic," Jude says dismissively. "No creativity."

Jiana finds herself genuinely amused by their dynamic. It's the kind of easy friendship she's always envied but never quite managed to find for herself. Even with her teammates, there's always been a distance, a sense that she's holding something back.

"Anyway," Miguel says, clearly trying to regain control of the situation, "we should probably head back. Jiana, thank you for visiting. I hope you'll consider coming to a match."

"Maybe," Jiana says again, which seems to satisfy everyone.

As they start walking back toward the building, Aurélien falls into step beside her.

"Thanks for trying," he says quietly. "I know that probably wasn't your idea of fun."

"It wasn't terrible," Jiana admits. "Your friends are... energetic."

"That's one word for it," Aurélien says with a grin. "They mean well, though. They're good people."

"Yeah," Jiana says, and is surprised to find she means it. "They seem like it."

"The offer about university still stands," Aurélien says as they reach the building. "If you ever want to talk about it. No pressure."

"Why?" Jiana asks, the question slipping out before she can stop it. "Why would you care about my education?"

Aurélien pauses, considering his answer carefully. "Because you're smart," he says finally. "And talent like yours should have every opportunity available."

It's such a simple statement, delivered without any apparent agenda, that Jiana doesn't know how to respond. She's used to people wanting things from her—money, connections, reflected fame. But Aurélien seems to genuinely want nothing more than to see her succeed.

"Thanks," she says quietly.

"No problem," he says. "And Jiana? If you do decide to come to the match this weekend, let Carmen know. She can arrange everything."

"I'll think about it," Jiana says, and for the first time, she actually means it.

As Carmen drives her back to her apartment, Jiana finds herself thinking about the afternoon in ways she hadn't expected. She'd gone in expecting to be bored, to endure another obligation in her increasingly complicated life in Madrid.

Instead, she'd met people who seemed genuinely interested in getting to know her as a person rather than just as a basketball player. She'd tried something new and failed spectacularly without anyone making her feel stupid about it. And she'd had conversations that didn't feel like work.

It's been a long time since she's experienced that kind of ease with new people, especially men. Her default mode is suspicion and distance, walls built from years of disappointment and worse. But something about the way Aurélien had looked at her—like she was worth knowing, worth supporting—had made those walls feel less necessary.

Which is exactly why she needs to be careful.

Jiana has learned the hard way that when something seems too good to be true, it usually is. And Aurélien, with his easy smile and genuine interest and complete lack of apparent agenda, seems far too good to be true.

As soon as Carmen's Mercedes disappears through the security gates, Jude and Cama are on him like vultures.

"Bruv," Jude says, grinning so wide it looks painful. "That was the most obvious thing I've ever seen in my life."

"What?" Aurélien asks, though he knows exactly what Jude's talking about. He bends down to tie his boots, hoping to avoid the inevitable interrogation.

"Don't play dumb," Cama laughs, bouncing a football off his knee. "You were gone for her. Standing all close, being all patient teacher man."

"I was just being helpful," Aurélien says, straightening up. "She's new here, doesn't know anyone."

"Helpful," Jude repeats, making exaggerated air quotes. "Is that what we're calling it?"

Kylian jogs over, still looking confused. "What are you all talking about? What did I miss?"

"Our boy Aurélien," Jude says, throwing an arm around Kylian's shoulders, "is proper smitten with the basketball girl."

"Smitten?" Kylian's English is perfect, but sometimes British slang still trips him up.

"He wants to..." Jude makes a series of crude hand gestures that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Christ, Jude," Aurélien rolls his eyes. "It's not like that."

"Then what's it like?" Cama asks, genuinely curious. "Because you were acting different, bro. Like, really different."

Aurélien runs a hand through his hair, that unconscious lip-licking thing happening as he tries to figure out how to explain something he doesn't really understand himself.

"I don't know," he admits finally. "She's... interesting. Smart. Talented. I like being around her."

"You like being around her," Jude repeats slowly. "Mate, you were practically drooling when she tried to kick the ball."

"I was not—"

"You were," Kylian interrupts. "Even I noticed."

"See?" Cama says triumphantly. "Even Kyky saw it."

"Don't call me Kyky," Kylian says automatically, but he's still grinning.

"Point is," Jude continues, "you need to make a move. Ask her out, slide into her DMs, something."

"Nah," Aurélien shakes his head. "She just got here. She's trying to focus on basketball, settle into a new country. Last thing she needs is some footballer trying to get with her."

"But what if someone else swoops in?" Jude asks. "What if some other guy sees how beautiful she is and makes his move first? You'll feel dumb as fuck then, won't you?"

The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in Aurélien's chest, but he pushes it down. "Then good for him, I guess."

"Maybe she doesn't like you like that anyway," Cama says thoughtfully, then immediately regrets it when all three of his friends turn to stare at him accusingly.

"What?" he asks defensively. "I mean... does she like men?"

The collective groan from Jude, Aurélien, and Kylian is immediate and dramatic.

"Bruv," Jude says, throwing his hands up. "Just because she's not throwing herself at us doesn't mean she's gay."

"Some women have standards," Aurélien adds dryly.

"Clearly not if she was staring at you," Kylian says, which makes everyone pause.

"What do you mean?" Aurélien asks, suddenly very interested.

"She was staring," Kylian says matter-of-factly. "At your chest, your abs. Very obvious about it too, even though she was trying to be subtle."

"She was?" Aurélien's voice comes out slightly higher than normal.

"Aurél," Kylian laughs. "She could barely look you in the face when you weren't wearing a shirt. Trust me, the attraction is mutual."

Aurélien feels something warm spread through his chest at the confirmation of what he'd hoped but hadn't been sure about.

"That doesn't mean anything," he says, but he's fighting a grin.

"It means she's not blind," Cama says. "Which is a good start."

"What's her story anyway?" Kylian asks. "How did she grow up?"

"I don't know much," Aurélien admits. "She was raised by her grandmother, but that's about all I know."

"You sure you want to get involved with that?" Kylian asks carefully. "Maybe she has baggage?"

"We all have baggage," Aurélien says simply. "That's life."

"True," Kylian nods. "Just... be careful, yeah? Americans can be complicated."

"Says the guy who's never dated an American," Jude points out.

"I'm just saying," Kylian defends. "Different culture, different expectations."

"She's not some alien species," Aurélien says. "She's just a person."

"A very tall, very beautiful person," Cama adds helpfully.

"Who was definitely checking you out," Jude says with a grin.

"Alright, enough," Aurélien says, but he's smiling now. "Let's finish training before Ancelotti comes looking for us."

The rest of practice passes in a blur of drills and scrimmaging, but Aurélien's mind keeps drifting to Jiana—the way she'd looked when she was concentrating on the ball, the genuine curiosity in her voice when she'd asked about his education, the brief moment when her walls had seemed to come down.

After they shower and change, there's the usual crowd of fans waiting outside the facility. Aurélien signs jerseys and takes selfies, switching easily between Spanish and French depending on who's asking. A little girl hands him a drawing she made of him scoring a goal, and he makes sure to give her extra attention, knowing how much these moments mean.

"Gracias, Aurélien!" she calls as her parents lead her away, clutching the signed drawing.

"De nada, pequeña," he calls back, waving.

The black matte Lamborghini Urus is waiting in the players' parking area, and Aurélien slides behind the wheel with a sense of relief. As much as he loves the fans, there's something to be said for the quiet luxury of his car.

The drive to his villa in La Moraleja is peaceful, the Madrid traffic surprisingly light for this time of day. He's got the windows down, letting the October heat flow through the car, and for a moment he almost feels normal—just a guy driving home from work, not a professional footballer whose every move gets photographed and analyzed.

Ocho is waiting at the door when he gets home, tail wagging frantically as if Aurélien's been gone for weeks instead of hours. The Belgian Malinois follows him through the house, clearly hoping for attention and possibly treats.

"Salut, mon grand," Aurélien says, scratching behind Ocho's ears. "You missed me, eh?"

Ocho responds by trying to climb into Aurélien's lap, all sixty pounds of muscle and enthusiasm.

"You're too big for this," Aurélien laughs, but he doesn't push the dog away. There's something comforting about Ocho's unconditional affection, the way the dog doesn't care about goals or contracts or media obligations.

His phone buzzes, and when he checks it, his heart nearly stops.

jianajackson is now following you.

"Merde," he breathes, staring at the notification like it might disappear. This is huge. This is—

His phone buzzes again.

You have a new message request from jianajackson.

Aurélien's hands are actually shaking as he opens Instagram. The message is simple: Thanks for today. The football lesson was actually kind of fun.

He stares at the screen for a long moment, his mind racing. Usually, he's the first one in girls' likes, sliding into DMs without a second thought. But Jiana is different. Everything about her suggests she values subtlety, thoughtfulness. The last thing he wants to do is come across as another athlete trying to add her to his roster.

But she messaged him first. That has to mean something, right?

He types and deletes about fifteen different responses before settling on something simple: Glad you enjoyed it. You're a natural. Well, maybe with more practice 😄

He hits send before he can overthink it, then immediately starts second-guessing himself. Too casual? Not casual enough? Should he have used a different emoji?

Twenty minutes pass with no response. Then an hour. Then two.

By the time he's finished dinner, he's convinced himself that he's blown it somehow. That he read the situation wrong, that she was just being polite, that he's an idiot for thinking—

His phone buzzes.

Jiana: Definitely need more practice. Thanks for being patient with the disaster that was my footwork

Aurélien grins at his phone like an idiot. She's got a sense of humor about herself, which somehow makes her even more attractive.

Aurélien: Everyone starts somewhere. Even Ronaldinho probably couldn't kick a ball straight when he was learning

Jiana: Comparing me to Ronaldinho is a stretch but I appreciate the confidence

Aurélien: Have to start with the mindset. Visualization is half the battle

Another long pause. Aurélien tries to focus on the football match playing on his TV, but his attention keeps drifting to his phone.

Jiana: You sound like my old coach. He was always talking about mental preparation and stuff

Aurélien: Smart coach. The psychological side of sports is underrated

Jiana: True. Mental game is everything in basketball

The conversation flows more easily after that, touching on sports psychology, the differences between individual and team sports, the pressure of performing in front of crowds. Jiana's responses come faster now, and Aurélien finds himself genuinely enjoying the exchange.

Aurélien: Speaking of crowds, you should come to our match this weekend. Against Celta Vigo. Would love to show you what real football looks like 😉

The typing indicator appears and disappears several times. Aurélien holds his breath.

Jiana: I don't think I’ll understand it

Aurélien: Doesn't matter. The atmosphere is wild. Good energy and someone would always explain things to you.

Another long pause.

Jiana: Maybe. When is it?

Aurélien: Saturday, 7pm. I can arrange everything through Carmen

Jiana: ...

Jiana: Okay. Yeah. I'll come

Aurélien actually pumps his fist in the air, startling Ocho who's been dozing next to him on the couch.

Aurélien: You'll love it, I promise

Jiana: We'll see. I reserve the right to be bored out of my mind

Aurélien: Fair enough. But I think you'll be surprised

Jiana: Maybe. Anyway, I should probably get some sleep. Still adjusting to the time change

Aurélien: Of course. Sleep well, Jiana. Looking forward to Saturday

Jiana: Me too. Good night

Aurélien stares at the screen long after the conversation ends, that stupid grin still plastered across his face. She's coming to the match. She wants to see him play.

It's not a date, he reminds himself. It's just... a friendly invitation to experience Spanish football culture. Nothing more.

But as he gets ready for bed, he finds himself already planning what he'll wear to warm-ups, wondering if he should let her sit in the family section or the VIP box, and hoping he'll score a goal with her watching.

For the first time in years, Aurélien is genuinely excited about someone getting to see him play. And that feels like the beginning of something that could be either wonderful or terrifying.

Probably both.

Jiana stares at her closet like it's personally offended her, hangers pushed back and forth with increasing frustration. She can put together a pregame fit with her eyes closed—something that photographs well for the inevitable social media posts, makes a statement without trying too hard. But what the hell do you wear to a football match in Spain?

She's been standing here for thirty minutes in nothing but her underwear and a tank top, trying on and discarding different combinations. The denim jacket looks too try-hard. The sundress feels too formal. Everything either screams "I'm trying to impress you" or "I have no idea what I'm doing," both of which are unfortunately accurate.

Finally, she settles on a white ribbed crop top that shows just a hint of her belly piercing—casual but flattering—and a light blue denim skirt that hits mid-thigh without being inappropriate. Her white Nike Dunk Lows are comfortable and versatile, and she grabs her blue Diesel shoulder bag, the one she splurged on during a good mood shopping trip in Beverly Hills last spring.

She checks herself in the full-length mirror one more time, adjusting the waistband of her skirt and making sure her edges are still laid properly. The October Madrid heat means she doesn't need a jacket, which is a relief because it's one less thing to stress about.

"Good enough," she mutters to her reflection, though her stomach is doing weird flips that have nothing to do with what she's wearing and everything to do with seeing Aurélien play in front of 80,000 people.

The Santiago Bernabéu is even more intimidating than she expected, and she's played in some impressive arenas. The sheer size of it is overwhelming—she's heard it described as a cathedral of football, and now she understands why. Carmen had arranged for a driver to take her, explaining that Aurélien had specifically requested she sit in his family box rather than the general VIP area.

"It's more private," Carmen had said with a knowing smile. "Less overwhelming for your first match."

The family box is intimate but luxurious, with pristine white leather seats, a perfect view of the pitch, and enough space for maybe eight people. Tonight, she's the only one here, which makes her feel both special and completely out of place. There's a small refrigerator stocked with water and soft drinks, and someone has left a Real Madrid scarf on her seat—a thoughtful touch that she suspects came from Aurélien.

The atmosphere builds gradually as the stadium fills. Jiana has experienced loud crowds before—the WNBA Finals, March Madness, even some college football games when she was at USC. But this is different. The noise from 80,000 people isn't just audible; it's physical, a wall of sound that seems to vibrate in her chest and make her teeth ache.

When the Real Madrid players emerge from the tunnel for warm-ups, the roar is absolutely deafening. She instinctively covers her ears, overwhelmed by the sheer volume of human voices united in purpose.

She spots Aurélien immediately—number 14, moving with that same controlled confidence she'd noticed at training but somehow amplified by the magnitude of the stage. Even from this distance, she can see the focus in his movements as he goes through his preparation routine, the way he seems to inhabit his body completely, every gesture purposeful and precise.

The Real Madrid warm-up kit is sleek—all black with subtle royal blue accents—and it fits him perfectly, highlighting the athletic build she's definitely not supposed to be noticing but absolutely is. When he runs, there's something almost predatory about his stride, like energy contained and waiting to be unleashed.

The game itself is confusing as hell. She tries to follow what's happening, but the constant movement and lack of obvious scoring opportunities make it difficult to understand when something significant is occurring. In basketball, she can read the flow of a game instinctively—the momentum shifts, the crucial possessions, the moments when everything hangs in the balance. Here, she's lost, dependent on the crowd's reactions to tell her what matters.

What she can focus on is Aurélien. The way he commands the midfield like a conductor leading an orchestra, always seeming to be in the right place at the right time. There's something almost balletic about how he moves—powerful but graceful, controlled but dynamic. He covers an incredible amount of ground, appearing wherever the ball needs him to be.

And then there are the little things that she probably shouldn't be noticing but absolutely is. The way he sticks his tongue out slightly when he's concentrating on a particularly difficult pass, a habit that reminds her of Michael Jordan. How he wipes his sweaty face with the bottom of his jersey during breaks in play, revealing glimpses of defined abs that make her mouth go dry. The casual way he pours water over his head, letting it run down his face and neck in a way that should be purely functional but somehow seems intensely sensual.

There's one moment in the second half when he spits on the pitch after a particularly physical challenge, and it should be disgusting—she's always found men's casual bodily functions gross—but instead it strikes her as very masculine.

Jiana, who's trauma-locked most of the "normal" things girls her age experience like casual hookups and situationships, finds herself actually getting turned on watching him play. The realization is both thrilling and terrifying, like discovering a part of herself she'd assumed was permanently broken.

Dr. Porter would be so proud, she thinks wryly, remembering her last therapy session before leaving LA. Finally feeling normal human attraction. Only took ten years and moving to another continent.

Real Madrid wins 3-1, with goals from Jude, Kylian, and a late strike from Vinícius that seals the victory. Aurélien doesn't score, but she watches him celebrate his teammates' goals with genuine joy, throwing his arms around them and shouting with the kind of unfiltered happiness that reminds her why she fell in love with team sports in the first place. There's something beautiful about grown men allowing themselves to be that openly emotional, that vulnerable in their excitement.

The celebration in the stadium is intense, a wall of sound and movement that feels almost religious in its fervor. Fans are crying, hugging strangers, singing songs she doesn't understand but somehow feels in her bones. For a moment, she gets it—the passion, the devotion, the way sports can unite complete strangers in shared joy.

After the match, Carmen appears to escort her down to the players' area, navigating through corridors lined with photographs of Real Madrid legends. The hallway outside the locker room is crowded with family members, friends, and—unsurprisingly—a collection of women who are clearly hoping to catch a player's attention.

Groupies are the same everywhere, Jiana thinks, watching girls in barely-there dresses and full makeup position themselves strategically near the locker room doors. Most of them are stunning in that Instagram-perfect way—flawless makeup, designer outfits, the kind of effortless beauty that comes from having unlimited time and money to invest in appearance.

Whether it's NBA players or footballers, the Joes never change.

Players start emerging from the locker room fifteen minutes later, freshly showered and dressed in team-issued tracksuits. Jude appears first, his hair still perfectly styled despite having just played ninety minutes of professional football, immediately surrounded by what appears to be an entire extended family. His smile is genuinely warm as he hugs an older woman who's clearly his mother, and something about the interaction makes Jiana smile.

Camavinga follows, then Kylian, each drawing their own crowd of admirers and family members. The energy is festive, celebratory, full of the kind of joy that comes from shared victory.

When Aurélien finally emerges, Jiana's breath catches slightly. His hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and the Real Madrid tracksuit fits him like it was custom-made. The navy blue and white color scheme highlights his dark skin beautifully, and there's something about the way he moves—loose-limbed and relaxed now that the pressure of performance is over—that makes her stomach do those weird flips again.

He scans the crowd until his eyes find hers, and his entire face lights up with a smile that makes her feel like she's the only person in the room.

"Hey," he says, making his way over to her through the crowd. Up close, she can see the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the way his shoulders are finally allowed to relax now that the match is over. "You stayed."

"Good game," she says, trying to sound casual even though her heart is doing something irregular in her chest. "I mean, I have no idea what happened half the time, but you guys won, so that's good, right?"

Aurélien laughs, that warm sound she's beginning to associate with genuine happiness. "It was a bit chaotic. Not our cleanest performance, but three points is three points."

There's something in his voice—a slight hoarseness from ninety minutes of shouting instructions to teammates—that she finds unexpectedly attractive. Everything about him right now speaks of physical exertion, of a body pushed to its limits and emerging victorious.

They stare at each other for a moment, eye to eye thanks to their similar heights, and Jiana finds herself caught in the intensity of his gaze. There's something almost electric about being able to look directly into someone's eyes without heels, without having to crane her neck or look down. Most of the men she's known have been intimidated by her height, but Aurélien seems to appreciate it, like he's finally found someone who exists in the same physical space he does.

She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, suddenly feeling awkward under his attention. "I should probably head out," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the crowd. "Let you celebrate with your teammates and stuff."

"Are you hungry?" Aurélien asks quickly, like he's afraid she'll disappear if he doesn't keep her talking. "We could grab something to eat. I know this place—"

"I'm not really—" Jiana starts, but her stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly enough to be heard over the hallway chatter.

Aurélien's grin is absolutely wicked, transforming his face from exhausted athlete to mischievous boy in the span of a second. "Liar."

Before she can respond, he wraps his arm around her shoulders in a casual, friendly gesture that's probably meant to be comforting. "Come on, let's get some tacos. I know this place that—"

Jiana immediately tenses and shrugs his arm off, stepping away quickly enough that she almost stumbles. The reaction is automatic, born from years of not wanting to be touched without explicit permission, of learning that casual physical contact usually leads to expectations she's not prepared to meet.

"Sorry," Aurélien says immediately, his hands going up in a gesture of surrender. His voice is soft, concerned, and there's no hint of offense or confusion—just immediate understanding that he's crossed a boundary. "I didn't mean to—"

"No touching," Jiana says, her voice sharper than she intends. The words come out harsh, defensive, but she can't take them back. "I just... don't like being touched."

"Of course," Aurélien says gently, and there's no judgment in his voice, no probing questions about why or what happened to make her this way. Just simple acceptance. "I won't do that again. My bad."

The apology is so straightforward, so free of the ego she's used to encountering when men are corrected, that it catches her off guard. Most guys would press for an explanation, or worse, take it as a personal challenge. But Aurélien just nods and adjusts his behavior immediately.

They walk out into the cool Madrid night, and almost immediately fans spot Aurélien. Word travels fast through the crowd of people still milling around the stadium, and within minutes there's a small group of supporters approaching with jerseys, phones, and requests for photos.

Aurélien stops without being asked, always patient and gracious even though he's clearly tired from ninety minutes of intense physical activity. He signs autographs with a silver Sharpie someone hands him, poses for selfies, and answers questions in rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow but clearly means the world to the people asking.

She watches him interact with supporters, noting details she probably shouldn't be cataloging. How his tracksuit fits him perfectly, tailored in a way that suggests Real Madrid spares no expense on their players' appearance. The way he carries himself with a certain aura that's both confident and approachable—star quality, her grandmother would have called it. His white Nike high-tops are pristine and his crew socks show just above the shoes in a style that's distinctly American.

"Your style is very American," she tells him once he's finished with the fans and they're walking toward the parking garage.

"I like American culture," he says simply, glancing at her with something that might be shyness. "Music, fashion, sports. Always have."

"Since when?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"Since I was a kid, really. My uncle lived in New York for a few years when I was growing up. He'd send me things—jerseys, shoes, music. I guess it stuck."

He leads her to his car, and when she sees the matte black Lamborghini Urus waiting in the players' section, Jiana lets out an appreciative whistle.

"You like it?" Aurélien asks, and his expression is almost boyish in its excitement, like a kid showing off a favorite toy.

"It's a nice car," she says, deliberately monotone because she doesn't want to feed his ego too much.

"Just nice?" He's clearly fishing for a better reaction, and his grin suggests he knows exactly what he's doing.

"I fuck with it," she admits.

Aurélien moves to open the passenger door for her, and Jiana looks confused by the gesture. In her experience, men her age don't do things like open car doors—chivalry died somewhere around the time of dating apps and hookup culture.

"Maman raised me right," he explains with a shrug, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"So you're a gentleman?" she teases, though there's wariness underneath the humor. Men who present themselves as gentlemen often have the most to hide.

"Of course, Ji," he says, smiling widely enough to show perfect teeth. "Always."

There's something in the way he says it—sincere but with just a hint of suggestion—that makes her stomach flutter. But Jiana's default mode is mistrust, so she pushes the feeling down and slides into the passenger seat.

The interior of the Urus is exactly what she'd expect from an expensive car—all black leather and brushed aluminum, with a sound system that could probably be heard from space. It smells like cologne and leather conditioner, distinctly masculine but not overwhelming.

He closes her door and jogs around to the driver's side, sliding in with the kind of athletic grace that suggests he's comfortable in his body in a way most people never achieve. Jiana sits stiffly, clearly uncomfortable in the intimate space of the car, hyperaware of his presence beside her.

"Buckle up, please," Aurélien says gently, fastening his own seatbelt before starting the engine.

He drives the way she imagines most men his age drives—one hand on the wheel, completely relaxed, like the machine is an extension of himself. It's casual and confident and somehow intensely attractive.

"So what did you think of the Bernabéu?" he asks, glancing at her briefly before focusing back on the road.

"It's huge," Jiana says, which feels like an understatement. "The noise was insane. I could barely hear myself think."

"That's the best part," Aurélien grins, downshifting smoothly as they approach a red light. "The atmosphere. Nothing like it in the world. Did you hear them singing during the match?"

"I heard something," she admits. "Couldn't understand what they were saying, but it sounded beautiful."

"'Hala Madrid y nada más,'" he says, his pronunciation perfect. "'Come on Madrid and nothing more.' It's our anthem. Been singing it for decades."

There's pride in his voice when he talks about the club, the kind of deep affection that comes from being part of something bigger than yourself. Jiana recognizes it because she feels the same way about basketball.

"What kind of food do you like?" he asks after a moment, changing lanes with smooth precision.

Jiana shrugs, feeling suddenly self-conscious about her tastes. "I'm pretty basic. Love McDonald's."

Aurélien laughs out loud at that, a sound of genuine amusement rather than mockery. "I'm not taking you to McDonald's."

"You don't have to spend money on me," she says quickly, that familiar panic rising in her chest. In her experience, when men spend money on her, they expect something in return. "I'm a simple girl. Nothing wrong with Mickey D's."

"I can't do that to you," he says, shaking his head with mock horror. "We can go somewhere lowkey, though. A place I go to all the time when I want good food without the fuss."

"What, like NOBU?" she teases, thinking of the expensive sushi chain that NBA players are always posting about on Instagram.

"If you want," Aurélien says seriously, missing the sarcasm entirely. "I love the one in Malibu. The view is incredible."

Jiana laughs self-deprecatingly, the sound coming out harsher than she intends. "I've never been to NOBU. That's like, rich people food."

Aurélien actually gasps, taking his eyes off the road long enough to stare at her in what appears to be genuine shock. "What do you mean? You're in LA! The Malibu one is beautiful, and the one in West Hollywood is incredible too. Now we have to go."

"Please don't," Jiana says, panic creeping into her voice at the thought of him spending hundreds of dollars on dinner for her.

Aurélien goes quiet for a moment, clearly sensing her discomfort but not understanding its source. When he speaks again, his voice is carefully hopeful.

"Another time?" he asks. "When you're more comfortable with the idea?"

Jiana stares at him while he's stopped at a red light, the Madrid streetlights casting shadows across his face. He's looking at her with an expression she can't quite read—hopeful but patient, interested but not pushy.

"Next time?" she asks, the words coming out smaller than she intended.

"Yeah," he says, his smile returning as the light turns green. "Maybe we could make it a celebration dinner. If you win your next game, we go to NOBU."

The words hit Jiana like a physical blow. Her breathing becomes shallow, her heart rate picking up as the implications sink in. He's talking about future plans, about seeing her again, about celebrating her achievements. It's the kind of thing normal people do, the kind of casual relationship building that she's never learned how to navigate.

"Like a date?" The words tumble out before she can stop them, her mouth moving faster than her brain, anxiety making her voice tight and breathless.

Aurélien stutters for a moment, clearly caught off guard by the direct question. He glances at her shocked expression, taking in her wide eyes and rapid breathing.

"You want to go out with me?" he asks carefully, like he's afraid of saying the wrong thing.

"Don't mind me," Jiana says quickly, backtracking as fast as she can. "Just a dumb question. I don't know why I said that."

"We can go on a date if you want," Aurélien says after a moment, his voice careful and measured. "That's... cool with me."

"I can't—I don't—I've never—" Jiana starts making excuses, the words tumbling over each other in her haste to explain why it's impossible, why he wouldn't want to, why she's not the kind of girl who goes on dates. "Never been on one before," she admits finally, her voice so low she hopes he won't hear.

But he does hear, and he goes quiet, streetlights passing over his face as he drives. His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and she can see him processing this information, trying to figure out how to respond.

"We can do whatever you want, Ji," he says finally, his voice gentle and free of judgment. "Date, no date, just hanging out as friends... whatever makes you comfortable."

Jiana is stunned by the sincerity in his voice, by the way he's managed to take the pressure off without making her feel pathetic for her inexperience. She straightens in her seat slightly, then quickly changes the subject before he can ask any follow-up questions.

"So this place has tacos?"

The taco place is exactly what Aurélien promised—lowkey and authentic, the kind of hole-in-the-wall spot that locals love but tourists never find. It's called "Tacos El Primo" and it's tucked between a barbershop and a laundromat in a neighborhood that's clearly not designed for people like them.

The owner, a middle-aged Mexican man named Carlos, clearly knows Aurélien well. They exchange rapid Spanish that Jiana can't follow, but Carlos's face lights up when he sees her, and he insists on bringing them extra portions of everything.

They sit at a small table in the back corner, away from the handful of other customers, and Jiana loads her tacos with enough hot sauce to make Aurélien's eyes water just watching.

"You're gonna regret that," he warns, taking a more conservative approach to the salsa selection.

"I like spicy food," she says, taking a huge bite that proves her point. The heat is immediate and intense, but she doesn't even flinch.

"Respect," Aurélien says, clearly impressed. "Most people can't handle Carlos's hot sauce."

They talk easily about Madrid—what she's seen so far, what she thinks of the city compared to LA, Aurélien's favorite places to visit when he wants to escape the football world. He tells her about hidden restaurants in the historic center, about parks where he likes to walk Ocho, about bookstores and art galleries that most tourists never discover.

"You read?" Jiana asks, surprised.

"All the time," he says. "Mostly non-fiction. Business books, biographies, some philosophy. Helps me think about life beyond football."

It's another layer to him that she hadn't expected. Most athletes she knows live entirely in the present, focused only on their sport and the lifestyle it provides. But Aurélien seems to think about the future, about who he wants to be when his playing career ends.

He tells her about his villa in La Moraleja, describing it in a way that makes it sound comfortable rather than ostentatious. About Uncle Bertrand, who helps manage the household and keeps him grounded when the pressures of professional football threaten to overwhelm him.

"You live with your uncle?" Jiana teases, grinning around a bite of taco.

"My uncle lives with me," Aurélien corrects with mock offense. "Very different situation. I own the house."

"Sure it is," she laughs.

"He's in Bordeaux right now anyway," Aurélien says. "Visiting family, checking on some business interests. Comes back next week."

He shows her pictures of Ocho on his phone, and Jiana finds herself genuinely smiling at the photos of the massive dog trying to fit into inappropriate spaces—curled up in a chair clearly meant for humans, attempting to hide behind a plant that's half his size.

"He thinks he's still a puppy," Aurélien explains, scrolling through what appears to be hundreds of dog photos. "Sixty pounds of muscle trying to sit in my lap like he weighs ten pounds."

"That's actually really cute," Jiana says, and means it. There's something endearing about a successful professional athlete being completely devoted to his dog.

"He'd love you," Aurélien says without thinking, then seems to realize how that sounds. "I mean, he loves everyone. Very friendly dog."

The conversation flows easier than she expected, without the awkward pauses or forced topics she's used to. Aurélien seems genuinely interested in what she has to say, asking follow-up questions and remembering details from their previous conversations. When she mentions missing certain foods from LA, he makes mental notes. When she talks about adjusting to the different pace of life in Madrid, he offers practical advice without being condescending.

"It's different here," he says. "Less rushed than LA or New York. Takes some getting used to if you're American."

"You've spent time in America?" she asks.

"Some. Training camps, vacation, visiting friends. I love it there. The energy is incredible."

When they're back in the car outside her apartment building, the energy shifts slightly. The evening is winding down, and there's an awareness between them that this has been more than just a casual meal between acquaintances.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the Urus's engine quietly purring, before Aurélien speaks.

"This was fun," he says, his voice soft in the darkness of the car.

"It was," Jiana agrees, surprised by how much she means it. She can't remember the last time she enjoyed someone's company this much without feeling like she needed to perform or maintain a certain image.

Aurélien stares at her for a moment, like he's trying to memorize her face in the dim light from the street lamps. "Do you want to hang out again?"

Jiana's mouth opens, her defenses automatically rising like armor, but Aurélien continues quickly.

"As a friend," he says, his voice gentle and free of pressure. "You look like you could use one."

"How do you know what I need?" Jiana asks, immediately defensive. The words come out sharper than she intends, but she's tired of people thinking they can read her, tired of being seen as a project to fix.

"You're in a new city in a different country, Ji," Aurélien says calmly, his voice steady and reasonable. "Having a friend isn't a bad thing, you know? Doesn't have to be complicated."

"Mmhmm," she says, not quite trusting his motivations but unable to argue with the logic. "I'll think about it," she says finally, which feels like the safest response.

"Good," Aurélien says, his smile visible even in the darkness. "Take all the time you need. Good night, Jiana," he says softly as she reaches for the door handle.

"Good night," she replies, getting out of the car and walking toward her building without looking back, though she can feel his eyes on her until she disappears through the entrance.

Aurélien sits in the car for several minutes after she's gone, smiling like a fool and replaying every moment of the evening in his mind, before finally driving away through the quiet Madrid streets.

Inside her apartment, Jiana closes the door and immediately slides down the wall to the floor, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight. She starts crying and laughing at the same time, overwhelmed by emotions she doesn't know how to process or name.

The evening had been... nice. Better than nice. It had been easy and comfortable and normal in a way she's never experienced with a man. But that's exactly what terrifies her.

Whatever Aurélien thinks he wants with her—friendship, dating, whatever—he won't be interested much longer once he realizes how fucked up she really is. Once he understands the depth of her damage, the extent of her trust issues, the reasons why she's never been on a date at twenty-four years old. The thought makes her cry harder, but there's also relief in it—the familiar territory of expecting disappointment, of knowing that good things don't last.

She wipes her tears away slowly, taking deep breaths the way Grandma Rose had taught her when the panic attacks started after the incident with her mother's dealer.

"Breathe in for four, hold for four, out for four, baby girl," she can hear her grandmother's voice as clearly as if she were sitting right there beside her on the hardwood floor. "The feelings will pass. They always do. You're stronger than whatever's trying to break you."

The memory of her grandmother's voice—patient, loving, unconditionally supportive—makes her cry harder, but also helps center her. Rose Jackson had been the only person who'd ever loved Jiana without conditions, without expectations, without trying to change her or fix her or make her into something she wasn't.

Jiana sniffles and gets up from the floor, her emotional walls sliding back into place like armor she's worn so long it feels like skin. She heads to the bathroom to get ready for bed and practice tomorrow.

No more thinking about boys. No more Aurélien. No more fantasizing about what it might be like to be normal, to trust someone, to let her guard down long enough to see what might grow in the space between them.

She has basketball to focus on, and that's all that matters. That's all that's ever mattered.

Even if part of her—a part she thought was dead—wishes desperately that things could be different.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[emjayewrites]

I love Camavinga too! I had a fic for him before but deleted it. Might have to bring it back @irishmanwhore what do you think?

👀

[emjayewrites]

3000 posts!

[emjayewrites]

@plan3tch1ld you like aurel too?

@rougereds we may have another convert babes

👀

[emjayewrites]

Writing again today and may have something out for my tchoua girlies if these meetings let me.

Please hop in my asks if you want to talk!

[emjayewrites]

ball in your court • aurélien tchouaméni [1/25]

SUMMARY: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson is a force on the court…and a nuisance off of it. From fights to partying mere hours before important games, Jiana needs a redemption tour, and her agent thinks Madrid may be her best option. But navigating Madrid during the WNBA off season requires more than learning Spanish, the country’s culture, and understanding the cutthroat fan base, Jiana finds herself in the line of sight of Real Madrid’s midfielder Aurélien Tchouaméni, who just like every other man with eyes is instantly attracted to her. However, just like any other man who comes her way, she spits him out before he could even figure out what’s happening. Too bad for Jiana that Aurélien is already head over heels.

PAIRINGS: Aurélien Tchouaméni x Jiana Jackson (fc: Rickea Jackson)

WARNINGS: cursing, graphic sexual scenes, mentions of sexual/emotional/physical abuse, mentions of group homes/foster care system, depression/mental health issues, romantic!aurelien (18+/minors dni)

TAGLIST: @rougereds @kjlovesbigwilo @amirawrah @mufasathatniggatho @captainwithoutmakingitlove @reveuseetoiles @yeea-nah @aurelover @judesvirtual @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro @mariejuli @dexastres @beauty-gurl @virgilsgurl @iamryanl @muglermami @jessnotwiththemess @bbgkoo @peyiswriting @imjustheretomanifest @127hydrangeas @sailurmewn @cocobutterqwueen @irishmanwhore @dima-lfc @iam-lulu

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The conference room at CAA Sports feels like a fucking courtroom, and Jiana Jackson is pretty sure she's about to get the death penalty. The leather chair beneath her is too stiff, the air conditioning set to arctic blast, and her agent Rob sits across from her looking like he'd rather be anywhere else on earth. Rob Martinez—mid-forties, salt-and-pepper beard meticulously trimmed, wearing a Tom Ford suit—has that look on his face. The one that means she's about to hear some shit she definitely doesn't want to hear.

Here we go, Jiana thinks, crossing her arms over her chest. The defensive posture is automatic, learned from years of protecting herself in situations where bad news came wrapped in concerned voices and disappointed expressions.

"Jiana," Rob starts, his voice carrying that careful tone she's learned to hate. It's the same voice her social workers used to use, the same one her mother's public defender had perfected. "We need to talk."

"We are talking," she replies, but her stomach is already twisting itself into knots. The wall-to-wall windows of the Beverly Hills office show a perfect view of LA sprawl, palm trees swaying in the October heat, and she finds herself wishing she was anywhere but here. "So talk."

Rob slides a tablet across the polished mahogany table, the glass surface reflecting the recessed lighting overhead. ESPN headlines fill the screen in that familiar red and black font: "Sparks Forward Jiana Jackson Ejected After Technical Foul," "Jackson's Locker Room Altercation Raises Questions," "WNBA's Bad Girl: Has Jiana Jackson Gone Too Far?"

She's seen them all already. Hell, she's lived them all. Each headline represents a moment when her anger got the better of her judgment, when the pain she carries around like a second skin finally broke through the surface. The problem is that the pain never goes away, but the headlines keep multiplying.

"Your reputation is becoming a problem," Rob says bluntly, and Jiana appreciates that he's not trying to sugarcoat it. After four years of working together, he knows she prefers brutal honesty to diplomatic bullshit. "The Sparks management is getting pressure from the league office. They appreciate your talent—you averaged 18.2 points and 8.4 rebounds this season—but talent doesn't mean shit if you're a liability."

Liability. The word sits heavy in the air between them. It's not the first time she's been called that, and it probably won't be the last. From the moment she walked into that first foster home at eight years old, people have been trying to figure out what to do with Jiana Jackson. Too angry for some families, too damaged for others, too much trouble for anyone who wasn't her grandmother.

"I'm not a liability," she snaps, though even she knows it sounds weak. Her voice carries the slight rasp she's had since childhood, a remnant of too many nights spent screaming into pillows to muffle the sound. "I play hard. Sometimes that means getting physical."

"Getting physical is one thing." Rob leans back in his chair, and she can see the exhaustion in his dark brown eyes. He's been fighting for her longer than most people, longer than she probably deserves. "Getting arrested for public intoxication three hours before a playoff game is another."

The memory hits like a physical blow. That night three weeks ago—sitting in a holding cell in downtown LA, still wearing her pregame outfit, watching her teammates on the news talking about how disappointed they were. The shame had been worse than the hangover, worse than the media circus that followed.

She'd been dealing with her half-brother Malik calling again, asking for money she didn't have to spare. "Mom's in the hospital again," he'd said, like that was supposed to make her care. Like twenty years of neglect and abuse could be erased by a medical emergency. "She's asking for you, Ji. She wants to make things right."

But there was no making things right. Not after what that woman had put her through. Not after what she'd allowed to happen.

"It was a mistake," Jiana mutters, picking at the edge of her thumbnail—a nervous habit from childhood that she's never been able to break.

"It was the last straw," Rob corrects, his voice gentler now. "The Sparks are considering a trade. They don't want to—you're one of the most talented players they've ever had—but they will if you don't get your act together."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the gut. Los Angeles is the only home she's known since her grandmother died five years ago. Grandma Rose had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else, wearing a homemade shirt with Jiana's number painted in glittery letters.

The thought of starting over somewhere else, with new teammates who'd already heard all the stories about her, makes her throat tight.

"What do you want me to do?" she asks, and she hates how small her voice sounds. It reminds her of being fourteen years old, standing in a police station trying to explain why she'd beaten the shit out of three older girls who'd cornered her after school. "They started it," she'd said then, the same way she says it now. But starting it and finishing it are two different things, and Jiana has always been better at the finishing part.

Rob leans forward, his expression softening in that way that makes her think of her grandmother. Sometimes she forgets that Rob isn't just her agent—he actually gives a damn about her wellbeing, which makes him either incredibly stupid or incredibly loyal. Maybe both.

"I want you to take the off-season seriously," he says, pulling out a thick folder from his briefcase. The leather case is buttery soft, probably Italian, and she wonders absently if successful agents learn about expensive accessories in agent school. "Not just training, but working on yourself. Your mindset. Your reputation."

"I train hard every off-season—"

"In LA, where the same temptations and triggers are waiting for you every day," he interrupts, and she knows he's right even though she doesn't want to admit it. "I'm talking about a change of scenery. Complete change."

The Real Madrid logo catches her eye immediately, bold white letters against a royal blue background that somehow manages to look both classic and intimidating. She's not much of a soccer fan, but even she knows what that logo represents—excellence, tradition, winning at the highest level.

"Real Madrid Baloncesto," Rob explains, opening the folder to reveal glossy photos and official-looking documents. "Their women's team. They've extended an invitation for you to train with them during the WNBA off-season. October through March."

Jiana stares at the folder like it might grow teeth and bite her. The photos show a state-of-the-art facility that makes the Sparks' training center look like a high school gym. Players in crisp white and blue uniforms running drills, lifting weights, looking like they actually enjoy being there.

"Spain?" The word comes out strangled. "You want me to go to Spain?"

"I want you to go somewhere you can focus on basketball without distractions," Rob says patiently. "Somewhere you can rebuild your image and work with some of the best coaches in Europe." He slides another photo across the table—the Madrid Baloncesto women's team celebrating a championship, confetti falling around them like snow. "They've produced players who've gone on to dominate in the WNBA. This could be huge for your development."

Development. Another one of those words that follows her around like a lost dog. She's been "developing" her whole life—developing coping mechanisms, developing trust issues, developing a reputation for being too much trouble to handle.

"Or it could be a complete waste of time in a country where I don't speak the language," she says, but she's already studying the photos more carefully. The players look happy, united. Nothing like the tension she'd felt in the Sparks locker room these past few months, where conversations stopped when she walked in and teammates looked at her like she was a bomb that might explode at any moment.

"You'll learn," Rob says simply. "You're smarter than you give yourself credit for, Ji. And it's not just about basketball. Real Madrid has one of the best PR teams in the world. They know how to rehab a public image."

Rehab. Like she's broken and needs fixing. Maybe she is. Maybe that's exactly what she needs—to be thousands of miles away from everything that reminds her of who she used to be, who she's been told she is.

"What about my sponsorships?" The practical question grounds her, pulls her back from the edge of whatever emotional cliff she'd been approaching. Under Armour and MAC Cosmetics aren't huge deals—not like what the NBA guys get—but they pay her bills and then some. More importantly, they represent the first time in her life that someone wanted to pay her for something other than keeping her mouth shut. "They okay with me disappearing to Europe?"

"Already cleared it with both brands." Rob's smile is genuine, the first real one she's seen from him today. "Under Armour is actually excited about the international exposure. They're trying to expand their European market, especially in women's basketball. And MAC..." He grins wider. "They're planning a European campaign launch next year. Having their brand ambassador playing in Madrid could work out perfectly."

He's thought of everything, which means he's been planning this for longer than just today. Probably since her arrest made national news, maybe even before that. The realization should piss her off—the idea that people are making decisions about her life behind her back—but instead she feels something that might be relief. Someone is looking out for her, even when she's too stubborn to look out for herself.

"When would I leave?" she asks, though she's not sure she's actually agreeing to anything yet. Her grandmother always told her to ask questions first and make decisions second, one of the many pieces of advice she's been terrible at following.

"Two weeks. Gives you time to get your affairs in order, maybe visit Rose before you go."

The mention of her grandmother hits different than she expects. Rose Jackson is buried in Forest Lawn Cemetery in Hollywood Hills, a far cry from the South Central neighborhood where she'd raised Jiana after the state took her away from her mother. Every month, Jiana drives there with fresh flowers—sunflowers, because those were Grandma Rose's favorites—and sits by the headstone trying to figure out what the hell she's doing with her life.

"I need to think about it," she says finally, but they both know what her answer will be. Where else is she going to go? Back to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, where the silence is so thick she can taste it? Back to the Sparks, where her teammates tolerate her presence but don't really want her there?

Rob nods, sliding a business card across the table with elegant script that reads "Carmen Ruiz, Player Relations, Real Madrid C.F." "Carmen will be your point of contact in Madrid. She speaks perfect English, knows the city inside and out, and she's dealt with American players before. Think of her as your cultural translator."

"And if I hate it?"

"Then you come home and we figure out plan B." Rob's voice is steady, confident. "But I don't think you'll hate it. I think you'll find exactly what you've been looking for."

What I've been looking for. Jiana almost laughs at that. She's been looking for peace of mind, for a place where her past doesn't follow her around like a shadow, for the feeling of belonging somewhere that she lost when her grandmother died. But those aren't things you can find by changing geography. Those are things you have to build from the inside out, and Jiana's inside has been under construction for so long she's forgotten what the finished product is supposed to look like.

But maybe that's exactly why she needs to go. Maybe being somewhere completely new, where nobody knows her story or her reputation, is exactly the kind of fresh start she's been afraid to want.

"Forty-eight hours," she says, standing up and gathering the folder. "Give me forty-eight hours to decide."

Rob stands too, straightening his tie in a gesture that probably costs him a thousand dollars. "Fair enough. But Jiana?" He waits until she meets his eyes, and for a moment his expression reminds her so much of her grandmother that her chest gets tight. "This isn't just about basketball. This is about giving yourself permission to start over. Clean slate, new environment, new opportunities to be whoever you want to be."

New opportunities. The phrase follows her out of the building and into the parking garage where her Jeep Wrangler sits baking in the October LA heat. The car is one of her few indulgences—matte black with custom rims and tinted windows that let her disappear when she needs to. She sits in the driver's seat for a long moment, air conditioning blasting, staring at the folder Rob insisted she take with her.

Real Madrid. The most successful football club in the world, and apparently their basketball program isn't too shabby either. The photos show facilities that would make NBA teams jealous, players who look like they actually enjoy being there, coaches who seem invested in development rather than just managing personalities and putting out fires.

Her phone buzzes with a text from her teammate Nneka, asking if she wants to grab dinner. For a second, she considers it. Nneka is one of the few people on the team who still talks to her like a human being instead of a walking PR disaster, who remembers that underneath all the attitude and anger is someone who just wants to belong somewhere.

But then she thinks about sitting in some trendy LA restaurant, trying to pretend everything is fine while people at other tables recognize her and whisper about her latest fuck-up. The idea makes her stomach turn and her skin feel too tight, the way it always does when she feels trapped.

Instead, she drives home to her apartment in Manhattan Beach, taking the long way along the coast because the sight of the ocean sometimes helps quiet the noise in her head. The Pacific stretches endlessly to the horizon, indifferent to her problems and her reputation and her inability to stay out of her own way.

The apartment is nice—ocean views, modern kitchen, walk-in closet full of designer clothes she rarely wears because most places she goes, people are looking for reasons to judge her anyway. But it feels empty in a way that has nothing to do with furniture or decoration and everything to do with the fact that she's been living there for four years without making it feel like home.

She spreads Rob's photos across her coffee table, pushes her laptop aside, and FaceTimes the one person whose opinion actually matters to her.

"Hey, baby girl," comes the familiar voice of Coach Thompson, her high school coach who'd been more of a father figure than anyone else in her life. His weathered face fills the screen, dark skin lined with years of standing on sidelines and dealing with teenage attitudes, but his eyes are the same warm brown that had made her feel safe when she was seventeen and angry at the world. "How'd the meeting go?"

"About as well as expected," Jiana says, settling back into her couch and pulling a throw pillow into her lap. "Rob wants to ship me off to Spain."

Coach Thompson's eyebrows raise toward his receding hairline. He's in his sixties now, retired from coaching but still involved with youth programs in South Central, still the same man who'd seen something in a angry, defensive teenager that nobody else wanted to deal with. "Spain? That's a new one. What's in Spain?"

She explains the Real Madrid opportunity, watching his expression shift from skeptical to thoughtful as she talks. He's one of the only people who knows her whole story—the childhood trauma, the trust issues, the way she uses anger as armor to keep people at a distance. He'd been there through the worst of it, never judging, never trying to fix her, just consistently showing up until she'd finally learned to trust that he wasn't going anywhere.

"Sounds like Rob is looking out for you," he says when she finishes. "Question is, are you ready to let him?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" But she knows what it means, even as she asks the question.

"Jiana, I've known you since you were fourteen years old, sitting in my office after getting suspended for fighting." His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he'd used when she was a teenager convinced that the whole world was against her. "You've got more talent in your pinky finger than most players have in their whole body. But talent isn't what's holding you back, and we both know it."

She knows where this is going, but she asks anyway because sometimes she needs to hear it said out loud. "What is?"

"Fear," he says simply, and the word hits like a physical blow because it's true. "Fear of trusting people. Fear of letting your guard down. Fear of being vulnerable enough to actually grow."

The words sting because they cut straight to the bone, past all her defenses and excuses to the truth she's been running from for years. Ever since what happened with her mother's dealer when she was fourteen—the thing she's never talked about with anyone, not even Coach Thompson, not even the therapists her grandmother had insisted she see. Ever since the juvenile detention center, where she'd learned that the world was divided into predators and prey and she'd rather be the predator. Ever since watching her grandmother slowly waste away from cancer while Jiana was powerless to help, learning that loving someone just meant having more to lose.

"So you think I should go?" she asks, her voice smaller than she intended.

Coach Thompson is quiet for a moment, studying her through the screen with those eyes that have always seen too much. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "I think you should ask yourself what Rose would want you to do."

The mention of her grandmother makes her chest tight in a way that still catches her off guard, even five years later. Rose Jackson had been everything—mother, father, best friend, biggest supporter, the only person who'd ever looked at Jiana and seen potential instead of problems. She'd sat in the stands at every high school game, cheering louder than anyone else in her homemade shirts and costume jewelry, believing in Jiana even when Jiana didn't believe in herself.

And she'd died just as Jiana's professional career was beginning, leaving her alone with nothing but basketball and a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign.

"She'd want me to stop being scared," Jiana admits quietly, the words barely audible even to herself.

"There you go," Coach Thompson's smile is warm, proud. "That woman raised you to be brave, not bitter. Maybe it's time to honor that."

After they hang up, Jiana sits in the quiet of her apartment, watching the sun set over the Pacific Ocean through floor-to-ceiling windows that she'd thought were so impressive when she'd first moved in. The Real Madrid folder sits open beside her, full of possibilities and unknowns that should terrify her but somehow don't.

Spain. A country she's never visited, a language she doesn't speak, a team full of strangers who probably know her reputation but not her story. It should be the kind of situation that sends her running in the opposite direction, the way she's been running from anything that requires trust or vulnerability for years.

Instead, for the first time in months, she feels something that might be hope.

_____________________________________________

The terminal is massive, all gleaming steel and glass, filled with the sounds of multiple languages and the constant movement of travelers heading to destinations she's only seen in movies. Everything feels foreign—the signs, the accents, even the way people dress and carry themselves. For a moment, the panic she's been keeping at bay threatens to overwhelm her.

What the hell am I doing here?

Carmen meets her at the arrivals gate. She’s a woman in her forties with short dark hair styled in a way that suggests she pays attention to fashion, kind eyes that remind Jiana a little of her grandmother, and the kind of professional warmth that seems genuine rather than forced. She speaks perfect English with just a hint of an accent, and she doesn't seem fazed by Jiana's obvious culture shock or the way she's gripping her carry-on bag like a lifeline.

"Welcome to Madrid," Carmen says, taking one of Jiana's bags despite her protests. Her handshake is firm, confident, and she's wearing a Real Madrid polo that somehow manages to look both professional and approachable. "How was your flight?"

"Long," Jiana admits, following her through the airport and trying not to gawk at everything like the tourist she definitely is. "And turbulent as hell over the Atlantic. I think I saw my life flash before my eyes somewhere over Ireland."

Carmen laughs, a genuine sound that helps ease some of the tension in Jiana's shoulders. "Your first time in Europe?"

"First time anywhere outside the US, actually." It feels embarrassing to admit, but it's true. Most of her teammates have traveled extensively—summer leagues in different countries, vacations in exotic locations that they post about on Instagram with captions about finding themselves. Jiana has always spent her off-seasons training in LA or visiting her grandmother's grave, too afraid to venture beyond the familiar.

"Then you're in for a treat," Carmen says as they approach a sleek black Mercedes that screams "expensive but understated." "Madrid is a beautiful city. Rich history, incredible food, some of the most passionate sports fans in the world."

The drive into the city is like something out of a European travel documentary. Ancient buildings with intricate facades stand next to sleek modern architecture, tree-lined boulevards stretch as far as she can see, and everywhere there are people—walking, talking, living their lives in a way that seems more relaxed than the constant hustle of LA. The city feels old in a way that America never does, like it has stories to tell and all the time in the world to tell them.

"Your apartment is in Malasaña," Carmen explains as they navigate through traffic that somehow seems more civilized than LA despite the narrow streets. "Great neighborhood, lots of young people, very safe. Close to the training facility and to the city center if you want to explore."

"And the team?" Jiana asks, watching Madrid unfold outside the window like a painting come to life. "What should I expect?"

Carmen glances at her in the rearview mirror, and Jiana can see her choosing her words carefully. "They're excited to have you. Your reputation precedes you, but in a good way. They know you're talented, and they respect what you've accomplished in the WNBA."

"Even with all the..." Jiana waves her hand vaguely, and Carmen's understanding smile tells her that she doesn't need to finish the sentence.

"Everyone has a story, Jiana. What matters is what you do going forward."

The apartment is better than she expected—a two-bedroom space on the third floor of a building that looks like it was built sometime in the last century but has been renovated with modern touches. High ceilings with exposed beams, hardwood floors that gleam in the afternoon light, modern furniture that manages to feel both stylish and comfortable. There's a balcony overlooking a tree-lined street where she can see people walking dogs, carrying grocery bags, living their ordinary lives in a way that seems almost magical after the isolation of LA.

"You'll get a phone with a Spanish number, and there's Wi-Fi already set up," Carmen explains, showing her around with the efficiency of someone who's done this before. "The kitchen is fully stocked with basics, and there's a grocery store two blocks away. El Corte Inglés is the big department store if you need anything else—clothes, electronics, whatever."

"When do I meet the team?"

"Tomorrow. Practice starts at ten, but come in at nine to get your physical done and meet the coaching staff." Carmen hands her a folder similar to the one Rob had given her weeks ago, but this one is in Spanish and English. "Everything you need is in there—training schedule, team contact information, emergency numbers. My cell phone is highlighted—call me anytime, day or night, if you need anything."

After Carmen leaves, Jiana stands in the middle of her new temporary home, feeling more alone than she has in years but also, strangely, more hopeful. The silence is different here—not the constant hum of LA traffic and sirens, but something quieter, more peaceful. Through the open balcony doors, she can hear the distant sound of conversation in Spanish, the clip-clop of heels on cobblestones, someone practicing guitar in another apartment.

She unpacks methodically, the ritual as much about claiming the space as it is about organization. Her clothes go in the spacious closet—Under Armour training gear, a few nice dresses for whatever social events might come up, the vintage Lakers jersey that had been her grandmother's. Her basketball shoes go by the door, a habit from childhood that she's never been able to break. Her few pieces of jewelry—the diamond studs Rob had given her when she signed her first endorsement deal, the simple gold chain that had been her grandmother's, the small cross pendant she'd worn since she was baptized at eight years old—go on the dresser beside a photo of her and Grandma Rose at her high school graduation.

By the time she's finished, the sun is setting, painting the apartment in warm orange light that makes everything look like a postcard. She should be hungry—it's been hours since she ate anything substantial—but her stomach is still on California time, confused and slightly rebellious.

Instead, she sits on the balcony with a bottle of water, watching people walk by on the street below and trying to process the reality of where she is. Tomorrow she'll meet her new teammates, women who probably know her statistics but not her story. Tomorrow she'll start the process of rebuilding her career and maybe, if she's lucky, herself. Tomorrow the real work begins.

But tonight, for the first time in months, Jiana Jackson allows herself to feel something that might be optimism. Maybe Rob was right. Maybe this is exactly what she needs—a place where she can be whoever she wants to be, instead of whoever she's been told she is.

___________________________________________

The training facility is everything the photos promised and more, a testament to the kind of resources that come with being part of the most successful sports organization in the world. State-of-the-art equipment that looks like it belongs in a science fiction movie, multiple courts with perfect hardwood and professional-grade lighting, weight rooms that put most NBA facilities to shame. Jiana arrives early—partly because she's still adjusting to the time change and partly because she wants to get a feel for the place before meeting everyone.

The physical exam is routine but thorough—height, weight, body fat percentage, flexibility tests, blood work, the kind of comprehensive evaluation that makes her feel like a racehorse being assessed for breeding potential. At 6'2" and in the best shape of her life, she knows she's impressive on paper. It's everything else she's worried about.

"Your Spanish is..." The team doctor, a middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind eyes, pauses diplomatically as she reviews Jiana's medical history.

"Nonexistent," Jiana supplies, because there's no point in pretending otherwise. "I'm working on it."

"Don't worry. Most of the team speaks English, and they're very patient with Americans who are learning. You'll pick it up faster than you think."

The coaching staff is a mix of Spanish and international backgrounds, led by head coach Elena Vargas, a former professional player who speaks four languages fluently and has a reputation for developing young talent. She's probably in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a practical ponytail and the kind of no-nonsense demeanor that suggests she's seen it all and isn't easily impressed.

"We're not here to change who you are," Coach Vargas explains during their one-on-one meeting in her office, which is decorated with trophies and team photos spanning decades. "We're here to help you become the best version of yourself. On and off the court."

It's exactly what Jiana needs to hear, even if she's not sure she believes it yet. Too many coaches have tried to mold her into something she's not, to smooth out the rough edges that make her effective on the court but difficult to manage off it.

Meeting the team is the part she's been dreading most since the plane touched down. Fifteen women from different countries and backgrounds, all of whom probably know her reputation for being difficult, for being the kind of player who comes with warning labels and asterisks. She expects judgment, whispers, the kind of cold reception she'd gotten from some of her teammates in LA after her arrest made national news.

Instead, she gets enthusiastic introductions and what seems like genuine enthusiasm for her presence. María Sánchez, the team captain, is a point guard in her late twenties with the kind of court vision that makes everyone around her better. She speaks perfect English with a slight British accent—the result, she explains, of playing professionally in London for three years—and immediately takes Jiana under her wing with the easy confidence of someone used to being a leader.

Lucia Romano, a shooting guard from Italy, shares stories about her own adjustment period when she first arrived in Madrid three years ago, not speaking Spanish and feeling overwhelmed by the cultural differences. Even the younger players, the ones who seem like they should be intimidated by having a WNBA All-Star join their team, are eager to practice with her and ask questions about playing in America.

"They're good people," Coach Vargas tells her after the first practice, as they watch the team cool down and chat in small groups. "Give them a chance."

Practice itself is brutal in the best possible way, a reminder of why she fell in love with basketball in the first place. The pace is faster than she's used to, the style more fluid and creative than the structured systems she's played in since college. There's less emphasis on set plays and more on reading and reacting, on building chemistry through repetition and trust rather than rigid adherence to schemes.

Jiana finds herself working harder than she has in months, pushing her body to keep up with teammates who've been playing together for years, who communicate in a mixture of Spanish, English, and basketball universal language. By the end of the two-hour session, she's exhausted, exhilarated, and cautiously optimistic about what the next few months might hold.

"You did good today," María tells her as they stretch in the cool-down area, sweat still cooling on their skin despite the October chill. "Tomorrow will be even better."

"Thanks," Jiana says, and she means it more than she expected to. "This is... different than I expected."

"Different how?"

Jiana considers the question, trying to put her finger on what feels so foreign about this environment. "Less toxic, I guess. More like a team and less like a group of individuals competing against each other for playing time and recognition."

María nods knowingly, the kind of understanding that comes from years of experience in different basketball cultures. "That's the Madrid way. We succeed together or we fail together. No room for egos or drama."

No room for drama. Jiana can work with that, even if drama seems to follow her around like a lost dog regardless of her intentions.

After practice, she grabs lunch at a small café near the facility, a tiny place with mismatched chairs and walls covered in local artwork. She practices her Spanish on the patient waitress who corrects her pronunciation with gentle humor and seems genuinely delighted by her attempts to order in broken Spanish. The food is incredible—fresh bread that tastes like it was baked that morning, olive oil that seems to have been blessed by gods, jamón that melts on her tongue like butter.

Later that night, in her apartment, she thinks about how long these five months will be and whether or not she made the right choice coming here.

Across the city, Aurélien is having the best water break of his life, and his teammates are starting to worry.

"Bruv, what the fuck is wrong with you?" Jude jogs over, grinning. "You're smiling like you won the lottery."

Aurélien can't stop scrolling through his phone, refreshing Instagram for the third time in two minutes. He's been following WNBA news religiously for years—initially because someone said American women could actually ball, but staying because the level of play genuinely impressed him.

But this? This is something else entirely.

"Nothing's wrong," he says, not looking up from his phone. His accent wraps around the English words in that way it always does when he's distracted, consonants just a little too precise. "Everything's perfect, actually."

Camavinga bounds over, always ready to investigate any potential drama. At twenty-three, he's got more energy than a hyperactive puppy and the curiosity to match. "Let me see," he demands, trying to grab Aurélien's phone. "What's got you acting like this?"

"Like what?" Aurélien pulls his phone away, but he's still grinning, and he knows his face is giving him away. He licks his lips—a nervous habit he's had since childhood—and tilts his head in that way he does when he's thinking about something that makes him happy.

"Like you're in love," Vinícius Jr. says with a laugh, joining their little circle. "Who is she? Spanish girl? French? Please tell me it's not another Instagram model."

"Better," Aurélien says, and he can hear the excitement in his own voice. "So much better."

He holds up his phone, showing them the post that's got him acting like a teenager with his first crush. It's from thescoreWNBA, one of the basketball accounts he follows religiously:

liked by wnba, hoops4life, jianajacksondefenceattorney, and 1.3M others

BREAKING: Los Angeles Sparks forward Jiana Jackson will spend the WNBA off-season training with Real Madrid Baloncesto's women's team. The 24-year-old All-Star arrives in Madrid this week for a five-month stint. 🏀⚪

ballfan23: Spain about to see what real basketball looks like 👑

wnbastanley: MADRID BETTER TREAT OUR GIRL RIGHT

eurohoopsaddict: She's gonna dominate over there. Different level.

madridista_forever: Welcome to the best city in the world!

basketballjunkie99: Plot twist: she never comes back to the WNBA 😂

hoops4life: 5 months in Madrid? Lucky girl

"Oh shit," Jude says, recognizing the look on Aurélien's face. "You know her?"

"Know her? Bro, she's incredible. Like, legitimately one of the best in the world."

He'd discovered Jiana while she was at USC, initially drawn to the highlights of her dunking. But it was her overall game that kept him watching—the way she could take over when needed, her defensive intensity, leadership qualities that showed even when teammates seemed to annoy her.

"You have a crush on a basketball player?" Camavinga asks, amused. "That's so random."

"It's not random. She's one of the best to ever do it."

"Show us," Vini says, genuinely curious.

Aurélien pulls up YouTube, finding a highlight reel from her rookie season. They huddle around his phone, watching her dominate with size, skill, and intensity that's undeniable.

"Damn," Jude whistles. "She can actually play."

"She's beautiful too," Vini adds appreciatively. "Those tattoos are nice."

Aurélien's jaw tightens slightly. "She's not just beautiful. She's talented, smart..." He trails off, realizing how he sounds.

"You're whipped for someone you've never met," Camavinga laughs. "This is amazing."

"I'm not whipped. I just appreciate good basketball."

"Uh-huh," Jude grins. "And her being gorgeous has nothing to do with it?"

The whistle blows before Aurélien can respond, but as they resume practice, his mind races with possibilities. Jiana Jackson, here in Madrid, training next door.

He's going to have to figure out how to meet her without looking like a complete fanboy.

"Focus, Tchouaméni!" the coach barks as he misplaces an easy pass. "Where's your head?"

About a hundred meters away, he thinks but doesn't say.

That evening, Aurélien sits in his La Moraleja villa while Uncle Bertrand cooks, filling the house with Cameroonian spices. Ocho, his Belgian Malinois, plants himself beside his chair, brown eyes hopeful for dropped food.

"You're distracted," Bertrand observes, setting down ndolé that Aurélien barely tastes.

"Just thinking about training."

"Training, hmm?" Bertrand's tone suggests he doesn't buy it, but he doesn't push. He's been around long enough to know when to give Aurélien space to work through whatever is occupying his mind.

Aurélien absently scratches Ocho's ears while scrolling through his phone again. The Real Madrid Baloncesto women's team has posted a welcome message for their new American player, and the comments are full of excitement from Spanish basketball fans. He finds himself studying every photo of Jiana he can find, trying to get a sense of who she is beyond the highlight reels.

Her Instagram is practically bare, which he respects even as it frustrates him. Her public persona suggests someone who values privacy, who doesn't seek attention for its own sake. The interviews he can find show someone articulate and thoughtful, though there's always an edge to her responses that suggests she doesn't suffer fools gladly.

"She's pretty," Bertrand says casually, and Aurélien nearly drops his phone.

"What?"

"The basketball player you've been staring at for the past hour." Bertrand's smile is knowing. "Very pretty. Good player too, from what I can see."

"I wasn't—" Aurélien starts, then gives up. "You know about basketball?"

"I know about many things, nephew. Including when you're interested in a woman." Bertrand sits down across from him with his own plate. "What's her story?"

Aurélien finds himself explaining what he knows about Jiana Jackson—her college career at USC, her WNBA accomplishments, the fact that she's supposed to be training with the Real Madrid women's team for the next five months. He doesn't mention the part about having watched her highlights obsessively for the past few years, or the way his heart rate picks up every time he sees a photo of her.

"Sounds like fate," Bertrand says simply when he finishes.

"Fate?"

"Your favorite player, coming to your city, training at your facility." Bertrand shrugs like it's obvious. "What else would you call it?"

Aurélien wants to argue, but the logic is hard to dispute. What are the odds that the one American basketball player he's been borderline obsessed with would end up in Madrid, of all places?

"I should probably leave her alone," he says, though even as he says it, he knows he won't. "She's here to work, not deal with football players trying to hit on her."

"Probably," Bertrand agrees. "But there's a difference between hitting on someone and being friendly. You're part of the Real Madrid family too. It would be rude not to welcome her properly."

The rationalization is thin, but Aurélien clings to it anyway. He's just being welcoming. Showing proper hospitality to a fellow Real Madrid athlete. Nothing inappropriate about that.

His phone buzzes with a text from Jude: So when are you going to accidentally run into your basketball crush?

Aurélien doesn't respond, but he's already making mental notes about training schedules and facility layouts. Just in case an opportunity presents itself.

______________________________________________

The next afternoon, Jiana navigates her first full team practice. The language barrier is more challenging than expected—not because teammates aren't accommodating, but because basketball has its own vocabulary that doesn't always translate.

"More aggressive!" Coach Vargas calls in Spanish, then English. "Use your size! You're bigger than everyone—act like it!"

It's advice she's heard her whole career, but there's something different about how Coach Vargas says it. Not like she needs to apologize for physical advantages, but like she should be proud of them.

Practice is intense but enjoyable, focused on fundamentals and chemistry rather than rigid systems that had drained her love for the game in LA. Teammates are patient with her Spanish, generous with their English.

"You're picking up the system quickly," María says during a water break. "Most players take weeks to adjust."

"Different but good different. More creative than what I'm used to."

Through the windows, she can see movement in the men's complex next door. Real Madrid footballers going through routines with impressive athleticism and precision.

"They're good to look at, aren't they?" Lucia grins, following her gaze. "Some of the most beautiful men in the world, all in one place in Spain."

"I'm here to play basketball," Jiana says automatically.

"Of course," María agrees, smiling. "Just saying, if you change your mind, there are worse places to appreciate attractive men."

After practice, Jiana heads to recovery—ice baths and stretching, her body adapting to European training intensity. She's finishing her cool-down when she hears voices in the corridor, speaking French and Spanish. Male voices, probably the men's football team.

For a moment, she's tempted to look, but that way lies distraction. She gathers her things and heads for the exit.

She's walking toward the parking garage when she hears rapid footsteps behind her. Her defensive instincts kick in—years of unwanted attention—but the voice that calls out is friendly.

"Excuse me!"

She turns, immediately on guard. A man in Real Madrid training gear approaches, and her first thought is oh shit because he's exactly the kind of distraction she came here to avoid. He's tall—probably six-two as well—with dark skin and a fresh high taper fade that frames his face perfectly. His features are striking in that casually sexy way that should probably be illegal: full lips, an African nose that speaks to his heritage, and the kind of effortless confidence that comes from being successful and knowing it.

"You're Jiana Jackson, right?" His accent wraps around her name, making it sound more interesting than usual.

"Yeah," she says carefully, taking a step back. Her defenses are fully up now because this man is trouble with a capital T, and she can tell just by looking at him. "And you are?"

"Aurélien Tchouaméni," he says, extending his hand. The name comes out in a way that sounds foreign to her ears.

"What?" she asks, genuinely confused.

He smiles, and she notices how it transforms his whole face. "Oh-ray-lee-EN Choo-ah-MEN-ee," he says slowly, pronouncing it properly. "Or just Aurél if that's easier. I know French names are weird."

His handshake is firm but brief, professional athlete to professional athlete. No lingering contact or attempts to stand too close, which she appreciates even as part of her notices how his training shirt clings to his chest.

"Right," she says, because her brain seems to have temporarily malfunctioned. "Aurél."

"I play for the men's football team. Just wanted to welcome you to Madrid," he continues, and she can see genuine enthusiasm in his dark eyes. "I'm actually a huge fan of your game. Been following the W for a few years now."

This catches her off guard. Most people—especially men—who claim to follow women's basketball can barely name three players. "You really watch women's basketball?"

"All the time," he grins, and the expression transforms his entire face in a way that makes her stomach flutter annoyingly. "Started during the bubble, got completely hooked. The level of play is crazy—pure basketball, you know?"

He's not performing or trying to impress her, she realizes. He's genuinely excited to talk about the sport, the same way she gets when someone wants to discuss technical aspects instead of drama and storylines.

"What's your favorite team?" she asks, testing his knowledge.

"Don't really have one. I just love good basketball." He tilts his head slightly, a gesture that somehow makes him look younger. "But I've been keeping up with the Sparks since you got drafted. That series against Vegas last year? Man, you were cooking."

The specificity surprises her. He's talking about games from months ago with the kind of detail that suggests he actually watches, not just highlights on SportsCenter.

"Well," she says, adjusting her gym bag and trying to ignore how his eyes seem to track the movement, "thanks for the welcome. I should head home—still adjusting to the time change."

"Of course," he says immediately, stepping back to give her space. She notices he's careful not to crowd her, which shows more awareness than most men his age possess. "Just wanted to say hi. If you need anything—food recommendations, help with Spanish, whatever—feel free to ask. We're all Real Madrid family here, right?"

The offer seems genuine, and his smile is the kind that makes people want to trust him. Which is exactly why Jiana's defenses slam back into place. Men who seem too good to be true usually are, especially when they look like they just stepped off a magazine cover.

"I'll keep that in mind," she says, noncommittal but polite. "See you around."

"See you around, Jiana Jackson," he says, and the way he uses her full name makes it sound like something special.

As she walks away, she can feel him watching her go, but when she glances back, he's already heading in the opposite direction, seemingly unaffected by their interaction.

Interesting, she thinks despite herself. Very interesting indeed.

But also dangerous. Because the last thing she needs is to get distracted by a pretty face with an accent, no matter how good he looks or how genuine his interest in basketball seems.

She came to Madrid to figure her life out, not to complicate it further. And Aurélien Tchouaméni—with his perfect fade and easy smile and way of saying her name like it means something—feels like exactly the kind of complication she should be running from.

The problem is, for the first time in a long time, she's not sure she wants to run.

The Real Madrid men's team has the day off before their match against Celta Vigo, which means Aurélien is supposed to be resting, maybe doing some light recovery work, definitely not sitting courtside at a basketball arena getting increasingly distracted by a woman who probably doesn't even care that he exists.

But here he is anyway, flanked by Jude and Cama in the premium courtside seats at WiZink Center, trying to look casual while internally freaking out about seeing Jiana Jackson play live for the first time.

"Mate, you've been checking your phone every two seconds," Jude observes, his Birmingham accent cutting through the arena noise. "What's got you buzzing?"

Aurélien slips his phone into his pocket, that unconscious lip-licking thing he does when he's thinking. "Just excited for the game."

A young boy, maybe ten years old, approaches with his father, clutching a Real Madrid jersey. The security guard starts to wave them away, but Aurélien catches the kid's eye and nods toward the guard.

"It's alright," he tells security in Spanish, then switches to English for the boy. "What's your name?"

"Pablo," the kid says shyly, his English careful and practiced. "Can I... picture with you?"

"Course you can," Aurélien grins, standing up and moving closer to the barrier. Jude and Cama follow suit, all three of them posing with the starstruck kid while his father takes photos on his phone.

"You like basketball too?" Cama asks the boy in Spanish.

Pablo nods enthusiastically, launching into rapid Spanish about how he plays for his school team and wants to be tall like the American players someday.

"Keep working hard," Jude tells him, ruffling his hair. "Maybe one day we'll see you playing here, yeah?"

After they take a few more photos and sign the kid's jersey, the family heads back to their seats, beaming. Aurélien settles back into his chair, that warm feeling he always gets from fan interactions spreading through his chest.

"That was sweet," Cama says. "Remember when we were that age?"

"Speak for yourself," Jude grins. "I'm still that age mentally."

"We can tell," Aurélien shoots back, but he's smiling.

The arena starts filling with that pre-game energy that's universal across all sports—the kind of electric anticipation that makes his skin prickle with recognition. The Spanish crowd is different from football crowds, more family-oriented, but the passion is just as real.

The paparazzi are having a field day with three Real Madrid stars at a women's basketball game. Aurélien can see the flashes going off, but he's gotten used to that kind of attention over the years.

"Proper circus, this," Jude mutters, noticing the cameras. "Should've known they'd make a meal of it."

"Free publicity for the women's team though," Cama shrugs. "That's good, right?"

Before Aurélien can respond, the arena lights dim and music starts pumping through the speakers. The Madrid Baloncesto women's team is coming out for warm-ups, and suddenly he forgets how to breathe properly.

Because Jiana Jackson dressed for game night is something else entirely.

She's wearing an oversized bomber jacket in army green with patches and embroidered details that scream expensive streetwear. Underneath is a fitted black crop top that shows off the subtle glint of a belly piercing, and her legs are wrapped in leather pants that look like they were painted on. Her hair is styled in sleek waves, and she's carrying herself with the kind of confidence that suggests she knows exactly how good she looks.

"Bloody hell," Jude whistles low. "She's gorgeous, mate. Properly fit."

"Look at those legs," Cama adds appreciatively. "How tall did you say she was?"

"Six-two," Aurélien says automatically, his voice slightly hoarse. He licks his lips unconsciously, watching as she moves with that easy athlete's grace he recognizes from his own teammates.

"Six-two," Jude repeats, grinning. "That's almost as tall as you, bruv. Must be nice not having to break your back talking to someone for once."

Aurélien makes a noncommittal sound, but privately he's thinking that Jude isn't wrong. There's something appealing about the idea of being with someone who can look him in the eye, who takes up space with the same kind of unapologetic confidence that comes with being a professional athlete.

"She moves like us," Eduardo observes, his tone more serious now. "Like, you can tell she's elite just by how she walks. That body language....ouf."

It's surprisingly insightful, and Aurélien finds himself nodding. There is something familiar about the way she carries herself—the same kind of controlled confidence he recognizes in elite athletes, the constant subtle awareness of her environment that marks the truly gifted ones.

"Court vision," he says quietly, watching as she starts her warm-up routine. "That's what they call it in basketball."

"You actually know about this sport now?" Jude asks, sounding genuinely surprised. "Fair play to you, that."

The warm-up routine is mesmerizing to watch. Jiana moves through drills with fluid precision, every movement purposeful and controlled. She's stripped down to just the crop top and leather pants now, the bomber jacket folded neatly on the bench, and Aurélien can see the intricate tattoo work covering her arms in more detail.

"Fuck me, she's talented," Cama murmurs as she sinks three consecutive three-pointers from different spots. "Like, properly good."

"She averaged eighteen and eight last season," Aurélien says, then immediately regrets it when both his teammates turn to stare at him.

"Eighteen and eight what?" Jude asks.

"Points and rebounds per game," Aurélien explains, giving up any pretense that this is casual interest. "Those are quality numbers."

"You've been doing homework," Cama grins. "That's actually mad. When did you become a basketball expert?"

Before Aurélien can answer, something catches his attention. Jiana has moved closer to their section of the court, working on shooting drills, and for just a moment their eyes meet across the distance.

It's probably nothing—athletes look at the crowd all the time, especially the expensive seats where sponsors and celebrities sit. But for just a second, he swears she pauses, like she's trying to place where she's seen him before.

"Mate," Jude says quietly. "She's clocking you."

"She's just looking around," Aurélien argues, but his heart rate has definitely increased.

"Nah, she's proper looking at you," Cama chimes in. "And now she's saying something to her teammate."

Sure enough, Jiana has turned to María Sánchez and they appear to be having a brief conversation while glancing toward the courtside seats. It could be about anything, but the way María grins and says something that makes Jiana shake her head suggests it might be about him.

"This is torture," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. "Should've stayed home."

"Are you mental?" Jude laughs. "This is quality entertainment. You're absolutely gone for her."

"I'm not gone for anyone," Aurélien protests weakly. "I just think she's class."

"And fit," Cama adds helpfully.

"And tall," Jude continues.

"And I like that shit," Aurélien says before he can stop himself, then immediately wants to disappear into his seat.

The moment of silence that follows feels like an eternity.

"Did you just—" Jude starts.

"No," Aurélien says quickly. "I didn't say anything."

"You definitely said you like that she's tall," Cama says, barely containing his laughter. "Which is probably the most honest thing you've said all night."

Before Aurélien can respond, the warm-ups end and both teams head back to their locker rooms for final preparations. The break gives him a chance to collect himself, though his teammates seem determined not to let him off the hook.

"So," Jude says, settling back in his courtside seat, "what's the plan here? You gonna try chat her up after the game?"

"There's no plan," Aurélien insists, that lip-licking thing happening again. "We're here to watch basketball, remember?"

"Right," Cama nods. "Basketball. That sport you just now care about."

"I've always been interested in different sports," Aurélien says weakly.

"Name another WNBA player," Jude challenges.

"Besides Jiana?" Aurélien stalls, trying to remember names from his recent research. "Uh... A'ja Wilson?"

"Fair enough," Cama concedes. "That's actually a proper player."

"I told you I've been learning," Aurélien mutters, but he's grateful he managed to pull a name out.

Before the conversation can continue, the teams return to the court for player introductions. The arena goes dark except for spotlight that follows each player, and the crowd's energy shifts from casual excitement to genuine enthusiasm.

"Y desde Los Ángeles, California, la delantera, número veintitrés, ¡Jiana Jackson!"

The spotlight finds her at the tunnel entrance, and Aurélien's breath catches. She's changed into her Madrid Baloncesto uniform—clean white with royal blue accents that somehow make her look even more imposing. The crop top and leather pants have been replaced by the team jersey and matching shorts. Her hair is now pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and she's wearing that game face he's seen in highlights but never in person.

She jogs to center court with easy confidence, acknowledging the crowd's applause with a small wave that manages to be both gracious and completely unbothered.

"Proper class, that," Jude murmurs appreciatively. "She carries herself like she belongs, doesn't she?"

Aurélien nods, not trusting himself to speak. Because "class" doesn't begin to cover what he's seeing. Jiana Jackson in person, in her element, commands attention without demanding it.

The thing that gets him most is how focused she is. She's not looking at their section anymore, not seeking out recognition from the crowd. She's locked in, professional, treating this like the serious competition it is.

"You know what I rate about her?" Cama says quietly.

"What?"

"She's not bothered that we're here," Cama observes. "Like, she probably knows who we are—everyone in Madrid knows who we are—but she's not playing to us or trying to impress anyone. She's just here to ball."

It's exactly what Aurélien has been thinking. Too many people treat meeting him like an opportunity—a photo, a connection, a story to tell. But Jiana Jackson is treating this like what it is: her job, her passion, her chance to prove herself.

"That's what makes her different," he says quietly. "She's not here for anyone but herself and her team."

"And that's what makes you fancy her even more," Jude adds perceptively. "Because she's not trying to impress you, which makes you want to impress her."

Aurélien starts to deny it, then realizes there's no point. "Yeah. Maybe that's exactly what it is."

The game starts with Madrid winning the tip-off, and immediately Aurélien understands why Jiana Jackson is considered elite. She moves like water and strikes like lightning, seeming to anticipate plays before they develop. Her first basket comes three minutes in—a smooth jumper from the free-throw line that doesn't even touch the rim.

"Crisp," Cama murmurs appreciatively. "Look at that technique."

It really is textbook. Perfect shooting form that probably took years to develop, executed with the kind of muscle memory that only comes from thousands of hours in the gym. But what impresses Aurélien more is her court vision, the way she sets up teammates and creates opportunities even when she could easily score herself.

"She's not selfish," he observes, watching as she threads a pass through traffic to set up an easy score for María. "Could've taken that shot herself."

"Smart player," Jude agrees. "Knows when to be aggressive and when to facilitate."

"Like a good midfielder," Cama adds, and Aurélien nods because the comparison actually makes sense. The way Jiana controls tempo and creates opportunities reminds him of how the best midfielders orchestrate games.

By halftime, Madrid is up by fifteen and Jiana has seventeen points, seven rebounds, and five assists. The numbers are impressive, but what's more impressive is how effortless she makes it look. Never forcing anything, never getting frustrated, just consistently making the right play.

"She's gonna be class in Europe," Aurélien says during the break, watching her interact with coaches. "The style here suits her perfectly."

"You mean the team-first mentality?" Jude asks.

"Exactly. American basketball can be very individual-focused, but European basketball is more about system and chemistry. She's already adapting her game."

It's true. Even from their courtside seats, he can see how Jiana is adjusting her usual style to mesh with her new teammates. Less isolation plays, more ball movement, constantly communicating. It's the mark of a truly elite player.

"You actually understand this sport," Cama says with genuine respect. "I'm learning stuff just listening to you."

"It's not that different from football, really," Aurélien explains, his hands moving as he talks. "Reading spaces, creating opportunities, knowing when to be patient and when to attack. The fundamentals are the same."

The second half is even better. Jiana seems to grow more comfortable with each possession, her chemistry with teammates becoming more apparent. She hits a three-pointer that has the crowd on their feet, then immediately celebrates with her team like their success matters more than individual stats.

"Look at her face," Jude says during a timeout. "She's proper enjoying herself out there."

He's right. Despite the professional intensity, there's something joyful about how Jiana plays. She's not grimly grinding through another obligation—she's doing something she genuinely loves.

"That's what passion looks like," Aurélien says quietly, unconsciously tilting his head as he watches her. "When you love something so much that even at the highest level, it still brings you joy."

"You sound like you're talking from experience," Cama observes.

Aurélien thinks about that. Does he still feel that way about football? The joy, the pure love that makes everything worth it? Lately it's been more about pressure and expectations. But watching Jiana reminds him of what it felt like when he was younger, when football was just the thing he loved most rather than the thing he was paid to excel at.

"Maybe I need to remember that feeling," he admits.

The game ends with Madrid winning by twenty-one, Jiana finishing with twenty-four points, ten rebounds, and eight assists. The crowd gives her a standing ovation as she shakes hands with opponents, and she acknowledges the applause with that same gracious wave.

"So," Jude says as they prepare to leave, "you gonna go chat to her then?"

Aurélien looks down at the court, where Jiana is being interviewed by reporters while teammates celebrate around her. Even from a distance, he can see how carefully she answers questions—thoughtful, professional, giving credit to others rather than focusing on her individual performance.

"No," he says finally. "Not tonight."

"Why not?" Cama asks, genuinely curious.

"Because tonight was about her," Aurélien explains, licking his lips as he thinks. "About proving herself to a new team, new city, new league. She doesn't need some footballer interrupting that moment."

Jude and Cama exchange a look that suggests they think he's being overly considerate.

"But you're still interested," Cama says. It's not a question.

Aurélien watches as Jiana finishes her interview and heads toward the locker room, surrounded by teammates who clearly already respect her. She belongs here, in this moment, where her talent speaks louder than any reputation.

"Yeah," he admits. "I'm still interested."

"Then what's the plan?" Jude asks.

Aurélien considers this as they make their way out, nodding to photographers who capture their exit but managing to avoid direct questions about why three Real Madrid footballers spent their night off at women's basketball.

"Be patient," he says finally. "Let her settle in, focus on basketball, get comfortable in Madrid, then maybe I'll see what's up."

"That's very mature of you," Cama says, sounding slightly surprised.

"Or very stupid," Jude adds with a grin. "Depends how you look at it, bruv."

Maybe it is stupid. Maybe he should have gone down to the court, introduced himself properly, and asked her out like a normal person. But something tells him Jiana Jackson isn't the kind of woman who responds well to typical approaches, and that anything worth having with her is going to require more patience than he's used to bringing.

As they walk out into the cool Madrid night, Aurélien pulls out his phone and finds himself scrolling through photos and videos from tonight's game already appearing on social media. There's a particularly good shot of Jiana's game-winning three-pointer, her face a study in focused concentration.

"Research?" Cama asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Appreciation," Aurélien corrects, pocketing his phone. "Just appreciation."

But as he drives home through Madrid's quiet streets, he's already thinking about when he might see her again, and how he can make sure that when he does, it's because she wants to see him too.

For the first time in years, Aurélien Tchouaméni is genuinely interested in getting to know someone who isn't immediately impressed by who he is. And that might be exactly what he's been looking for without knowing it.

TO BE CONTINUED....

[emjayewrites]

hiii how are you? can you do jude bellingham x model reader, where they just move in together and their house is still a mess, they are both working everyday and barely see each other and like now they are arguing about that and reader is done and go to kitchen and makes tea or something and by accident spill hot water on her and groan in pain and jude come to kitchen and help her by putting her hand under the cold water?

i hope u understand, i dont speak english

I am not taking requests

[emjayewrites]

written in the stars • ibou konate series (5/16)

SYNOPSIS: When duty and destiny collide, Liverpool defender Ibou Konaté finds himself married to a stranger. Their modern values clash with ancient traditions as they navigate a world where neither fully belongs - too faithful for some, too progressive for others. Between Premier League pressure and painful family expectations, they must discover if an arrangement made by others can transform into a love written by their own hearts.

PAIRINGS: Ibou Konaté x Rabia Amal Hassan Farah (fc: @/kingedna_)

WARNINGS: mentions of religion (Islam), fluff, non-sexual intimacy (i.e. kissing, hand holding), very loose depictions of sex (this will not feature smut)

TAGLIST: @kjlovesbigwilo, @ibouchouchou, @lev-1-1 @certifiedlesbianbaddie, @jessnotwiththemess, @peyiswriting, @sucredreamer, @muglermami, @amirawrah @simplyyalika, @thepointlessideas, @iamryanl, @anfieldroad, @plan3tch1ld, @leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro, @virgilsgurl, @iam-lulu, @barcelonesa, @laylaynaynay130, @ri6ht6ack, @greyishbach @sadfashionlife

A/N: Ibou Fic Masterlist - click me!

Part V: Paris Interlude

February had been kind to Liverpool. Three victories and a frustrating but perhaps necessary draw against Aston Villa had kept them firmly in the title race, though the margins remained razor-thin with each passing week. Rabia had watched it all unfold from her increasingly familiar spot in the family section, her understanding of tactical nuances growing alongside her investment in each result.

The Villa match had been particularly challenging—a hard-fought 2-2 draw where Ibou's defensive partnership with Virgil had been tested repeatedly by Villa's pace on the counter. She'd seen the disappointment in his shoulders afterward, the way he'd analyzed every near-miss and defensive transition during their drive home.

"Two points we lose," he'd said simply, the frustration evident despite his measured tone.

"But not because you do something wrong," she'd replied, having learned to offer perspective rather than empty reassurance. "Villa played very defensively and got lucky."

Now, settling into their seats on the Eurostar to Paris, Rabia found herself looking forward to seeing Ibou in a different context—not just as Liverpool's steady defender, but as a proud representative of his birth country, playing in the stadium where his international career had flourished.

"You nervous?" she asked, noticing his unusually focused expression as the English countryside blurred past their window.

"No, excited," he corrected, though she caught the hint of tension in his voice. "Italy is always difficult team. And this match..." He paused, checking his phone. "A week before Ramadan start. Good timing."

The approaching holy month had been increasingly on both their minds. Their first Ramadan as a married couple would bring new rhythms, new shared practices, new ways of supporting each other through the spiritual challenges of fasting and increased devotion.

"I’ve found some iftar recipes," Rabia mentioned, pulling out her tablet. "Things that work good with your training schedule."

Ibou's smile at this—genuine appreciation for her practical consideration—warmed her chest. "We learn together," he assured her. "Many teammates fast also. Team nutritionist help with timing."

The train's smooth motion and Ibou's presence beside her created a cocoon of comfortable anticipation. This trip represented several firsts—her introduction to his French teammates, her first time experiencing international football atmosphere, her first extended stay in his hometown beyond tourist attractions.

"Tell me about the real Paris," she requested, echoing his promise from weeks ago. "Where will we go that no guidebooks have?"

His expression brightened with enthusiasm. "My neighborhood first—Dammarie-lès-Lys. Where I learn football, where my family still meet for big celebrations. Then a favorite café where my mother take visitors she actually like, not just the polite ones."

The distinction made her laugh. "Very special to be actually liked?"

"Very special," he confirmed solemnly. "She still... how you say... judging some of my brothers' wives after many years marriage."

"Et moi?" Rabia asked, switching to French with a teasing smile.

"Tu as passé l'examen avant même le mariage," he replied, his face lighting up at her easy French. Sometimes he forgot she'd studied in Paris, that navigating his homeland wouldn't require constant translation.

Their arrival at Gare du Nord launched them into the organized chaos that surrounded France's national team preparations. The familiar routine of team hotels, security protocols, and media obligations—all conducted in rapid French that Rabia followed easily, her university studies proving useful in unexpected ways.

"Tu comprends tout?" Ibou asked with pleased surprise when she responded to a security guard's directions without missing a beat.

"Bien sûr," she replied with a small smile. "Quatre années à la Sorbonne, tu te souviens?"

"Sometimes I forget," he admitted sheepishly, switching back to English. "Is good. Make everything more easy here."

rabia_konate • posted on her story four hours ago!

_____________________________________________

The drive to Clairefontaine took them through the Parisian suburbs, past familiar landmarks that Ibou pointed out with the pride of someone returning home. The landscape gradually shifted from urban density to manicured countryside, eventually revealing the imposing gates of France's national training center.

Clairefontaine rose before them like a temple dedicated to football excellence. The main building's modern architecture commanded respect—all clean lines and expansive glass that showcased the meticulously maintained grounds beyond. Training pitches stretched in every direction, each one perfect enough to host a World Cup final, their surfaces immaculate despite February's challenging weather.

Security gates opened with electronic precision, guards recognizing Ibou immediately and waving them through with respectful nods. The entrance hall soared overhead, walls lined with photographs chronicling French football's greatest moments—World Cup victories, European Championships, individual brilliance captured in black and white and living color.

"Incredible," Rabia murmured, taking in the scale and prestige of the facility.

"Wait until you see training pitches," Ibou said with obvious pride. "Best in the world, maybe."

"Ibou, mon reuf!" A familiar voice echoed across the marble floors, and Rabia turned to see Kylian Mbappé approaching with characteristic energy. In person, he looked younger than his media appearances suggested, boyish features animated with genuine pleasure at seeing his teammate.

Kylian moved with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being the most famous person in any room, but his greeting for Ibou was warmly fraternal—quick embrace, gentle ribbing about his travel outfit, immediate curiosity about the woman beside him.

"So this is the famous wife!" Kylian declared, switching to English with an accent that made Rabia smile. "The one who make our Ibou more human!"

"She make me better person," Ibou corrected, his arm finding its way around Rabia's waist with unconscious pride. "More patient with your terrible jokes."

"My jokes are elite!" Kylian protested, his hands gesturing expansively as he spoke, never quite still. "You just finally develop a real sense of humor!"

"Or I just get used to bad comedy," came another voice, and Rabia looked up to see Jules Koundé approaching with the kind of swagger that made photographers weep with joy. His locs were hanging just past his shoulders and his outfit—even casual training gear—looked like it belonged in a high-fashion editorial.

Jules moved with deliberate grace, each step calculated for maximum impact. Where Kylian bounced with kinetic energy, Jules glided with artistic intention, his smile sharp enough to cut glass but warm enough to invite trust. His jewelry caught the overhead lighting—subtle but expensive pieces that suggested someone who understood fashion as personal expression rather than mere ornamentation.

"Jules," Ibou greeted with the particular fondness reserved for teammates who'd become genuine friends. "Still trying too hard with the hair?"

"This is not trying, mon frère," Jules replied, running one hand through his locs with practiced ease. "This is effortless perfection. You should take notes."

A third figure approached more quietly—Bradley Barcola, Rabia realized, his intricate braids catching the overhead lighting as he moved with reserved energy. Where the others commanded attention, Bradley seemed to absorb it, his presence steady but unassuming. His smile was shy but genuine, the kind that made people lean closer to hear what he might say.

"Salut," Bradley offered with quiet warmth, his handshake firm but brief. "Welcome to Clairefontaine."

"Merci," Rabia replied, immediately appreciating his calmer energy after the overwhelming enthusiasm of the other two.

"But hold on," Jules interrupted, his expression shifting to theatrical outrage as he focused on Ibou. "Why we get no wedding invitation? This is discrimination! Scandal! We demand justice!"

Kylian nodded emphatically. "Exactement! We are brothers, non? Family! But no invitation for family?"

"You know why no invitation," Ibou replied with a grin. "Remember your birthday party last year? Police come three times."

"That was cultural celebration!" Kylian defended, his voice rising with indignation. "Music has no borders!"

"Neither does noise complaints," Bradley added quietly, earning surprised laughter from the group.

Jules clapped Ibou on the shoulder with obvious affection, his rings catching the light as he gestured. "But seriously, frère, we need proper celebration. Big party when season finish. With real music, real food, real fashion show."

"And my DJ skills," Kylian added hopefully, his eternal optimism about his musical abilities endearing despite all evidence to the contrary.

"Your DJ skills are why we plan without you," Jules shot back without missing a beat.

"You already embarrass me enough," Ibou said, though his fond glance at Rabia suggested this was hardly a complaint. "No need for more."

Jules stepped back theatrically, arms spread wide as he took in Ibou's appearance with exaggerated assessment. "Speaking of embarrassment... what is this you wearing today? Budget menswear catalogue?"

Ibou had indeed dressed up for his international call-up—designer jeans that fit like they'd been tailored specifically for his frame, a cashmere sweater in deep navy, and pristine white sneakers that looked fresh from the boutique. The effort was clearly intentional, part of what he'd explained to Rabia as the ongoing fashion competition that emerged whenever the squad assembled.

"This is Tom Ford," Ibou defended, straightening his sweater with obvious pride. "Limited collection."

Jules scoffed, smoothing his own outfit with practiced ease. His jacket looked like it belonged in a museum of modern art—geometric patterns in unexpected colors, somehow working perfectly with his precisely distressed jeans and boots that probably required a waiting list to purchase.

"Tom Ford basic line, maybe," Jules countered, his confidence absolute. "This is real fashion. Rick Owens meets Issey Miyake. You understanding style yet, or still shopping at footballer stores?"

"We have this... competition," Ibou explained to Rabia, his competitive spirit obvious despite his casual tone. "Jules is top level fashion, yes. Mr. Fashion of the team. But I catch up quick."

"Keep dreaming," Jules laughed, but his expression held genuine affection. "Maybe in five years you reach my level."

"Boys will be boys," Rabia observed with amusement, watching the good-natured rivalry unfold. "Always finding something to compete about."

Ibou mock-scoffed at her assessment, his eyebrows raising in exaggerated offense. "This not competition. This is... appreciation of aesthetics. Cultural education!"

"Call it what you want," Jules grinned. "You still lose."

"What you think?" Ibou asked Rabia seriously, as if her opinion would settle the matter definitively. "Who dress better today?"

Rabia studied both men with exaggerated concentration, enjoying their obvious investment in her verdict. Jules struck a pose, one hand on his hip, while Ibou straightened his shoulders and attempted his own version of model posture.

"Jules has the artistic edge," she decided diplomatically, "but Ibou's look is more... wearable elegance."

"Wearable!" Jules exclaimed in mock horror, pressing his hand to his chest as if wounded. "She call you wearable! This is insult to fashion everywhere!"

"Wearable is good," Ibou maintained with dignity. "Means classic. Not trying too hard like some people."

"Everything about Jules is trying too hard," Bradley contributed quietly, his soft comment cutting through the drama with perfect timing.

"Come," Ibou said, taking Rabia's hand with proprietorial pride. "I show you proper tour. These fashion critics can continue discussion without us."

"We continue discussing your terrible style choices!" Jules called after them, his voice echoing through the corridor. "Maybe by dinner you learn something!"

"Never happening!" Ibou called back, leading Rabia away from their laughter.

Clairefontaine's interior exceeded even Rabia's elevated expectations. The corridors stretched endlessly, walls lined with photographs chronicling French football's greatest moments—from Michel Platini's artistry to Zinedine Zidane's genius to more recent heroes like Thierry Henry. Display cases showcased jerseys from historic matches, cleats worn by legends, trophies that represented the pinnacle of international achievement.

Ibou moved through the space with obvious comfort, greeting staff members who clearly remembered him from previous camps with warm familiarity. Cleaners, security guards, administrative staff—everyone seemed to know him personally, calling out greetings in rapid French that made him beam with genuine pleasure.

"This is where we eat," he explained, gesturing to a bright, modern cafeteria that looked more like a high-end hotel restaurant than institutional dining. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the training pitches, while the serving area showcased fresh ingredients with the care of a boutique market. "Food here is incredible. Chef understand nutrition for athletes, but still make everything taste beautiful."

The serving stations gleamed with professional equipment, while the dining area featured tables that could accommodate team meetings alongside casual meals. Digital displays showed nutritional information for every dish, catering to the precise dietary requirements of elite athletes.

"Very different from Liverpool?" Rabia asked, impressed by the attention to detail.

"Different style," Ibou nodded. "Liverpool more... practical. Here is more like luxury hotel. Both good, just different philosophy."

The tactical analysis rooms impressed Rabia with their sophistication—wall-sized screens for video review, individual workstations where players could study their own performance data with the detail of NASA engineers, coaches' offices that looked more like command centers than traditional football preparation spaces.

"We spend many hours here," Ibou noted, pausing in the main analysis room where multiple screens displayed freeze-frames of Italian attacking patterns. "Watch opponents, study our own games, plan strategy. Very... detailed work."

"More detailed than in Liverpool?" she asked, genuinely curious about the differences.

"Different," he considered, switching unconsciously to French as he thought through the comparison. "À Liverpool, on se connaît bien, on joue ensemble toute la saison. Ici, on doit reconstruire rapidement, se rappeler comment chaque joueur pense sur le terrain."

One wall displayed a massive tactical board where coaches could draw formations and movement patterns in real-time. Individual monitors allowed players to review their personal performance data—heat maps, pass completion rates, defensive actions, everything quantified and analyzed for optimization.

"Technology everywhere," Rabia observed, slightly overwhelmed by the complexity.

"Yes, but..." Ibou paused, choosing his words carefully. "Most important still here," he tapped his temple, "and here," he touched his chest. "Technology help, but brain and heart decide matches."

The medical facilities occupied an entire wing of the building—treatment rooms equipped with the latest recovery technology, hydrotherapy pools with precise temperature controls, massage tables where certified physiotherapists worked with the focus of surgeons. Everything designed to extract maximum performance from elite athletes operating at the highest levels of international competition.

"You use all this?" Rabia asked, genuinely curious about the extent of the support available.

"Some things," Ibou shrugged. "I prefer simple approach. Heavy weights, running, basic movements. Technology is good, but foundation most important."

The gym itself was a temple to athletic excellence—resistance machines that looked like they belonged in a space program, free weights arranged with military precision, cardio equipment offering the latest in performance monitoring. Each piece of equipment was positioned to maximize both functionality and the spectacular views of the training pitches beyond.

His approach to training, like most things, reflected his methodical personality—master the fundamentals perfectly rather than chasing every innovation. Another aspect of his character that had drawn her to him initially, this preference for depth over flash.

The residential floors were more modest — comfortable but institutional rooms designed for short-term stays rather than permanent residence.

"You share?" Rabia asked, noting the twin beds.

"Usually with Jules or Bradley," he confirmed. "But for this camp, we have room at hotel. Marriage privilege, maybe?"

The consideration touched her—another small acknowledgment from the French federation that his personal life mattered, that supporting players' families contributed to overall performance and wellbeing.

Their evening meal in the players' dining area offered Rabia another perspective on international football culture. The easy mixing of players from different clubs, the multilingual conversations that flowed seamlessly between French, Spanish, and English, the obvious camaraderie that transcended club loyalties.

The dining room buzzed with animated conversation as players from rival clubs shared tables, their competitive tensions set aside in service of national pride. She watched Ibou easily slip between conversations, equally comfortable discussing tactics in French with the coaching staff or joking in broken Spanish.

"So when is this second wedding we planning?" Kylian asked over dessert, clearly having given serious thought to his earlier complaint. "I already have playlist ready."

"Your playlist is why there will be no second wedding," Ibou replied firmly. "Rabia deserves music that does not make ears bleed."

"My music is sophisticated!" Kylian protested, his hands gesturing emphatically. "Cultural fusion! East meets West!"

"Noise meets noise," Bradley contributed quietly, his soft comment earning appreciative laughter from the table.

Jules leaned forward with renewed interest, his jewelry catching the dining room's ambient lighting. "But seriously, we need celebration. Maybe summer? When Champions League finish and everyone relax?"

"When Liverpool win Champions League," Ibou corrected.

"If Liverpool win," Jules amended with loyalty to his own team. "I plan everything. Real fashion, real music, real food."

"Not your fashion," Kylian objected. "Too weird for normal people."

Rabia watched their banter with growing affection for these men who clearly meant so much to Ibou. The easy ribbing, the competitive undercurrents that somehow strengthened rather than threatened their bonds, the obvious care beneath the constant joking—it reminded her of her closest friendships, but with the added intensity of shared professional pressures.

"They always like this?" she asked Ibou quietly.

"Worse usually," he replied with fond exasperation. "Wait until they start arguing about who best at FIFA."

"I am obviously best at FIFA," Kylian announced, apparently having overheard.

"Speed don't help when you can't defend," Jules countered. "I never lose because I actually understand tactics."

"You understand how to play boring football," Bradley added with his characteristic quiet delivery.

The match against Italy lived up to its billing as a preview of what both teams might bring to upcoming major tournaments. From her seat among the other players' families in the VIP section of the Stade de France, Rabia watched France dominate possession early, with Italy growing into the game through tactical adjustments and individual brilliance.

The stadium's atmosphere was electric—80,000 voices creating a wall of sound that seemed to lift the French players, while the Italian contingent answered with passionate support of their own. Rabia found herself swept up in the collective emotion, understanding for the first time why international football held such special significance beyond club loyalties.

The French national anthem, sung by 60,000 voices in unison, sent shivers down her spine. Watching Ibou stand at attention, hand over heart, lips moving with words learned in childhood—it connected her to another aspect of his identity, another layer of the complex man she'd married.

Ibou's performance was characteristically steady—several crucial interceptions, perfect distribution under pressure, the kind of consistent excellence that rarely made highlight reels but formed the foundation of defensive success. When France took the lead through a stunning Kylian strike that had the stadium erupting, she found herself cheering with uninhibited enthusiasm despite the formal setting.

The goal itself was spectacular—Kylian receiving the ball thirty yards from goal, dropping his shoulder to wrong-foot the defender, then unleashing a curling shot that nestled in the top corner with mathematical precision. The explosion of noise that followed seemed to shake the very foundations of the stadium.

Italy's equalizer shortly before halftime created tension that extended well into the second period, but France's class eventually told. Two more goals—one from Griezmann's perfect free kick that bent around the wall like it was guided by satellite navigation, another from Camavinga's thunderous drive from twenty-five yards—secured a 3-1 victory that had the Stade de France rocking with appreciation.

"Magnifique!" Ibou declared as they reunited after his media obligations, still riding the high of a comprehensive performance against top-level opposition. "Perfect preparation for what come next."

"You were so good," Rabia said simply, meaning it completely. "That tackle in seventy-second minute was perfectly timed."

His pleased surprise at her specific observation—evidence of her growing tactical understanding—created another point of connection between them, another bridge between his professional life and their personal relationship.

Their evening in non-tourist Paris began at a small café in Ibou's childhood neighborhood, where the owner greeted him like a returning son and immediately began interrogating Rabia about her intentions toward "notre héros local."

Madame Bernard was exactly what Rabia had imagined from Ibou's descriptions—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, with the kind of maternal authority that made grown men straighten their postures unconsciously. Her questioning was gentle but thorough, delivered in rapid French that tested Rabia's university studies but ultimately proved manageable.

The café itself was a time capsule of authentic Parisian charm—worn wooden floors, mismatched chairs that had stories to tell, walls lined with photographs of neighborhood children who'd made good. The smell of fresh bread and real coffee created an atmosphere that no designer could replicate.

"Elle est bien, cette fille," Madame Bernard declared after ten minutes of gentle interrogation. "Elle te nourrit correctement, te fait rire. Tu la gardes, Ibrahima."

"I plan to keep her," Ibou replied in English, his casual certainty making Rabia's chest flutter unexpectedly.

The café's simple menu—perfect stews, bread still warm from the oven, coffee that tasted like liquid comfort—created an intimate backdrop for their first proper Parisian dinner together. Not the Michelin-starred establishments tourists flocked to, but something more personal, more connected to his actual life rather than his public persona.

"Ramadan planning," Ibou said as they shared a dessert that Madame Bernard had insisted they try. "Need to discuss timing, responsibilities, how we support each other."

"I think about this too," Rabia nodded. "My boutique hours can be flexible during fasting. I can prepare suhur while you do morning prayers, then we break fast together when your training allows."

The practical discussion—logistics rather than romance, but intimate in its assumption of shared responsibility—highlighted how thoroughly their lives had integrated over the past months. Not just physical attraction or intellectual compatibility, but genuine partnership in navigating life's complexities together.

"What about tarawih prayers?" he asked, referring to the additional evening prayers during Ramadan. "Some nights I go mosque, some nights prefer home quiet."

"Home quiet sounds perfect," she agreed. "Though I want to attend mosque some evenings too. Find our own balance."

This too had become characteristic of their relationship—finding middle ground between tradition and personal preference, between community obligation and private devotion. Their own timeline, their own carefully constructed understanding.

_______________________________________________________

Their hotel room that night—a comfortable space overlooking the Seine, far more romantic than their Liverpool home—created an atmosphere of sophisticated intimacy that neither quite knew how to navigate. Not their familiar bedroom with its gradually negotiated boundaries, but neutral territory that somehow felt both more formal and more charged with possibility.

"Shower first?" Rabia suggested, falling back on routine to anchor the moment.

"Good idea," Ibou agreed, though something in his expression suggested he was experiencing the same subtle uncertainty about how their relationship might translate to this new environment.

When she emerged from the bathroom twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing the comfortable pajamas she'd packed for travel, Rabia found their room apparently empty. Ibou's belongings remained scattered about in his characteristically neat arrangements, but he was nowhere to be found.

"Ibou?" she called, puzzled by his absence.

Silence.

She padded further into the room, checking the small sitting area and approaching the bed where she'd left her phone charging. As she bent to retrieve it, a figure suddenly sprang from behind the floor-length curtains with a theatrical "BOO!"

Rabia shrieked—actually shrieked—jumping backward with such force that she nearly lost her balance, her heart hammering against her ribs with genuine shock.

For a moment, they stared at each other—Ibou's triumphant grin rapidly dissolving into concern as he registered her genuinely startled state, Rabia's hand pressed against her chest as she tried to process what had just happened.

"Mon dieu," he said immediately, moving toward her with obvious remorse, his English abandoning him in the face of her distress. "I'm sorry, I think you would—I don't mean to actually frighten you—"

"You think I would what?" she interrupted, still catching her breath but beginning to process the situation with growing indignation. "Just calmly accept my husband hiding like some sort of... ambush predator?"

"I was being playful," he defended weakly, clearly realizing his joke had backfired spectacularly. "Team do this all the time—"

"I am not your teammate!" But even as she said it, a plan began forming in her mind, her shock giving way to calculated mischief. "Though I suppose turnabout is fair play."

"What you—" he began, but she'd already moved with surprising speed, launching herself at him with a vengeance that caught him completely off guard.

Ibou yelped—actually yelped—as she tackled him, the sound so undignified from someone of his imposing stature that Rabia immediately burst into laughter.

"Not funny!" he protested, though his indignation was somewhat undercut by the fact that he was now flat on his back with his wife straddling his waist. "You scare me!"

"Not funny?" she repeated, mimicking his shocked expression with exaggerated horror. "Oh no, poor Ibou got frightened by his tiny wife!"

"Stop bullying me," he said, though she could see reluctant amusement creeping into his expression despite his attempts at wounded dignity.

"Never," she declared, continuing her theatrical reenactment of his startled face. "This is the best thing that happen all week."

"You are cruel woman," he informed her solemnly. "I marry cruel, bullying woman who mock her husband's surprise."

But his hands had found her waist, and suddenly she was being flipped onto her back with the easy strength she sometimes forgot he possessed, his fingers immediately finding her ribs with tickling intent.

"No!" she gasped between helpless giggles, trying to escape his assault on her most ticklish spots. "That's not fair!"

"Life not fair," he informed her philosophically, continuing his attack until they were both laughing helplessly, rolling around on the hotel carpet like children.

Somehow—she wasn't entirely sure of the mechanics—Rabia found herself straddling him again, both of them breathless from laughter and exertion, his hands resting naturally on her hips as she looked down at him with satisfaction.

"Truce?" she suggested, though victory felt delicious.

"Truce," he agreed, his voice slightly husky from their wrestling match.

The moment shifted then, playfulness giving way to something more charged as they became aware of their position—her legs on either side of his waist, his hands warm through the thin fabric of her pajamas, the intimacy of their proximity suddenly very present despite the innocent way they'd arrived there.

Without really planning it, Rabia leaned down to kiss him, drawn by something instinctive and immediate. His response was equally unplanned, equally natural—hands sliding up to tangle in her still-damp hair, pulling her closer as their kiss deepened with growing urgency.

This was different from their careful explorations at home. More spontaneous, less calculated, driven by genuine desire rather than gradual negotiation. The hotel room's anonymity, their shared laughter, the freedom of being away from familiar routines—all contributed to a new boldness that surprised them both.

When they separated briefly for air, the look in Ibou's eyes contained multiple layers—surprise at the intensity, pleasure at her initiative, something deeper that made her chest tighten with emotion beyond mere physical attraction.

"We should—" he began, though his hands remained tangled in her hair.

"Should what?" she asked, genuinely curious about his intended completion of that thought.

But before he could answer, her phone began ringing from its charging spot on the nightstand—loud, insistent, utterly destroying the moment with its demanding electronic intrusion.

"Ignore," Ibou suggested, pulling her back down for another kiss.

The ringing stopped, then immediately resumed. Stopped again. Started again.

"I'm going to murder your cousin," Ibou declared with resigned acceptance of the inevitable interruption.

"Get in queue," Rabia sighed, reluctantly disentangling herself to answer the persistent device. "Behind me, my mother, and probably several international authorities by now."

"Rabia!" Amal's voice erupted from the speaker before she could even complete her greeting. "Emergency! Crisis! Catastrophe!"

"What wrong?" Rabia asked automatically, though experience suggested Amal's emergencies ranged from genuinely serious to completely trivial with equal dramatic presentation.

"I need your advice about Asad's birthday party! The caterer canceled, the venue double-booked, and the children expecting a bouncy castle that apparently doesn't exist in our postal code!"

Rabia met Ibou's eyes, watching him silently mouth extremely unflattering opinions about Amal's timing and priorities in a mixture of French and English that would have made his teammates proud.

"Amal," she said patiently, "this couldn't wait until—"

"No! The party is Saturday! I call for hours but it keep going to voicemail!"

"We were at a football match," Rabia explained. "In France. Where it's late and we're getting ready for bed."

"Oh." A pause. "Oops?"

Ibou collapsed back onto the carpet with theatrical despair, covering his face with his hands in a gesture so dramatic that Rabia had to bite her lip to suppress laughter.

"Let me call you tomorrow," Rabia suggested firmly. "When I can actually think clearly about bouncy castle alternatives."

"But—"

"Tomorrow, Amal. Goodnight."

She ended the call and turned back to find Ibou watching her with a mixture of amusement and frustrated desire that perfectly captured her own conflicted feelings about the interruption.

"Your cousin," he observed with careful neutrality, "have very perfect timing."

"The absolute worst," she agreed, settling beside him on the carpet. "Though in fairness, she doesn't know about..." she gestured vaguely at their current situation.

"About what?" he asked with mock innocence. "Two married people enjoying each other's company in private?"

The simple statement—acknowledging what had been happening without making it seem illicit or shameful—relaxed something in Rabia's chest. This was her husband, after all. They were married. Their growing physical connection was natural, blessed, nothing to feel guilty about despite years of conditioning that suggested otherwise.

"About how distracting my husband can be," she amended with a small smile. "When he's not hiding behind curtains like a crazy burglar."

"I was being spontaneous!" he protested. "Playful! Teams always—"

"You mention that excuse already," she reminded him, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw with one finger. "It don't work then either."

The simple touch—confident in a way that would have been impossible months ago—sent a visible shiver through him that had nothing to do with temperature. Another piece of evidence that their careful building of trust and comfort was yielding rewards beyond mere emotional connection.

"Maybe," he suggested carefully, "we continue this conversation after morning prayers? When certain cousins less likely to interrupt?"

"Excellent plan," she agreed, though moving away from him required more effort than she'd anticipated. "Very good strategy thinking."

As they prepared for bed, Rabia found herself reflecting on the day's varied experiences. The match victory, the exploration of Ibou's real Paris, the unexpected playfulness that had revealed new facets of his personality, and the growing physical comfort that continued to deepen alongside their emotional connection.

"Tomorrow," Ibou said softly as they settled into their familiar sleeping position, "I show you my childhood football pitch. Where I first learn to defend properly."

"I'd like that," she replied, meaning it completely. Another piece of his history, another bridge between past and present, another layer of understanding in their ongoing discovery of each other.

As his breathing gradually deepened beside her, as the City of Light sparkled beyond their window, Rabia felt a profound contentment settle over her. Not just satisfaction with their growing physical relationship, though that was certainly significant, but appreciation for the whole of what they were building together—the playfulness and passion, the spiritual connection and practical partnership, the everyday joys and occasional dramatic interruptions.

With Ramadan approaching and their relationship deepening in ways both expected and surprising, Rabia laid in bed with a profound sense of anticipation for what lay ahead—not just the holy month that would bring new rhythms to their marriage, but the continued unfolding of whatever they were building together.

With the night streaming through their hotel windows, Paris looked different somehow. More personal. More theirs.

liked by ibrahimakonate, mosalah, and 89k others

rabia_konate: Paris dump…. 🇫🇷⚽️ So proud watching my husband represent his country 💙 tagged: ibrahimakonate, stadefrance

view all 2.1k comments......

ibrahimakonate: Ma femme 💙

⤷ trentarnold66: get yourself a woman who travels across Europe to support you 🙌

⤷ virgilvandijk: beautiful couple! 👏

mosalah: Allez les Bleus! 🇫🇷

k.mbappe: Welcome to the family! 🇫🇷

⤷ rabia_konate: Thank you! Still laughing about your "fashion advice" to Ibou 😂

jkeey4: Next time we take you proper shopping. Your husband needs help 😭

bradley_dils: 🙏🏽❤️

liverpool_wagsuk: Queen supporting her king! Love to see it

frenchfootie_fan: She's at every match now, proper wife material 👏

skeptical_scouser: Still think this marriage happened too fast... something's off

⤷ defending_rabia: skeptical_scouser let them be happy you miserable git

parisian_princess: Girl your French is so good! Heard you speaking to the reporters 🔥

liked by rabia_konate, virgilvandijk, and 234k others

ibrahimakonate: Merci for the support tonight 🇫🇷❤️ Perfect preparation before Ramadan begins. Blessed to share these moments with ma femme rabia_konate 🤲🏽 tagged: rabia_konate, stadefrance

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rabia_konate: Always proud to support you habibi ❤️

⤷ ibrahimakonate: Mon cœur 💙

⤷ scouser4life: rabia_konate ibrahimakonate she just ended him with kindness 😭

virgilvandijk: Brother! Top performance as always 💪🏽

jhenderson: Beautiful couple! 👏

muslim_football_fans: May Allah bless your marriage and the upcoming Ramadan brother 🤲🏽

fashion_police_: Rabia's outfit choice for the match was chef's kiss 💋

The social media response painted a picture of growing public acceptance and genuine affection for their relationship, though traces of skepticism remained. What mattered most to Rabia, scrolling through the notifications as Ibou slept peacefully beside her, was that their story was becoming real in the eyes of the world—not just a contractual arrangement, but a genuine partnership built on mutual respect, shared faith, and growing love.

Alhamdulillah, she whispered into the darkness, grateful for all of it—the journey, the destination, and especially the man beside her who'd somehow become her home.

The afternoon sun painted Dammarie-lès-Lys in golden hues as Ibou led Rabia through narrow residential streets that felt worlds away from central Paris's tourist attractions. Here, modest apartment buildings lined quiet roads where children rode bikes and elderly residents tended small gardens with methodical care. It was authentic France in a way no guidebook could capture—lived-in, unhurried, utterly ordinary and beautiful for its simplicity.

"This is where you grew up?" Rabia asked, taking in the peaceful neighborhood with genuine interest.

"Until fifteen," Ibou confirmed, his stride naturally slowing as they passed a particular building. "Third floor, corner apartment. My mother still lives there, though she threatens to move somewhere warmer every winter."

"But never actually does?"

"Never actually does," he grinned. "Too attached to her garden plot. Twenty years of work, she says. Cannot abandon tomatoes now."

Rabia laughed at the image defending her vegetables against the possibility of warmer climates. "Priorities."

"Exactly. Very serious tomato business."

They walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Ibou occasionally pointing out landmarks from his childhood—the bakery where he'd bought pain au chocolat with pocket money, the pharmacy where his mother worked part-time, the bus stop where he'd waited every morning for school transport to Paris.

"Strange being back," he mused as they turned onto another quiet street. "Always feel like I should be taller somehow. Or buildings should be smaller."

"Everything looks the same size to me," Rabia observed, then caught his meaning. "Oh. Because you were small when you left."

"Very small," he confirmed with a self-deprecating smile. "All legs and ears, my grandmother used to say. No coordination whatsoever."

"Hard to imagine," she said, studying his graceful movement even in casual walking. The man who could position himself perfectly to intercept attacking moves, who moved with such unconscious athleticism, had apparently been an awkward child.

"Wait until you see pictures," he warned. "My mother keeps photo albums specifically to embarrass me in front of visitors."

"I'm definitely asking to see those," Rabia declared immediately.

"Of course you are," he sighed with mock resignation. "Wives and mothers, natural alliance against husbands' dignity."

"We have to stick together," she agreed solemnly, then broke into laughter at his exaggerated wounded expression.

They rounded another corner, and suddenly the landscape opened up—a large green space stretching between buildings, with a small football pitch at its center. The goal posts were slightly crooked, the penalty area markers faded to barely visible lines, but the grass was well-maintained and clearly still used regularly.

"Here," Ibou announced with obvious pleasure. "Where it all started."

Rabia could immediately picture it—a younger Ibou with his "all legs and ears" description, learning to control a ball on this modest pitch, developing the skills that would eventually take him to Liverpool's defensive line. The thought created an unexpected tightness in her chest, this glimpse into the foundation of the man she'd married.

"How old were you when you started playing here?" she asked, following him toward the center of the pitch.

"Seven, maybe eight," he replied, bending to touch the grass with familiar affection. "Every day after school, weekends, holidays. Only stopped when rain made it impossible."

"And sometimes not even then?"

His grin confirmed her suspicion. "Muddy football is best football. More challenging."

A small group of children was playing at the far end, their laughter carrying across the space as they chased the ball with single-minded enthusiasm. Watching them, Rabia could easily envision Ibou among similar groups years ago—the tall, skinny kid who'd somehow transformed into the composed defender she'd watched direct Liverpool's backline.

"Want to try?" Ibou asked suddenly, producing a football from seemingly nowhere.

"Try what exactly?" she asked suspiciously, though she was already moving toward him.

"Little match. You and me. First to three goals wins."

"That's completely unfair," she protested, though she was already mentally calculating whether her current outfit—comfortable jeans and trainers—would allow for reasonable movement. "You're a professional footballer. I've kicked a ball maybe five times in my life."

"I give you advantage," he offered generously. "You get full goal. I only get half."

"Half a goal?" she repeated, confused.

"I have to score twice to get one point," he clarified. "You score once, is full goal. Very fair system."

Rabia considered this, torn between the absurdity of attempting to play football against a Premier League defender and the appealing prospect of seeing Ibou in this environment that had shaped him. Plus, he looked so hopeful, so genuinely eager to share this piece of his past with her.

"Fine," she decided. "But when I embarrass myself completely, I'm blaming you."

"Deal," he agreed immediately, already placing the ball at the center of the pitch. "Choose your goal."

Rabia pointed to the slightly less crooked set of posts, earning an approving nod. "Good eye. That one kicks downhill slightly."

"You didn't tell me that before I chose!"

"Part of strategy," he shrugged innocently. "Home ground advantage."

"Cheater," she accused, but without heat. His competitive streak was endearing rather than overwhelming, focused more on shared enjoyment than actual victory.

"Ready?" he asked, positioning himself with exaggerated seriousness.

"Absolutely not," she replied honestly. "But let's do it anyway."

What followed was less a football match than an extended lesson in controlled humiliation, though Ibou's patient encouragement prevented it from becoming genuinely embarrassing. He'd clearly adjusted his usual playing style dramatically—moving at perhaps twenty percent of his normal speed, allowing her to actually touch the ball occasionally, celebrating her successful passes with theatrical enthusiasm.

"Brilliant control!" he declared after she managed to dribble past him—an achievement that had clearly required his complete cooperation. "Natural talent!"

"You're letting me win," she panted, already feeling the effects of running around the pitch.

"Not letting you win," he corrected, stealing the ball back with casual ease. "Just... playing with style handicap."

"Style handicap?"

"Cannot use professional moves against amateur," he explained seriously, then completely ruined the effect by nutmegging her with ridiculous ease. "Is unsporting."

Rabia groaned as the ball rolled neatly between her legs. "What was that then?"

"Basic skill," he replied innocently. "Available to everyone."

Despite her complete lack of ability, the match was genuinely enjoyable. Ibou's obvious pleasure in sharing this space with her, his patient instruction when she asked how to properly kick the ball, his unrestrained laughter when she accidentally kicked it in completely the wrong direction—all created a relaxed atmosphere that transcended the sporting element.

"You know," she said during a brief pause to catch her breath, "I think I understand why you love this now."

"The beautiful game reveals itself?" he asked hopefully.

"The running around part is terrible," she clarified, making him laugh. "But I get the... connection aspect. The shared experience, the problem-solving, the teamwork elements."

"Exactly!" His enthusiasm was immediately evident. "Is not just kicking ball. Is communication, strategy, trust."

"Trust?"

"You trust teammates to be where they should be," he explained, his teacher mode engaging automatically. "I trust that Mo will run into space, that Virgil will cover if I step up, that Alisson will command his area. Without trust, is just eleven individuals."

Rabia nodded thoughtfully, understanding this wasn't just about football but about all partnerships—including theirs. The gradual building of trust that allowed them to anticipate each other's needs, to rely on mutual support, to function as a unit rather than two separate people sharing space.

"Like marriage," she observed.

"Exactly like marriage," he agreed with a smile. "Both require patience, communication, willingness to adapt when things don't go as planned."

The insight was characteristically Ibou—finding deeper meaning in everyday experiences, connecting his professional expertise to personal relationships with thoughtful precision.

"Though hopefully with less sliding tackles," she added.

"Depends on marriage," he replied with mock seriousness, then immediately had to dodge her retaliatory swipe. "Some situations require defensive action!"

The final score was academically irrelevant—Ibou had scored approximately fifteen goals to her eventual one, achieved only through his increasingly obvious assistance. But the shared laughter, the gentle instruction, the obvious joy he took in introducing her to something so fundamental to his identity—those elements transcended any numerical outcome.

"Not bad for first match," he declared as they walked off the pitch, his arm casually around her shoulders. "Natural defensive instincts."

"I stood in front of the goal and hoped for the best," she pointed out.

"Exactly! Proper defensive mindset. Stay between ball and goal, force attacker to make decision. Basics of defending."

"I think you're being generous with your analysis," she laughed, leaning into his warmth as they headed back toward the main road.

"Never generous with football analysis," he replied seriously. "Very scientific approach. You show promise."

As they caught a taxi back toward central Paris, Rabia found herself studying Ibou's profile in the passing streetlight. This glimpse into his origins—the modest neighborhood, the simple pitch where dreams began, the obvious affection he held for these formative spaces—had revealed another layer of the man she'd married. Not just the polished professional or the thoughtful husband, but the boy who'd grown up here, who'd learned discipline and teamwork and perseverance on that faded pitch.

"Thank you," she said softly as their taxi navigated evening traffic toward their hotel.

"For what?" he asked, turning to face her.

"For sharing that with me. Your childhood, your beginning. It's... meaningful."

The smile that spread across his face told her he understood completely—that this hadn't been mere tourism but an opening of himself, a trust offered and received.

"Is important you understand all parts," he said simply. "Where I come from, what made me. Complete picture."

As their taxi pulled up to their hotel, Rabia realized she felt the same way—wanting him to see all aspects of her life, her origins, her journey. The building of true partnership required this kind of comprehensive understanding, this willingness to reveal not just polished surfaces but authentic foundations.

_______________________________________________

The hotel room was a study in Parisian elegance—high ceilings, period moldings, and tall windows that opened onto a small balcony overlooking the Seine. But Rabia's attention was entirely captured by the sight of Ibou sprawled across the bed, still in his afternoon clothes but somehow managing to look completely at home as he queued up something on his tablet.

"Attack on Titan," he announced with the enthusiasm of someone introducing a religious experience. "Perfect for Paris evening. You'll love it."

"Will I?" she asked skeptically, settling beside him against the elaborately carved headboard. "Because your track record with anime recommendations is... mixed."

"One time," he protested immediately. "Death Note was too intense for beginners, I admit this mistake. But Attack on Titan is different. More action, less psychological horror."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" But she was already getting comfortable beside him, drawn by his obvious excitement more than any genuine interest in animated shows.

"Trust me," he said simply, pressing play on the tablet balanced between them. "And you made me watch Gordon Ramsay scream at people for three hours yesterday. Fair trade."

"Gordon Ramsay is educational," she defended. "You learn proper cooking techniques while being entertained by professional kitchen chaos."

"Very educational," he agreed with patent insincerity. "Yesterday I learned seventeen new ways to insult someone's beef wellington."

The opening credits began—dramatic music, sweeping animation, Japanese voices with French subtitles that Ibou clearly preferred to any English dub option. Rabia tried to focus on the unfolding story, but found herself increasingly distracted by Ibou's running commentary.

"See this character development?" he pointed at the screen enthusiastically. "Eren starts weak, becomes strong through determination. Very inspiring message."

"Mmm," she murmured diplomatically, though privately she thought the angry teenage protagonist seemed more annoying than inspiring.

Twenty minutes in, the show hit some apparently hilarious moment that had Ibou erupting into his full, uninhibited laughter—head thrown back, shoulders shaking, the rich sound filling their hotel room with genuine joy. Rabia watched him more than the screen, fascinated by this completely unguarded version of her husband.

"What was funny about that?" she asked when his laughter finally subsided.

"The way he said 'I'll kill them all,'" Ibou explained, wiping his eyes. "In French dub, sounds like angry child ordering ice cream. Very serious threat, but voice actor makes it..." He dissolved into giggles again, apparently finding the memory freshly amusing.

Rabia replayed the scene in her mind, trying to understand what had struck him as so hilarious. The character had indeed delivered what seemed like a dramatic declaration of vengeance, but to her ears, it had sounded appropriately serious.

"Maybe it's funnier if you understand Japanese originally?" she suggested diplomatically.

"Maybe," he agreed, still chuckling. "Or maybe I have terrible sense of humor."

"Not terrible," she assured him. "Just... very specific."

As the episode continued, Rabia found herself paying less attention to the increasingly complex plot and more to Ibou's reactions—the way he leaned forward during action sequences, his muttered commentary in rapid French when subtitles couldn't keep up with his thoughts, his obvious investment in characters whose names she was already forgetting

"You're not watching," he observed during a quieter scene, catching her studying his profile instead of the screen.

"I'm watching you watch," she corrected. "Much more entertaining."

"Very funny," he said, but his pleased expression suggested he didn't mind being the object of her attention. "You don't like the show."

"I don't dislike it," she said carefully. "It's just... a lot. Very intense, very complicated."

"Too much for you?"

"Maybe," she admitted. "Or maybe I need to build up to giant monster battles. Start with something less... apocalyptic?"

Ibou considered this seriously, his finger hovering over the pause button. "What you prefer? Romance? Comedy? Slice of life?"

"What's slice of life?"

"Normal people doing normal things," he explained. "Daily life, relationships, small problems instead of disasters."

"That sounds much more my speed," she laughed. "Though I'm not sure how exciting normal people can be in animated form."

"Very exciting," he assured her seriously. "Good storytelling makes anything interesting. Even grocery shopping can be good with right characters."

"Okay," she decided. "But can we watch just one more episode of this first? I'm starting to understand who some of these people are."

The delight that spread across his face at her willingness to engage made her temporary sacrifice of comprehension completely worthwhile. "Really? You want to continue?"

"I want to understand what you love about it," she clarified. "Even if the French dubbing makes everything sound like melodramatic grocery shopping."

"Fair enough," he laughed, repositioning the tablet so they could both see comfortably. "But I explain confusing parts, yes? Make easier to follow."

"Deal."

As the next episode began, Ibou's arm came around her shoulders in a gesture that had become natural over their months together. Rabia settled against his side, finding her optimal position against his chest while still being able to see the screen. The domestic intimacy of the moment—sharing his interests in their elegant hotel room, the comfortable weight of his arm around her, the soft glow of Parisian evening light through the windows—created a contentment that transcended any entertainment value of the show itself.

His running commentary proved genuinely helpful, filling in context she'd missed and explaining character relationships with the same analytical precision he brought to football tactics. When she asked questions—"Why is that character so angry all the time?" or "What exactly are these titan things?"—he answered with patient detail, clearly pleased by her engagement.

"You know," she said during a dramatic pause in the action, "you should consider a second career as anime tour guide. Very thorough explanations."

"Football analyst by day, anime expert by night," he agreed solemnly. "Very special skill set."

"Extremely special," she confirmed. "Though probably a limited market for that combination."

"Just need find right audience," he shrugged, pressing a kiss to the top of her head with casual affection.

The simple gesture—so natural, so unstudied—sent a flutter of awareness through her that had nothing to do with animated battles and everything to do with the man holding her.

When the episode ended, Ibou moved to queue up another one, but Rabia caught his hand gently. "Maybe that's enough anime for tonight?"

"Too much?" he asked, immediately concerned about overwhelming her.

"Not too much," she assured him, turning to face him more directly. "Just... ready for a different kind of attention."

The shift in her tone, the directness in her eyes, clearly registered with him. His expression grew more focused, the tablet temporarily forgotten as he studied her face with careful attention.

"Different attention?" he repeated, though his slight smile suggested he understood her meaning perfectly.

Instead of answering verbally, Rabia leaned forward to kiss him—soft but deliberate, her hand moving to rest against his chest in a gesture that had become increasingly familiar between them. His response was immediate, gentle but confident.

When they separated briefly, the look in his eyes held multiple layers—appreciation for her directness, pleasure at her comfort with initiating contact, and something deeper that made her chest tighten with emotion beyond mere physical attraction.

"Much better than anime," he murmured against her lips, making her laugh softly.

"Don't let your favorite shows hear you say that," she warned, even as she moved closer to him on the bed.

"I have different favorites now," he replied simply, his hand moving to cup her cheek with the careful touch that had characterized their physical relationship from the beginning.

In the soft light of their Parisian evening, with the sounds of the city filtering gently through their windows, they continued the discovery that had become the most compelling aspect of their arranged beginning.

Not rushed, not overwhelming, but definitely beyond the careful boundaries they'd maintained in their early weeks. Another threshold approached, another step in their unique timeline that honored both patience and growing desire.

"You know," she said softly, her fingers tracing the edge of his collar with newfound confidence, "I think I prefer this kind of storytelling."

"What kind?" Ibou asked, though his slight smile suggested he was enjoying the direction of her thoughts.

"The kind we write ourselves," she replied, surprising herself with her boldness. "No subtitles required."

His laugh was warm and appreciative, the sound rumbling pleasantly through his chest beneath her hand. "Much better dialogue too," he agreed, his thumb brushing across her cheek with the gentle touch that always made her breath catch slightly.

The kiss that followed held none of their early hesitation. When his hand moved to the small of her back, drawing her closer, Rabia melted into the contact with a soft sigh of contentment.

"Comfortable?" he asked against her lips, ever mindful of her boundaries even as those boundaries continued to evolve.

"Very," she assured him, her own hands growing bolder as they explored the solid warmth of his shoulders through his shirt. "You?"

"Perfect," he confirmed, his attention turning to that sensitive spot just below her ear that never failed to make her shiver. "Everything about this is perfect."

As their exploration continued—careful but increasingly confident, attentive to each response without requiring constant verbal confirmation—Rabia found herself grateful for the patient foundation they'd built.

"Rabia," Ibou murmured against her neck, her name sounding like a prayer in his accented voice.

"Yes?" she managed, though the single word came out more breathless than intended.

"I love you," he said simply, the declaration so natural, so unstudied, that it took a moment for the weight of the words to register.

When they did, Rabia felt her heart skip completely. Not from surprise—she'd felt the emotion building between them for weeks—but from the perfect timing, the absolute rightness of hearing those words in this moment, in this place, from this man who had somehow transformed from stranger to partner to something much deeper.

"I love you too," she replied without hesitation, the admission feeling like both revelation and confirmation of something she'd been gradually recognizing.

The smile that spread across his face at her words was brilliant, transforming his entire expression with pure joy. When he kissed her again, it was different—not just desire or affection, but genuine love openly acknowledged, freely given, perfectly reciprocated.

Some moments, she reflected dimly, were worth waiting for. Worth building toward. Worth savoring completely when they finally arrived.

And this, definitely, was one of them.

liked by ibrahimakonate, bradley_dils, and 45k others

rabia_konate: Ramadan prep meetings over room service croissants ☪️🥐 Planning our first married Ramadan together Alhamdulillah 🤍

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ibrahimakonate: First of many inshallah 🤲🏽

islamic_marriage: This is beautiful mashallah! First married Ramadan is so special

modern_muslimah: The way they support each other's spiritual journey 🥺

tradition_first: Finally a couple doing things the proper Islamic way

fatoukonate: Can't wait to break fast together as family ❤️

⤷ rabia_konate: fatoukonate Looking forward to it sister!

TO BE CONTINUED...

[emjayewrites]

Eid Mubarak to all of my babies, hope your day is blessed 💗

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Need an Ibou & Liverpool fan to be a beta reader. Next chapter for the Ibou fic is kicking my ass.

Also sorry if this is repetitive but can the Ibou girlies stand up please? I want to make sure my taglist is correct.

[emjayewrites]

jkeey4: l had a seat with Spike 🎬

(ig, 30/05/25)

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thank you for responding to this!! I will also respond to all of your asks and comments soon!

I have something for my Lewis girlies soon!

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Series:

Sakura Dreams: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 - DISCONTINUED

In Between The Lines: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / epilogue

The Year I Turned 25: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 - DISCONTINUED

One Shots/Drabbles:

Green With Envy

A Weekend In Paris: 1

Turkey Day

The Best Gift (Sequel to Turkey Day)

Our First Christmas (In Between The Lines)

Boys Trip

[emjayewrites]

Series:

Private Landing: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12.1 / 12.2 / 13.1 / 13.2 / 14.1 / 14.2 / 14.3 / 15 / Epilogue

Drabbles/One Shots:

Sir/BabyGirl

Lil’ Crush

Texas Hold ‘Em

The First Monday in May

Just Between Us

Silverstone Baby

Forbidden Fruit

Quality Time

[emjayewrites]

Series:

Hey There, Delilah: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / epilogue

Oneshots:

A Bellingham Christmas

[emjayewrites]

Series:

Fouled by Fate: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / epilogue

Puppy Love: 1 / 2 / - DISCONTINUED

Ball In Your Court: 1 /

One Shots/Drabbles:

Oh Captain, My Captain

Spin Bout U

Spin Bout U - part 2

What's In A Name?

Wash Day

Days in Douala

Baecation

[emjayewrites]

Series:

Swift Pursuits: 1 / 2 / 3 - DISCONTINUED

Written In The Stars: 1 / 2 / 3 / 4

One Shots/Drabbles:

A King & His Queen

Royalty