#Sales Interview Questions

[pawansinghchegg]

Top Sales Interview Questions and Their Answers (2025)

[crisp-writers]

Nailing the Sales Interview: A Chat about Landing Your Dream Job

Picture this: a sleek conference room with polished mahogany tables and leather chairs. Soft ambient lighting casts a warm glow, creating an atmosphere that’s both professional and inviting. This is the battleground where you, the sales professional, will showcase your prowess and passion. As you step into this realm, armed with your resume and a confident demeanour, the interview process becomes…

[sauriansolutions]

Roommate: How did your phone interview go

Me: 😬 I think I fucked up...

Me: ...they asked why I wanted to work for their company, and I accidentally said, "I need money so I can eat food and live in a house--"

Roommate: Nooo you're supposed to say, "I love your products and admire your corporate culture!"

Me: I know! I fucked up!!

[yellowsubiesdance]

i wish i could fully trust myself and say it was a good interview, but i legitimately have no idea

[lookwhatyoumademelou]

.

[foldingfittedsheets]

The mattress company I worked for the first time no longer exists. It was long ago eaten and assimilated by a bigger company. But when I started it was an incredibly intense five weeks of training. I was told I was extremely lucky to be selected, and I was. From a pool of a hundred applicants only fifteen of us made the cut to entering the training program.

The course covered how to talk to customers, how to ask open ended questions, how to close a sale, and product knowledge. I learned a lot, and truthfully my greatest takeaway was a lot of social scripts that I could use in other areas of my life.

We also had a midterm exam and a final. Both included a roleplay element with a trainer and a written portion. They told us when we started that the course was challenging but it was still a shock to come in after the midterm and realize half the class had failed.

I was named valedictorian of training- a dubious honor as it meant I’d done the best in the class, but popular lore had it that valedictorians struggled the most on the sales floor. Lo, I struggled.

Not because I wasn’t good. I was. But because my manager set out to systematically destroy my self esteem. Every sale, every interaction I had was scrutinized and criticized.

If I sold a bed with protectors, moveable base, and pillows he’d ask why I hadn’t managed to sell pillow protectors too. His first trainee had thrived on being challenged and he’d never bothered to learn a different way to coach.

It was wretched. My performance started strong but nosedived after a few weeks with him. My trainer, a man I loathed for stonewalling me in my interview, came in to inform me I was on new hire probation. If I couldn’t get my sales numbers up I’d be let go.

His actual phrasing was, “When you have a bandaid do you like to rip it off or pull it slowly?”

Since it was eminently obvious why he was visiting and because I thought it was condescending I sweetly informed him that I liked to soak my bandaids in hot water so they come off on their own.

He was briefly startled at this derailing but then got on with the bad news. I signed some forms stating that I understood my job was in peril.

I went home furious. I thought long and hard about why I wasn’t succeeding and how frustrated I was with my manager. I came in the next day and my anger had crystallized into a cold sharp edge.

My manager opened his mouth to address the probation and I snapped, “Just leave me alone. Go in the back if I have a sale. If you must address a serious issue then you will give me praise on two things I did right and present it as a compliment sandwich. Otherwise just say good job and shut up. Your constant nitpicking just makes me anxious and I do worse. Back off.” Belated and begrudging I added, “Please.”

He raised his eyebrows in dim surprise but I’d gauged him well. He backed off. Dutifully he’d meander into the back when I had a sale and praised me when I closed it. I resented knowing it was only because I’d demanded complimented but they still boosted me up. My numbers skyrocketed, I landed my first split king sale, and I exited probation with flying colors.

The trainer came back in to congratulate my manager for turning things around. To my gratification he gave me credit for setting him straight and said I’d taught him a different way to lead. My manager would often genuinely praise that moment when I’d stood up to him, impressed with my stubborn refusal to fail and my insight into what would help.

My biggest takeaway from the whole thing was just that people need positive reinforcement to succeed. Praise people for doing a good job. If you’re ever in a position where you need to criticize someone put it in a compliment sandwich instead of just saying the negative.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Tim: Who and what are we interviewing today?

Tam: The What is a social media manager candidate who will be in charge of the new branch for the PR department. The Who is Daniel Fenton. He has a Master's in Communications, a bachelor's in marketing and is working on a associate in public relations.

Tim: I thought W.E. already had media accounts?

Tam: Unofficial ones, but they have generated enough positive feedback that impacted our sales greatly in a good way. The board is going to put everyone behind the different unofficial accounts into one big team, and the manager will oversee them. This will hopefully increase our presence in the younger generation.

Tim: Okay. Why wasn't I at that meeting?

Tam: From my understanding it was when you were quarantined due to that nasty head cold that almost killed you.

Tim: Oh yeah the one from Mars.

Tam: I hate that your missing spleen means you're more likely to say, "I got a cold from Mars, and it almost killed me"

Tim: You learn to live with it. What should I know about this Fenton, before I see him?

Tam: Well, Bruce made it clear he in no way wants you to hire Fenton. Apparently, the boy's parents and he were rivals in college, as the very few interested in the paranormal from a academic point of view. Bruce was a one-man team for Gotham U's paranormal club attempting to debunk thier research on the grounds that it was inhumane towards ghosts.

Tim: Okay. Throw the interview. Got it

Tam: Bruce also wanted me to pass along the message "Don't you dare attempt to kiss the enemy's spawn"

Tim: *sighs* How easy does that man think I am? Honestly.

Two hours later:

Danny: Hello, Im Danny Fenton. I'm here for the interview-

Tim: First question: Are you single?

Danny: Um...yes?

Tim: *Typing into his laptop* good, good. How would your leadership better Wayne Enterprise's image online?

Danny: Im glad you asked, I-

Tam opening the door: I got the email to begin the hiring process. Tim. Why are you're trying to prove Bruce, right?

Tim: Im a weak man. A simple weak man. The Romero in this cruel Shakespearian world.

Danny:.....How much was the pay again?

Tim: Fifty dollars a hour, eighty hours every payroll, plus overtime, all benefits included.

Danny: I'll gladly be the Juliet for conditions like that. My parents will just have to deal with it.

Tam rolling her eyes: Great. There is two of them now. I need a raise.

[whoisraii]

Even if my heart stops beating...You're the only thing I need with me

F1 MASTERLIST

☆ : Featuring : All of the drivers present in the 2025 grid ☆ : Synopsis : Them around you while they have a crush on you but you are too oblivious...

☆ : word count : 2.1k

🎧Song for this fic : Pretty Boy ( Chip Chorme and the Monotones)...The Neighbourhood

Note : this is actually my first time writing for all 20 of them so if I don't do justic to one of them I'm so sorry 😭😭

☽・Redbull

max verstappen

You never catch Max being openly affectionate.

But the camera crew does—he’s always glancing around until he spots you.

If you’re laughing with another driver? Suddenly he’s there, acting like it’s just coincidence.

Once he said something almost nice about your outfit, then looked away like he didn’t say anything at all.

“That color doesn’t look bad on you.” “Wait, was that a compliment?” “No. Just an observation. Don’t get weird about it.”

Yuki Tsunoda

Loud, dramatic, hilarious.

Yuki will yank you into comming to the races.

“Please you are good luck to me. I need you to be down there watching me”

He brings you your favorite snacks before every race and insists it’s because he “bought too many.” (He didn’t.)

Whole paddock knows he’s crushing. but you? Blissfully unaware...

You will find your favorite candy waiting for you the second you have a bad day..

“They were on sale. Don’t overthink it.”

☽・Mercedes

George Russell

George treats you like his personal planner—even if you’re just a media coordinator or on a logistics team.

Walks you through every weekend plan, sends you the brief before you ask, and gives pre-interview pep talks like you're going on camera instead of him.

When it rains, he will offer you his umbrella...Even if that means he ends up soaked.

“George, you’re getting drenched.”...“Yes, but you’re not. That’s what matters.”

Andrea Kimi Antonelli

He doesn't flirt he just teases the living hell out of you..

You mispronounce an Italian word once—once—and Kimi never lets it go.

The thing is, he’s always around. Not in an obvious way, but in that quiet, lingering in your peripheral vision way.

He stands close—too close—when he’s talking to you. Shoulder brushing yours. Arms almost touching. But if you lean away or give him a look, he just raises an eyebrow like what? am I in your space? could never be me.

He might tease you...but he will remember your everything...and he will take pictures of you candid stuff which you later find out when he sends you one by mistake..A candid. You, mid-laugh, half-blurry from movement. The corner of his jacket sleeve is visible in the frame.

will smile while you talk to him and maybe get lost in your eyes..too lost maybe..

“What?”..“You were looking at me.”..“No, I was—don’t be weird.”..(Pause)..“You had something on your face.”

☽・Ferrari

Charles Leclerc

Holds you hand to subconciously sometimes...

Gets a bit pouty when the fanbase favours you more but he secretly loves it...

knows your coffee order by heart and gets you coffee every morning...

Doesn't accept it and saty quiet if anyone tries to disrespect you or mistreat you...yeah not on his watch...

"Did you drink enough water today? and did you have breakfast? you skip that meal a lot...like a lot..."

Lewis Hamilton

Keeps it professional on camera but insists producers highlight your work and advocacy...

Makes sure to include you in glitzy events but won’t directly talk about his feelings for you.

Wraps an arm around you in press chaos but immediately acts casual if questioned.

Posts a soft photo of you with a vague caption — as if to say

"I’m here, but I won’t say more.”

☽・Mclaren

Lando Norris

Doesn't flirt with you like he does with others...he just becomes a 12 year old with a crush around you...

Will unplug your mic and act shocked when you notice and always standing behind you during group shots, pulling faces.

Starts every day with “don't tell me what to do” and ends it with “text me when you’re home. I get worried if you don't”

Is in more of your posts than in regular ones which makes the PR go mad..

(Later, during media day) “Lando, can you stop photobombing her instagram?”...“Sorry, I’m her emotional support driver.”

Oscar Piastri

He pays attention...will remember anything and everything you tell him about yourself...your coffee order, favorite books, favorite artist...everything.

He wants to listen to music? He wants to listen it with you...will share earbuds without a second thought...

Will sit beside you the second he has the oppurtunity...

If someone raises their voice at you he will polietly but firmly to keep their tone in check...and most of the times not infront of you...

“Oscar went full lawyer on that journo for you.” you would probably find out form someone on the team...

“You never said.” “Didn’t need to. He was wrong. You deserved better.”

Since he remembers almost everything...you will find coffee or something to cheer you up the second you have a bad day...

“You didn’t have to bring me tea…”..“You sounded tired. Figured you wouldn’t stop for yourself.”

☽・Aston Martin

Fernando Alonso

Will subtly shake his head all the time while maintaining eye contact with you while you speak

Also asks you to be there in the garages while he srives because he sees you as his lucky charm...

He would never admit it but things you give him are always kept safely and a keychain you gave him is always on his backpack because it reminds him of you...

If anyone tries to get dissmisive about you job title or say anything bad abt you...He wont think twice before speaking up and sometimes maybe not so politely...

“If you don’t know her role, you shouldn’t be asking questions.”

Lance Stroll

He might be the most nonchalant guy to others but he laughs the hardest the second you make a joke...even if its dumb or stupid...

The one to buy you your favorite snacks in bulk and just keep then with him in case you are ever hungry..

And he will stick to you because to him you are his comfort person...

You might see him scribbling your name in his notes and stuff...its subconcious but its just him...

“You wrote my name?” “It’s not weird! I mean—it’s just for luck. Like… positive manifestation. Or whatever.”

☽・Williams

Alex Albon

He's tall so he walks fast but when you're walking with him...he will slow down his pace to just match with yours so you can walk more comfortably...

If its your first time at a grand prix...he will try his hardest to make sure absolutely nothing goes wrong for you...

Picking at eachother is deffinately the love language between you both...but he would never cross the line...

If he ever notices you skipping breakfast or any meal of the day...he will make sure to carry something with him so that he can hand it to you immediatly when it looks like you're hungry...

If you have anything big comming up for you and you're nervous...he will slide you notes and pretend that they were absolutely not from him...

“‘Knock ‘em dead, superstar’? What happened to ruthless sarcasm?” “Who let you see that? I was trying to be mysterious and emotionally unavailable.” “Too late. Your soft side is showing.” “Damn. I knew I should’ve written ‘Don’t trip on camera.’”

Carlos Sainz

Will run to you the second he feels even a minescule spec of stress...he calls you his 'calming presence' because your voice feels so calm...

Will send you his song recomendations...

Is probably the kind of guy to beg you to get song widgets where you can pick out songs for eachother when it reminds you of eachother...

Would'nt think twice before offering you his jacket with a small smirk and nodd...

“You remembered my favorite artist?” “Of course. I listen when you talk. That’s what friends do...Especially the special ones.”

☽・Haas

Oliver Bearman

He will drop everything and run to you the second he spotts you...unless its very important or work related...

Will repeat the complements you give him under his breath just to relieve the happiness of what you had just said...

He gets visibly happy when you say "see you later" even if its a part of rouine at this point...

He will cling to you like a koala and see you as his comfort person...

Also sees you as his lucky charm so asking you to be his plus one in gps is the most normal thing...

Remembers your orders and your favorite songs by heart...

“Ollie, breathe. It’s just lunch.” “Right. Normal. Casual. Totally regular human food consumption...You know, if it were just us forever, I’d be fine with that.”

Estaban Ocon

Will hold everything for you...the door...the umbrella...your sanity...

Will get you an extra pass so that you can come watch him race..and will panic if he forgets to get you one by any chance

Also knows your coffee order, food orders and schedule like its the back of his hand...

will strict heartedly follow the sidewalk rule...

If you have a bad day and he gets to know about it...expect him to get you your favorite takeout and ask if you want to have a movie night at his with him...

"why do you always make me drink water and get me food?" “Because you forget to eat when you're stressed… and you always leave your water bottle behind.” “So you’re stalking me for hydration purposes?” “Exactly. I'm a very noble stalker.”

☽・Racing bulls

Liam Lawson

Liam will give you nickanames that only he has rights to use...if anyone uses them...he will make sure that he makes it a point that only he can call you that...

He will carry some of your favorite snacks with him always in case you miss a meal or are genuinly hungry...

He will pretend to trip over his feet just so you can check up on him...

Calls you his 'lucky charm' and will cling to you...

Gifts you stuff...and makes sure nothing wrong happens to you...

“Did you seriously bring me gummy bears?” “You said you liked them once. In January. Of last year.” “So this is… thoughtful stalking?” “No! It’s called long-term strategic snacking...…Also I needed an excuse to talk to you today.”

Isack Hadjar

Isack will always be at the corner of your eye...everyone knows if you are somewhere he is nearby...

He wears the friendship bracelet you gave him like its a sacred thread...if anyone tries to touch it...he will yank his hand away...every single picture...its there on his hand...all the time...

Somehow always ends up holding your watter bottle or jacket or lanyard...he will say that you maybe lost it and hes just here to return...but its obvious that he has been holding it for about thirty minutes or so...

Remembers your coffee order and favorite songs...he will share his earbuds with you...

He would never flirt directly...but the second you say that you are cold...his hoodie is in your hands before you can even complete the sentence...

“You okay? You’re twitchier than usual.” “Didn’t sleep much.” “Why not?” “Was trying to figure out how to talk to you without sounding like an idiot.”

☽・Alpine

Peirre Gasly

Is convinced that you are his soulmate...he will flirt with you...and smile at you the entire time you talk with him...

Calls you 'sunshine' because he thinks you bring hope to him...

Will act offended if Simba likes you more but secretly loves you playing with Simba...

He will send you flowers under a fake name but then ask if you liked them...

"Liked the flowers on your doorstep this morning sunshine?" "That was you?"

Jack Doohan

Jack is the defination of 'Act cool. Panic later'

He is all soft smiles and hopeful glances, pretending he’s totally chill around you while in reality...he’s memorized every conversation...rehearsed his jokes, and 100% lies awake replaying the way you laughed at something he said three weeks ago.

Shows up with spare team merch "just lying around" and melts when you wear it

Gets adorably tounge tied if you complement him...say "you look nice today" with that soft smile and watch him trip over a cord or somthing while smiling...

The inside of his notebook has one scribble in the margin that reads: “Ask her out before the season ends. Please.”

You catch him staring sometimes, not in a cocky way, but like he’s just genuinely stunned you exist near him.

“She’s just… I don’t know. She makes everything feel less chaotic.

☽・Kick Sauber

Nico Hulkenberg

Is a little bit grumpy about everything except you....

He will say something like "you again?" but immediately make some space for you so you can sit...

leaves his jacket on your chair by "accident" when ever its cold...

leves you little notes in the jacket pockets...

"media days dont suck if shes there..."

Gabriel Bortoleto

blushes if you talk to him...blushes if you stand close to him...blushes if you smile...blushes if you wave...basically a blushing mss when it comes to you...

Will ask you to be in the garages during the race and reassures himself with a “Breathe. She’s here.”

Will give you his water bottle if you can't find your with two hands like a nervous kid giving yo a flower..

also wears the bracelet you gave him like a sacred thread...

"please come to the race...you help me keep my sanity down there..."

©WHOISRAII 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[chipjrwibignaturals]

I have a final round interview today and weirdly I’m like…. nervous I’ll GET the job????? like yes I very badly want employment but this job is. not great. I’m not sure I want it

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Twelve

“There’s been a lot of attention around this album, a lot of Corroded Coffin fans aren’t happy. How would you respond to the fans that are calling you a sell out?”

Jesus fucking Christ, Eddie thinks to himself. And these are the questions after Chrissy vetted them. Well, at least that means Chrissy thinks he can handle it. He wishes to fucking god he’d had chance to look them over before this shit show of an interview though. Eddie used to be good at this. He used to be confident.

He straightens in his chair, “well, considering all profits from the record sales are going to a very good cause,” Eddie starts slowly, growing more sure of where he’s going, “...I think those fans aren’t the kind of fans I want, anyway.”

“A lot of the backlash is centered around some of the artists you’ve chosen to work with, what would you say to the fans claiming you’ve gone ‘mainstream’?”

Eddie clears his throat, sipping from his water bottle, “I think Corroded Coffin have fifteen platinum selling records, and almost all of them are platinum eight or more times over. We are mainstream.”

Behind the lights, Eddie can see Chrissy. He watches her cover her mouth, hiding a laugh.

“Would you say the inspiration for this record comes solely from your own struggles with addiction?”

Eddie’s half an inch from pitching a fit. But, still, if Chrissy thinks this is okay then...he takes a breath. It’s for the album, he tells himself. Publicity means sales.

Sales will help people.

“Some of the things I experienced, sure. The addiction. The rehab. The people who were there for me,” Eddie shrugs, trying to be nonchalant about this.

“When it comes to people who helped you, you’re talking specifically about Boy Scout, right? Probably the most intimate track on the album?”

Eddie grits his teeth a little, “right.”

“Would you tell us who it’s about? There’s been plenty of speculation.” Behind the reporter, Chrissy looks fucking pissed. Some dude with a clip board and an ear piece is actually having to get in her way. It makes Eddie feel a little better.

“No.”

“So your relationship with this person-” Yup. Chrissy did not okay this and she is angry.

“Ask me about the album or we’re done.”

There’s a beat, the reporter interviewer woman looks like she’s just swallowed something sour, but she does move on.

“It’s fine- it’s...it’s fine.” Eddie feels like his insides have been scooped out. He really just doesn’t have the energy. He really fucking wants a drink. It takes a beat, but, no, no he doesn’t want a drink at all, not really. Not once he lets himself take a step back from it.

To calm down.

To think.

To shuffle all the other Eddie’s back off the stage and into the audience where they belong.

He thinks about what he really wants, and he’s pretty sure Eddie of two years ago would be disgusted with him; he wants to eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream in a hot bath and then go to bed.

“Still, sorry, she was absolutely not supposed to go off the list like that.”

“What was on the list was pretty tough,” Eddie cracks an eye, looking across at Chrissy, his head rocking against the leather of the seat with the motion of the car.

She smiles cheekily, “knew you could handle it though.”

“Uh hu,” Eddie lets his eyes close.

“I spoke to him. To Steve.”

Eddie nearly snaps a string with how badly he fumbles his guitar. He’s not prepared really, for the emotions that well up. Still going strong, apparently. Still pining away, even after...it’s been a long time. “What, err, what did he say?” Eddie doesn’t even bother to try and hide what he’s feeling. There was a time when he would have played it cool, or tried too, at least. Not now. “He’s not mad is he? About the song?”

“No, Eds, he’s not mad. He said he really likes it. It’s got a good beat for jogging, or something.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, can’t help it. Obviously Steve uses his music to exercise. Fucking disgusting, is what that is, “gross.” But then Eddie feels a little giddy; Steve likes the song Eddie wrote for him.

“He saw the interview Eddie, that’s why he was calling. Kind of.”

“Right..?”

“He said I can give you his number, if you want it?”

“He didn't...you didn’t just give him mine?”

“I offered, he said it had to be this way around. He said it needs to be up to you.”

“Right,” Eddie starts fiddling with his guitar again, just quiet, soft, “so that sounds like he’s not going to say no right? I mean he wouldn’t do that, just to say no-”

“Eddie.”

“No. Right. You’re right. Yeah.”

Eddie had spent an hour pacing around thinking about it. Not that he wasn’t sure or anything, just that he couldn’t quite...bring himself to press the call button. Like, what if Steve was on board and Eddie just, immediately somehow fucked it up? Or what if Steve didn’t answer? Eddie was definitely not prepared to leave an embarrassing voicemail. It was just...it felt big. It felt like one of the most important things he’d ever done.

So Eddie sent a text that said, ‘coffee?’ and then shoved his phone under a cushion and sulked about it for twenty minutes.

And then he went and got his phone because, you know, Steve might have answered.

He had answered.

It said, ‘yes if this is Eddie?’

Because Eddie hadn’t, actually, included any identifying information with his text message. Which. Smart. But Steve said ‘Yes if this is Eddie,’ so unless there’s a completely different Eddie in the picture, it felt kind of hopeful.

And Eddie must have done okay. Because now he’s here. Steve. Standing in Eddie’s kitchen, making himself right at home, using Eddie’s coffee machine, telling Eddie how good he looks.

And Eddie guesses, he has kind of upped his game when it comes to basic personal hygiene, and he has gained ten pounds, and he got the worst tattoo covered up. His clothes are actually neat and clean and he’s even had his hair cut a couple of times so, yeah.

Yeah. He probably does look better, in comparison to before.

“You look exactly the same.”

Steve smiles, handing Eddie his coffee, “this place looks good. Different.”

“Yeah, I,” Eddie looks around. Redecorating has been done for a while now, so Eddie’s used to how the place looks now, “I didn’t like it, how it was before. Wanted to make it kind of...cozier."

And the kitchen had been all harsh modern lines, before, and it is a little more homely now. Still stylish, Eddie’s not a monster. But yeah, not so harsh. The lounge no longer looks like it should be hosting Hugh Hefner’s entourage and the coffee table is no longer glass.

“Changed the bedroom a lot,” and he has. He’s even given into his Alpha a little, and his new, still huge, bed, is wedged into the corner of the room, perfect for nesting. Which is a thing Eddie does now, sometimes.

“Good, don’t think I could have dicked you down in that b movie horror set anyway.”

Eddie nearly chokes on his coffee because. Yeah. Lot to unpack there. Steve’s got that smile on his face, the one where he knows he’s scored a hit but definitely isn’t being smug about it. Eddie’s not going to rise to it, he isn’t. He’s going to completely ignore the implication that Steve would be...fucking Eddie. Because he isn’t. Eddie’s the Alpha here. He’s better than that now, so he ignores that part, “it wasn’t that bad. If you like red and black.”

“Uh hu.”

Steve slips his sneakers and socks off to stand on Eddie’s lawn. Which. Feels backward to Eddie but, he watches anyway. Tinkling along on his guitar, a little Dolly, for old times sake. Watches as Steve turns his face to the sun and takes a real big breath. He lets it out slowly, before coming back and sitting next to Eddie.

“So...how have you been?” It feels suddenly stilted to Eddie, like the time is a yawning chasm that might continue to keep them apart.

“Yeah. Quit working for the center. Probably over a year ago now.”

“Oh,” Eddie doesn’t really know what to do with that, but he’s concerned suddenly that it’s because of him, somehow, “thought you liked it there? Thought you, you know, helping people?”

“Yeah...yeah I did but...it kind of felt like it was time for a change. And...it didn’t feel right to me, any more, after you, heart wasn’t in it.”

“I- sorry,” Eddie says it anyway, even though he’s pretty sure he had no control over that whole thing.

“Worked out, I’ve been teaching yoga classes and doing some hours as a personal trainer, I’ve been doing some distance learning, it’s...it’s been really good for me, I think. I’ve got another course I want to do, then I just need to…figure some stuff out. I want to open my own yoga studio.”

And Eddie can absolutely see that for him, “that’s great Steve.”

“Yeah, just wish insurance companies and landlords would get the hint you know? Yikes-”

“I could pay-”

“No. No thank you. Don’t do that, Eddie.”

Steve’s looking right at him, and Eddie gets it, “right. No. Of course.”

There’s a moment of silence that could be in danger of becoming awkward, “so what have you been up to? Tell me about the tour?”

And then it isn’t.

They lie on the grass together for a while, the sun bright and almost too warm, really. Eddie knows he won’t last long out here, but because Steve is so clearly enjoying it, he holds on.

He’s like a big cat, stretched out in the sun, his shirt has ridden up enough so show off his flat tummy and Eddie’s pretty sure Steve’s eyes are shut so he stares at Steve’s treasure trail for a little bit.

Steve’s hot, so sue him.

Eddie can feel himself starting to sweat a little; his hair is probably going to do that gross thing where it goes sticky around the edges and frizzy in the middle.

He thinks about Steve washing his hair; Eddie tries not to hope it’ll happen again soon, and fails dismally.

It’s hard not to think about Steve back then; when Eddie was still being a fucking nightmare at every turn. The memories are precious, worn smooth because Eddie takes them out and looks at them every single day.

Not so much the last one though, well, maybe the kissing part.

“Why didn’t you say something? Before?”

Steve hums to show he’s listening.

“When I fucked up...you knew I was going to fuck up, but if you’d...said something. Explained why you said no...I might- I mean it’s not your fault that I did what I did...but…”

Steve sits up, resting back on his arms, hands flat on the grass. He sighs, opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again. Thinking. “Okay...if I’d have told you what I thought would happen, that you’d relapse, what would you have said?”

What would Eddie have said? He probably would have just told Steve he was wrong, denied it all. But would that have changed anything? Maybe it would have? Eddie has no idea, not really. Maybe he would have stayed sober, just to prove Steve wrong, but even Eddie can admit just how highly fucking unlikely that is.

The silence is long enough that Steve speaks again, “I’ll take a guess, you would have said something like, ‘pfffft. I’m not going to get fucked up because you said no to me. Jesus Christ you’re not all that. You’re such a cunt, fuck off out of my house’.”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighs, rubbing his head. He can’t even really bring himself to look at Steve right now, “yeah, that...sounds like me. Sorry.”

Steve laughs, and Eddie doesn’t move, but he finds comfort when Steve's hand slides overtop of his on the grass, “and then...if you did go and get fucked up,” Steve says carefully, “it would have been my fault.”

“I mean...it wouldn’t have actually been your fault, like, at all.”

“But would you have blamed me?”

“Probably,” Eddie rolls his eyes, shakes his head, “it’s fucking annoying how good you are at this.”

They move to the couch as the sun starts to set and the air turns chilly. Eddie pours them both a drink; fruity bubbly stuff that Eddie uses as his go to every time he would have been reaching for a beer.

Steve sips it and calls it good.

They end up sitting scrunched up together at one end of the couch, thighs pressed together, Eddie leaning enough into Steve’s space that Steve ends up putting an arm around him.

Presses a kiss to the top of Eddie’s head.

Eddie feels it when Steve lingers, takes a deep breath, scenting Eddie’s hair. He pulls Eddie in tighter. Eddie lets his eyes slide shut and just...soaks it in. Steve’s strength. Steve’s...here. He’s actually here, right now, and they’re snuggling on Eddie’s couch and. It hits Eddie all at once that he never thought he’d have this. Never thought, not really, that Steve would ever come back.

He dreamed about it, sure. All the time, especially in his weaker moments.

Eddie nuzzles against Steve’s chest, there’s the scent of laundry detergent, and then the subtle scent of Steve, lingering underneath. Fresh and clean, outdoor warmth.

“I don’t want to fuck this up.”

He feels Steve shrug, “then do your best not to.”

Eddie snorts, twisting further on the couch, pulling his legs up onto the cushions so he can really press into Steve. Steve turns easily, pulling up a leg, holding Eddie with both arms now, committing to the snuggle.

“So there is something that I could fuck up, is what we’re agreeing on?”

Steve’s playing with Eddie’s hair, just the ends, light and careful, “if you want there to be. I’d like that.”

Eddie nods, “so what is it?”

“Partners?” Steve suggests, vaguely.

“Urgh. No. Sounds like we’re solving a crime.”

Steve’s chest moves sharply under Eddie, a surprised laugh that makes no noise.

“Boyfriends?”

Eddie hides his grin, makes his voice sound put upon, “we’re not twelve.”

“Companions?”

“We’re also not ninety.”

“Uhm. Paramour?”

“Doesn’t that one mean that, like, one of us is married and is cheating, or something? I am not the other woman, Steve. Don’t demean me like that.”

There’s a minute, Eddie can almost hear Steve thinking, “other half?”

It’s corny. Kind of kitschy. But...it makes Eddie blush and hide his face a little. If you take that one literally, they’re two halves of a whole...thing. Steve and Eddie...yeah. He likes that. Likes the idea that they’re so joined that no matter which way you slice it, you get a little bit of Steve and a little bit of Eddie.

“Yeah. You can be my other half, I guess.”

“The better half, obviously.”

Eddie doesn’t even fight him on it.

“You could...you can stay. With me.”

Steve smiles over, slipping his coat on, “you propositioning me?”

“A little?”

Steve laughs, the stupid, caught off guard one that makes Eddie smile too, “not tonight, okay? There’s no rush, right?”

Eddie kind of wants to protest, a little, but Steve’s right. There’s no rush, not really. Just the simple fact that Eddie hasn’t had sex with another person in literal years at this point, and since it’s Steve, he’d really, really fucking like to put an end to that dry spell.

Repeatedly.

On every flat surface of the house.

“What, you want to get to know each other better first or something? Because my name is Edward Munson, I like virgin pina coladas, getting caught in the rain, and my favorite color is the shitty brown green color you’re trying to pass off as hazel-

“I know, I’ve heard the song.”

“God you’re such a prick.”

But Steve’s right, and Steve’s backing Eddie up against the hall wall and, there’s not that much difference in their height but Eddie still feels like he’s looking up at Steve. He’s distracted for a second by the feel of Steve tangling their fingers together, and then Steve’s kissing him.

Part Fourteen

[black-fist-order]

BREAKING: The New York Times fearlessly fires back at Donald Trump after he threatens them with legal action for daring to report on his efforts to extort Paramount Global.

This is exactly how you stand up to this fascist bully and his corruption...

"President Trump’s post today follows a long list of legal threats aimed at discouraging or penalizing independent reporting about the administration. The law is clear and protects a strong free press and favors an informed American public," the Times told The Hill.

"The New York Times will not be deterred by the administration’s intimidation tactics," the outlet added. "We will continue to pursue the facts without fear or favor and stand up for journalists’ First Amendment right to ask questions on behalf of the American people."

They were referring to a deranged Truth Social post that Trump fired off this morning about the massive lawsuit he's conducting against Paramount over an interview that 60 minutes aired with Kamala Harris.

Trump has alleged that the interview was deceptively edited, but most commentators agree that Trump is just trying to bully the company for interacting with his political enemy.

In his post, Trump accused the company of having "cheated and defrauded the American People at levels never seen before in the Political Arena," adding that 60 Minutes "perpetrated a Giant FRAUD against the American People, the Federal Elections Commission, and the Federal Communications System."

"Despite all of the above, and Paramount’s/CBS’/60 Minutes’ admittance to this crime and, with other similar corrupt removals of answers to questions, the Failing New York Times, which is Fake News both in writing and polling, claims that 'people' said that the case is baseless," Trump continued.

"They don’t mean that, they just have a non curable case of TRUMP DERANGEMENT SYNDROME, possibly to the point where the Times’ interjection makes them liable for tortious interference, including in Elections, which we are intently studying," he went on.

"The bottom line is that what 60 Minutes and its corporate owners have committed is one of the most egregious illegalities in Broadcast History," wrote Trump.

"Nothing like this, the illegal creation of an answer for a Presidential Candidate, has ever been done before, they have to pay a price for it, and the Times should also be on the hook for their likely unlawful behavior. It is vital to hold these Liars and Fraudsters accountable!" he concluded.

The lengthy and lie-riddled outburst was prompted by a report in the Times in which they covered the scheme by Trump's lawyers to extract a settlement from Paramount over the 60 minutes segment. The outlet wrote that "legal experts have called the suit baseless and an easy victory for CBS."

This entire sordid affair is complicated by the fact that Shari Redstone — the controlling shareholder of Paramount — is trying to sell the company to Hollywood studio Skydance. In order for that sale to happen, she needs permission from Trump's Federal Communications Commission.

In other words, it appears to many experts that Trump is holding out on having his FCC grant permission in order to use it as leverage in the settlement discussions. This is corruption of the most clear cut form. He's abusing the powers of the presidency to enrich himself and in a sane country, this would be an impeachable offense...

[gamesetattach]

On the Record

Jannik Sinner x Reader A well liked personality in the tennis world, reader is one the favored sports commentators. Her interviews always make headlines for all the right reasons—the people love to watch her crack all their favorite players... especially Jannik Sinner because, I mean, the poor boy seems to just shatter. Honestly. Somewhere in time, this was an 800 word blurb... And now it's nearly 8,000. Not sure when that happened. This just became a tennis player personality study at some point, tbh

---

You weren’t just another sports commentator—you’d quickly made a name for yourself in your short career in the tennis world. The networks and the fans loved you, and so did the players. Your approach was the kind where players actually liked talking, one that made post-match interviews feel less like an obligation and more like an easy conversation. You had built a reputation for striking the perfect balance—professional and sharp, but always with just the right amount of humor to put players at ease.

It wasn’t uncommon for your analyses and your interviews to be clipped and spread, tennis fans enjoyed your commentary and admired how effortlessly you got athletes to open up. You asked questions that felt fresh, steering clear of the usual clichés that players had answered a hundred times before. You could tease them just enough to get a smile, knew when to pull back, when to lean in. And many of the players responded more than favorably to that.

---

Ben Shelton was a natural entertainer—electric on the court, brimming with confidence, always ready with a quip. But post-match interviews? Reporters could easily get him ticked off—understandably so. Questions were too often repetitive, formulaic, and sometimes interviews could be straight up disrespectful.

But with you holding the mic, it was never that.

"Ben! Congratulations on the win—another five-setter. You really like giving the crowd a show, huh?" you teased once, microphone in hand as he wiped sweat from his forehead.

Shelton grinned, shaking his head. "Look, I’m just trying to keep ticket sales up. If I finish in straights, what’s the fun in that?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Tell us, do you hold back on that power serve of yours sometimes—just to keep the game going?"

"I don’t know about all that," he replied smoothly, "But I will say, the longer I’m out here, the more entertainment value there is. I’m doing everyone else a favor."

"Selfless. A true man of the people." The crowd laughed, and so did you. “I can see why they like you.”

Ben nodded at you, moving to dap you up as the cameraman dipped the lens for the interview to wrap up. "See, you get it."

The moment was well loved, fans loving the ease of your exchanges. And that was nothing unusual—your interviews often made waves.

---

Your position often called for a sensitive touch, and your intuition meant you navigated that aspect better than most. You were always sure to respect the players’ boundaries.

When Jack Draper won his first top-ten match of the season, it hadn’t been pretty. He had barely scraped through in three sets, visibly struggling throughout, even throwing up courtside between games. It was impressive tennis, but it had been the kind of match that took everything out of both players, winner or not.

Networks had a certain, set agenda, and the players all knew of that obligation. And so some commentators might’ve been waiting, mic in hand—ready to pounce with questions about endurance, fitness, and whether he should’ve retired—without being mindful of the condition he was in. You’d offered Draper’s circumstance more tact and understanding than others would have.

You caught sight of him near the bench, after barely celebrating and stumbling his way to the net to shake hands with his opponent. He was still catching his breath as he toweled off and gathered his things, the sideline cameras were on him as your own crew quickly assembled in the middle of the court. You’d gently approached, mic cast behind your back to prevent any sound from being picked up, crouching slightly so he wouldn’t have to stop his movements to answer you. 

The exhaustion was evident in his features to all who watched, his skin pale beneath the sweat, and you kept your voice soft, careful. "Jack, hey—no pressure. Are you feeling up for the interview? All good if not, I can cover for you."

Jack blinked up at you, sluggish, like it took effort to focus. For a split second, you’d even wondered if you should’ve asked at all—maybe it was better to deflect the crowd and let him slip away. But then recognition clicked in his eyes, and for a moment you thought he might wave you off, but he moved his head just a fraction down in a nod.

With a small, grateful smile at his lips, he said. "Nah, I’m good. Just… maybe we keep it short?"

You nodded immediately. "Of course. I got you."

So you’d kept the interview brief and simple, unprobing. Your voice stayed even, the questions light and general.

"Jack, congratulations. That was an impressive win against an impressive opponent. What are your thoughts coming out of it?" You asked, keeping the question away from his state.

 "Yeah, tough one today, but looking forward to tomorrow." Jack exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Apologizes for the throw up, everyone.”

A soft chuckle rippled through the crowd.

You’d smiled, keeping it easy. "I won’t keep you long, but one thing’s for sure—you showed a lot of fight out there and we’re sure you will tomorrow as well. Anything more you’d like to say to the crowd, along with that?"

Jack turned toward the stands, where the crowd erupted into cheers just at the acknowledgment. "Yeah, just… thanks for sticking it out with me. You all carried me through."

You gave him a nod, and he backed out of the frame with a grateful look as he took your okay to head out. "Alright. Go get some rest, Jack. You’ve earned it."

---

Sometimes, you’d poke fun with the players—though you never crossed the line. And those interviews always showed the strength of your rapport with those on tour.

Carlos Alcaraz was truly sunshine personified. Always wearing that wide smile, he was friendly with everyone. And, with you, he was always outright charmed, knowing the interview would be memorable and fun.

After yet another dramatic comeback win, you stood across from him, shaking your head. "Carlos, you make my job so hard. I try to plan questions, but every time you pack the game with so many good shots I have a hard time choosing which one to talk about."

“Sorry.” He said, grinning and laughing up at the crowd. "You know, maybe I'll make it easy for you next time."

"Now, don’t do that. We love watching you fall into the splits and run all over the place." You both chuckled, and you continued with your questions. “Tell me, today was a spectacular match—now you're moving on to the finals—will you get a tattoo of the match date?”

“We’ll see,” Carlos’s smile had widened at that, if even possible. "If I win, maybe. Let’s see."

“What makes a day great enough to qualify for a tattoo of the date?”

“I always just try and play well, but if there’s something really special—then I like to remember that.” He shifted his weight back and forth between his feet, nodding up at the crowd as they cheered. “Especially with the great fan atmosphere, like here in the tournament.”

"Well Carlos, if you continue playing as well as you did today, I think you may run out of space pretty soon."

He’d grinned, pointing to the tiny text of his newest addition. "I get them small, still have lots of room. On the legs and all—"

You shook your head. "I say, skip the legs—go straight for the forehead."

He threw his head back at that, leaning up and away from the mic for a full-bellied laugh, and the crowd erupted with him. "We’ll see, we’ll see."

"Alright, Carlos! Thank you for your time. Great tennis tonight, we’ll see you again in two nights against Rune!" You easily finished, wrapping up the interview as he waved once more to the crowd.

---

The same often went with Andrey Rublev, a character loved by all. An intense firestorm on the court, but forever soft-spoken off it. He was one that could be reserved and bashful in interviews, even though he often couldn’t help his witty remarks—a large part of why he was so well liked. 

“Andrey, congratulations! You’re having a great year so far—making it to the finals again after just winning a title,” He nodded, taking off his headband as you began the interview. “I was wondering, do you have any new superstitions this season? Or any old ones that have evolved over time?"

“Superstitions… I don’t know...” Rublev exhaled, brushing a hand through his damp hair. His eyes landed on the headband he was spinning on a finger. "Maybe this one—the headband. When I was younger, in juniors or something, I didn't have this long hair, but now before the match I’m tying like this every time."

“Ah yes, I’ve had the privilege of seeing you primp and preen before a match.” You’d teased, laughing lightly. “It’s quite the routine.”

“Yes…” He smiled, looking down a little. “It’s not so easy.”

“I mean, yeah, with that head of hair—I believe it.” You grinned at him. “I know you always looked up to Rafa Nadal growing up, do you feel like it’s kind of an ode to him?”

“Yes, of course. He was always my favorite—I was… when I was little, I was always wearing the same kit as him. Same shorts and shirt, and headband—everything. But, yes, it takes some time in front of the mirror.”

“That it does—you diva.” You laughed, and those in the stands followed suit.

“No… Diva? What is this?” Rublev glanced off camera before looking back at you, perplexed but smiling still.

“Don’t worry about it… They know.” The crowd cheered again.

He shook his head at you, chuckling a little before he gestured to you in confusion at the crowd.

You continued on, still laughing to yourself. “Everyone, Andrey Rublev! Our finalist—thank you Andrey!”

With that, the sound of your mics cut out and the other commentators came back into the audio, but the camera stayed on you and Rublev—panning out a bit. The remainder of your teasing conversation could be seen, with you presumably explaining what you had meant by diva between laughs and him playfully swatting you away immediately after. 

It was a fan favorite moment, one that Rublev couldn’t seem to escape for the rest of the season. He was always sure to give you shit for it whenever he saw you around, but no one—including him—could deny that you always carried out the most entertaining interviews.

Though no interview was watched quite as closely as your ones with Jannik Sinner, however…

---

When it came to Jannik, the lens people would watch your interviews with became something else entirely.

The same reason people loved your interviews still held true—the way you got players to open up, the way you made even the most media-wary athletes feel at ease.

And Jannik wasn’t cold by any means, but he was careful. Composed. Someone who, in most press conferences and interviews, gave measured almost scripted answers, efficient and to the point. He was never rude—just reserved. He’d smile, be polite, but rarely let people in further than he had to.

And yet, every time it was you standing across from him, microphone in hand, his expression changed—softer, just barely perceptible. But people started to catch on… And when they did, they started to look for it as well.

A flicker of something lighter in his eyes, the way his usual, fidgety stance seemed to relax. If fans didn’t know him well, they might’ve missed it. But those who did could always tell that, even if he would never express it outright, he genuinely enjoyed talking to you.

---

One of the first times people noticed it was soon after your promotion, when you conducted one of your earlier on-court interviews.

It was after an iconic, comeback three-set win of Jannik’s. And something about the way he answered your questions—the way he looked at you—set the viewers abuzz. It was like the crowd had faded away for him. He still inserted his usual expressions of gratitude, but it seemed you and your questions were the center of his focus. 

"Jannik, long night for you. With quite an abrupt turnaround," you had started, a smile in your voice as he nodded at your words. "Was there ever a moment where you doubted that you could take back the match? You were down for the first half there."

“No—,” He blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. "What do you think of me? I try not to doubt… Of course, it’s not so easy but…"

He grinned at you as he trailed off, and you jumped right back in. "Oh, so you always knew you could take the game back is what you’re saying?"

His eyes stayed on you, corners of his lips twitching up again. "No, but—it’s important to stay positive. You know… I just try and play well."

“You just try…” You scoffed and looked at the camera. “You know, I think on most people’s best and most positive days, they probably can't serve so many aces in a row…”

Jannik shrugged, smiling up at the crowd as the crowd laughed at his nonchalant reaction.

It wasn’t necessarily a funny answer, or even a funny question, but Jannik’s cheeky smile and your quiet laughs in response added another layer to the tone of the interview. The audience cheered at his demeanor, a rare display of tasteful gloating from one of the world's best players. 

That interview reemerged pretty consistently, you just brought out a different side of him. Not too many saw it then, but those who did were hooked.

---

The moment people most loved to replay went down after a late-afternoon match, the sun casting long shadows over the court as Jannik walked back on court for the interview, exhausted but victorious against his self-proclaimed rival. When he saw you waiting for him on the service, he didn’t just nod in acknowledgement and snap into his professional, media mode—his face visibly brightened, a slow smile tugging at his lips before he even reached you.

The smile stayed on his face, eyes fixed on you as you gave the cursory congratulations and eased the viewers into the interview while welcoming Jannik to the frame. "—and you had quite a few dives today, are you still in one piece?" You transitioned the introduction into the first question, microphone poised at his mouth after asking.

He nodded, eyes having never left you, but stayed quiet. His mouth opened as if starting to answer, but then he stopped and shook his head, hands on his hips. "... Sorry, can you repeat the question."

He pushed down protruding hairs under the brim of his cap with a sheepish smile as the audience laughed.

“Wow, zoning out already—that was only the first question Jannik.” You shook your head in teasing disapproval at the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifted to widen his smile at your reaction. “That might have been an answer to the question in and of itself—maybe you’re not in one piece… I asked about the dives you took during the match—any scrapes or scratches?”

“Ah, okay,” He nodded in understanding, catching up and smiling when people laughed once more. “No I—I’m okay. It is hard court, yes, but no scrapes so far.”

“Seems like Carlos has that effect on you, doesn’t he? You’re always diving after his balls—” You cut yourself off immediately, hand slapping to cover your mouth when you realized how that last sentence could have been interpreted.

You doubled over in laughter, unable to help yourself, and Jannik joined in when he pieced it together. It took you too long to recover, more time than was professional for sure, but the stadium was laughing along with you. Jannik watched as you tried again and again to compose yourself before you broke back into laughter each time, he chuckled at you while wagging a finger at the camera.

Then he set his palm on top of yours, taking your hand holding the mic to lift it to his mouth. “What kind of interview is this?”

The crowd went wild, pleased to see Jannik play into the humor of the situation. You wiped tears from your eyes and covered your face in embarrassment, his hand still over yours for longer than it needed to be. 

When he returned the mic, and your hand, you gave an exaggerated look of regret towards the camera, breaking the fourth wall in more ways than one. “So sorry if I violated any network guidelines with that one… Did not mean for the interview to take this turn…”

And then the production assistant behind the camera, also in tears from laughter, signaled that time was almost up. Jannik teasingly threw his hands in the air when he saw the count down, poking fun at the fact that you’d derailed the interview and eaten up the screen time.

You lifted the mic and continued, shaking your head at yourself once more while smiling. “Looks like we need to wrap this up… Jannik any final words?”

“Well this is also some of my first words…” He laughed as you mouthed something in response. Don’t remind me, you’d mimed. “But I want to thank everyone here for the good energy and Carlos for another great game… And, of course, thank you for finishing off this day with such a… interesting interview.”

He said the last bit towards you, not missing the opportunity to tease you further—and nobody missed that.

The interview had understandably blown up. It had all the makings of a viral moment. An accidental, suggestive line implicating both Carlos and Jannik was bound to spread like a wildfire. Adding Jannik’s funny reaction on top of that only fueled the fire. People enjoyed seeing the facade of his usual composure break, fans were quick to interact with those rare moments where he revealed more of his charm and humor. 

Though somehow, with all the traction the clip received, the discourse always seemed to land on you. Or rather, how he was with you. After getting past the comedic banter in the video, people started commenting on his behavior. On how he looked at you, how he seemed to miss the first question because he was admiring you. How he took your hand with no hesitation, and how you seemed unfazed by the touch. He was clearly comfortable with you—and you with him, judging by how naturally you took his teasing.

And so, anyone who wasn't already watching the two of you closely certainly started to after that.

---

It wasn’t just post-match interviews people watched. It was media days, press conferences, those brief moments of footage where your paths crossed in hallways.

Fans really started to notice the way his eyes would stay on you, taking just a second longer than necessary before answering the question. The way he always seemed to open up when it was you on the other side of the mic. 

Jannik wasn’t the type to talk much during an interview, he kept his answers concise, but with you, there was always something—an easy joke, a quick remark, sometimes he’d even ramble on in an answer. 

"Try to behave this one," he had joked when you were up to interview him after another game against Carlos, referencing that one, fateful slipup of yours a few months after its debut. You gave him a look, that line was sure to spread everywhere whether or not the rest of the interview was entertaining, and you both knew it. The people present in the stands were already whooping.

"I’ll try my best,” You smirked anyways. “I’ll try my best not to mention how Carlos gets you to fall for him.”

The crowd roared, and he shifted his jaw as he laughed with you. “That’s not how you said this the last time.”

“Well, I made many promises to many important people that I wouldn’t say anything like last time. Ever again.” You winked at the camera. “—Not on TV, at least.”

He inhaled a laugh, “Good. It’s for the best.”

"Okay… Let’s leave that behind us." You raised your brows at him as you offered a hand to shake in truce.

“Okay. Promise.” He took your hand, trying to look serious while fighting back a smile.

“Okay.” You nodded up at him, matching his expression even though your lips pursed with an incoming laugh, hands intertwined.

You both just stood like that for a beat, looking at each other with your hands clasped in a stilled handshake, laughter clearly threatening to take over. He was the first to break the silence.

“Are you going to ask a question, or what?” A smile ripped onto his face, and then your laugh just had to come out. Everyone in the stands had been in pieces since the interview’s start, but the laughter doubled at that.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shook your head. “What am I going to do with you—I’m going to be out of a job.”

“Ah, no. You’re too good for that.” His own laugh had faded into an amused smile. An affectionate one, even.

“Hear that?” You address the camera, deadpanning. “Glad we got that on tape.”

That interview continued on without any inappropriate hitches, though it stayed just as entertaining throughout. 

And it wasn’t just a one-off thing. The more you interviewed him, the more obvious it became—it was a pattern. And the common denominator was you.

Fans were relentless. They clipped every smirk, every subtle glance. Every moment where Jannik let himself react.

He’s always laughing when its her She’s the only one who gets him to act like this. i love how he forgets all his media training when he’s with her Jannik, blink twice if you’re in love There’s no way they’re not a thing. If theyre not, they should be. Like now.

---

The best part? The most implicating part? You never even tried to make those moments with him. It just… happened. It always happened.

Like the time you’d been interviewing another player on court—someone else entirely, an opponent he’d lost to. Jannik could be seen in the back of the frame, still packing up at his bench. You hadn’t given any sign of noticing him, there was no moment of acknowledgement, you were faced away from Jannik as you interviewed the winning player with your usual, unique questions and comfortable professionalism—but the viewers’ eyes were on Jannik in the distance more than the interview itself, because the camera had caught everything. 

It seemed the moment Jannik realized it was you speaking, that it was you on court, his head snapped to your direction. He was slower in gathering his things, looking back at you often. Even when signing things for fans on the sidelines, he’d turn his face to you every time you laughed. When he did finally walk out, his eyes stayed trained on you, turning his neck towards you until you simply had to leave line of sight. 

And, even after the loss, it seemed he had a slight smile playing on his lips when he left. The soft kind, the same one he always seemed to wear when you were around. 

Fans had slowed it down frame by frame, zooming in—and they saw it all.

---

The phenomenon quickly took on a life of its own. People had moved past just noticing, fan just straight up speculated after a while. Even other players and commentators were aware of the trope—it was everywhere online and it was hard to ignore the dynamic between you and him even in person.

It started small. A few viral clips, some curious tweets, the occasional comment under a post-match interview: He never laughs like that with anyone else. But that phase passed quickly. Then the compilation videos came in swarms soon after. The frame-by-frame breakdowns of every interview, every shared glance, every moment where Jannik seemed just a little too engaged, a little too interested.

"It’s the way he looks at her," Coco Guaff even said in a WTA YouTube video, the content being a montage of players’ talking about associations and relationships with umpires and broadcasters. You and Coco had an easy friendship, despite your role usually landing on the ATP side, so it only made sense that she dropped your name… 

But it just so happened that her mention of you very quickly devolved into propaganda supporting those fan speculations of Jannik’s relationship to you.

"I mean, that’s not normal." She continued, shrugging at the camera as she giggled to herself. “The proof is in the footage, I don’t know what to tell you.” 

And that wasn’t the only instance—Coco herself being notorious for backing the allegations.

Once, a post on a tennis podcast’s Instagram had gone doubly viral after she liked it. It was a screenshot of Jannik in mid-interview with you, visibly engaged, stars in his eyes. The text above the image read: Mans has never been happier in his life.

And the comments were rampant.

Need someone to look at me like that Guys, Coco liked?? You’d never know he just won a title, looks like the highlight of his day is just her Si vede che è cotto! Uh, heyy Coco

Another, a comparison of images—A photo of Jannik immediately after a match, visibly drained, side-by-side with another of him only minutes after, beaming down at you. Find someone who looks at you the way Jannik Sinner looks at his favorite commentator.

Forget clostebol, bros drug is just love Si vede che è cotto a puntino if they have no fans, im dead 

Even official tennis accounts and sports networks got in on it, subtly referencing it in posts and during match breakdowns and things of that sort. 

The ATP social team once posted a story of you two laughing behind the scenes on media day. And people immediately jumped on it, the screenshot spreading all over twitter.

Tennis Channel’s table of commentators once referenced you after discussing the tennis rankings and Jannik’s consistent performance.

“How does he do it?” One asked, after running through Jannik’s match statistics and win streak.

“I’m not sure, but I doubt he’d say.”

“We gotta get [Your Name] to ask, then I’m sure he’ll tell all.” Another chimed in.

Everyone at the table laughed, very obviously understanding the context. “It’s true, it’s true.”

And, of course, that clip was everywhere within minutes of it airing, as well.

...But the kick of it all was that neither of you ever seemed to deny the rumors—no matter how many times they were thrown at your face…

It wasn’t like anyone was subtle about it.

---

Once, Frances Tiafoe, never one to pass up the chance for a joke, had been sitting in the player locker lounge when Jannik walked in after a win. 

“The match was tough,” He said as he briefly looked up from his phone to clap Jannik’s hand in congratulations. Then Frances smiled to himself before tacking on a cheeky line for the room to hear. “I’m sure the extra motivation helped… Knowing you’d get your favorite interviewer after, and all that."

Frances immediately seized with laughter, cracking himself up, and others around chuckled with equal enjoyment.

Jannik only shook his head as he made his way to the stationary bikes, smiling at Tiafoe’s antics, but he was mostly unfazed. He didn’t bother to give a response—no denial, not even much overt amusement—just that calm, neutral reaction. Masterfully deflecting without a single word.

It was the response he always gave when people brought it up, behind closed doors or otherwise.

Like when John McEnroe playfully called Jannik out on camera during a post-match interview after a Grand Slams quarterfinals. When Jannik approached the court again after winning, waving at the stands, it was McEnroe waiting to ask questions, mic in hand. 

The crowd still listened and cheered throughout the interview, hanging on to all of Jannik’s words, but it was nothing compared to the reactions your interviews always prompted.

McEnroe decided to bring you up towards the end of his questions, dramatically sighing and shaking his head. "Alright, thanks for humoring me Jannik—Sorry it’s me today and not your favorite commentator."

The audience roared at your mention, but Jannik only exhaled a laugh, catching one of his ankles in his hands to stretch as he simply shook his head. 

And McEnroe took Jannik’s lack of response as an answer. "Won’t even deny it, huh?"

Jannik just smiled, eyes drifting off to his box, and McEnroe took the action as reason to continue. Looking towards the camera in exaggerated belief, he threw his hands up, “And now he’s looking away from me—Wow, I can’t even keep his attention.”

Jannik laughed at that, placing a friendly hand on McEnroe’s shoulder. “No, I just—I saw my team say something so I looked over.”

“Right, right.” McEnroe kept on with his lamenting, teasing at the point further. “I was only the World Number One for a bit, won 70 titles…”

“I think—I think we go back to the questions, maybe.” Jannik said jokingly and McEnroe let out one more incredulous laugh. 

“Okay, I’ll try… but I’m starting to doubt if I’m any good at that now…”

“I have no favorite.” Jannik finally offered, his voice faint as the mic was still pointed away from him.

“Too late, Jannik, it’s too late.” 

The moment was all in jest, and John was sure to relay the interaction back to you later that day, as if you hadn't already watched it unfold live. You only laughed in response, teasingly placating him but never touching on what he’d suggested in the interview. McEnroe was just one of many peers in the sports broadcasting world that would make little comments to you, and you never gave them much of anything.

It was harder when players called you out though—especially when they did it live, in front of thousands of people.

Fresh off a hard-fought win, Matteo was still slightly out of breath when you grinned at him for the interview. "Matteo, great tennis out there today! We’ve been seeing you play at the net a lot more since your return—more confident, more aggressive with those volleys—tell us about that."

"No, no, I think I've always felt comfortable at the net.” He shook his head immediately, ducking his head down to really look at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe you’re too young to know my earlier game… or maybe you’re getting me confused with someone else."

The crowd already latched on to the reference, a collective ooh passing through the stands, you tried your best to play dumb despite that. You went the first reason he offered,  "I mean I remember watching your games before I got on the job, but if I blocked out memories of volleys like today’s, then no one’s more sorry than I am."

Matteo smirked, looking out toward the crowd, not letting you change the subject or take the easy way out. "I know we’re both Italian, but come on."

You allowed a laugh, but were quick to move on, not lingering on Matteo’s implication very long.

The exchange had made the highlight reels, fans eating up both Matteo’s teasing and your barely-there reaction, and the way you had to abruptly ask the next question to avoid it from dragging on too long.

But the teasing, the compilations, the endless speculation—it was all fun, all harmless. Because as far as anyone knew, it was just a fan theory. Just playful banter and an easy chemistry that everyone got to bear witness to. And, if yours and Jannik’s response to all the teasing was anything to go by, it really was just baseless guess work—after all, neither of you had ever given concrete proof on any of it.

But most continued to entertain it anyways, because if it was true: it was only a matter of time before it came out…

---

The long-awaited proof came after an especially grueling match of Jannik’s.

The game had been absolutely brutal.

It was one of those that felt less like a tennis match and more like a battle of sheer will. Three and a half hours in the sweltering heat, the air thick and unmoving, turning every rally into a war of attrition. Jannik had fought through service games that stretched over ten minutes, through back-to-back tie-breaks where every point had felt like a match in itself. He had been pushed to his limits, his legs leaden, his body aching from the relentless pace. Every time it seemed like he had finally broken free, his opponent clawed back, forcing another hold, another deuce, another impossibly long rally. 

By the final set, even his renowned movements had lost their usual crispness, his footwork a fraction slower, his serves just a little less sharp. But he refused to let up.

So when he finally won—when the last point ended and his opponent’s shot sailed long—it took him a second to process it. It took a second for everyone watching, too.

He barely lifted his arms in victory, letting his head drop as he panted. The stadium erupted around him, the crowd on their feet, but it seemed that all he could think about was how his entire body felt like it had been wrung out. He made his way to the net, movements heavy but thoughtful in his handshake and hug as he offered a good game to the opponent that matched and elevated his level throughout the game. Then trudged toward his bench with a nod to the umpire, shoulders still rising and falling with every exhausted breath.

The play had tested endurance more than anything—nearly four hours under the blazing afternoon sun, and no easy points. He held his face into his towel for a long moment, and then flicked water from his bottle over his face and on the back of his neck, his usual expression one of raw exhaustion. 

He barely had enough left in him to toss a fist into the air when he made his way back onto the court, though the crowd had yet to cease their cheering. And then he all but stumbled his way over to you.

You. Waiting just off the service line, a steady presence in the chaos, a welcome face after the intense match.

And the familiarity of it, of you, cut through his exhaustion. Your expression was still pleasant, but it was different from the smile you usually had during interviews. There was something tight under your professional exterior—concern, maybe subtle, but unmistakable once anyone saw it. It was in the way your eyes flickered over him, assessing, before you even said a word.

And still, as he approached, his gaze softened—as it always did when his eyes landed on you. But his face was flushed from the heat, sweat dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, so as he stepped closer, you instinctively reached out, fingertips brushing against his arm before you pulled back.

Maybe people would pick up the small gesture later, but for now the stadium was still roaring, the energy crackling through the stands. You hadn’t moved to begin the interview yet, your crew still assembling beside you.

He gave you the slightest of nods, eyelids low and heavy. You held his eyes, raising a single brow, before giving the go-ahead to the production assistant. And then the mic was live, and you fell into interview mode.

Or you tried to, as best as you could.

"Jannik—what can I even say? That was a battle out there," you started. "I know you love tennis, but a part of you has to hate it at least a little right now. I mean, congratulations for sure, but are you regretting any life decisions?"

His head was down for most of your intro, chin tucked to his chest as he rolled out his ankles and looked at you through the brim of his cap. He smiled, despite himself—he could always count on you to keep the mood high.

“What do you mean? That was the most fun I’ve had in my life.” His voice was a little labored, but he managed to answer lightly.

“The scary part is, I believe you.” The crowd laughed. “I think we can all agree, watching that match was the most fun any tennis fan could have. Honestly.”

You had to raise your volume towards the end of your praise as the audience joined in to cheer in agreement. It really had been an incredible display of the sport.

The stands then erupted into a joint song, all chanting his name in unison. You dropped the mic as he stepped back to humbly receive the attention, and he looked up at the people while you looked up at him.

You held the mic back to him after the chants subsided, knowing his next move would be to thank the crowd. “Thank you everyone for supporting. It really is an incredible thing to play such tennis with this amazing crowd—it’s very special. Thank you!”

He waved up at everyone for a moment longer before returning his attention back to you. You were waiting patiently, watching him with a tender smile. 

“We should probably be grateful that even such a taxing match could only make you love tennis more.” You restarted, picking back up from your initial question. “I don’t know if the sport could take it if that wasn’t the case—”

“No, I will be honest—” Jannik interjected, and you tilted the mic to him so it could catch his voice properly. “I will be honest. Right now I feel good, tired, but good. But maybe tomorrow, when I wake up, my legs will be sore and this kind of things… and then I might hate tennis—just a little bit. I will still be happy, but…”

“Wow, thank you for the honesty.” You laughed at the confession. “But even then, you say hate but it’s probably just like a ‘minus one’, right?”

“That’s true, 'minus one' on a scale of ten.”

“So where do you usually rank tennis, when you're not terribly sore? On a scale of ten?”

“... At least 11, maybe higher.” He said grinning, proud of the answer.

“So, we’re right back where we started then.” You threw up your hands in fake exasperation. “I’m trying to make you look bad here, at least help me a little.”

He shrugged and continued to smile at you, and you shook your head before moving the interview along. “In two days, hopefully after recovering from any remaining soreness, you’ll face off with De Minaur. He’s been playing really well throughout the tournament, how do you plan to approach that?”

He nodded thoughtfully, as he shifted to stretch his legs. It seemed that his adrenaline had faded again, along with the banter and the peak of the crowd’s celebration. The tension of exhaustion furrowed his eyebrows once more as his smile lessened while he took a moment to deliberate an answer. 

“Alex and I are good friends, we practice together often and he’s a great player. I look forward to playing him in the finals. And hopefully, we can make a good match like today.”

You cast a glance at your production assistant, who signaled that you still had half the allotted session for the interview left, before nodding at Jannik’s answer. You decided to use up the bulk of the remaining time yourself, to help take the weight of Jannik a bit, and so you let your next question have a long and wordy lead up.

“You and Alex go way back. You kind of made your breakthrough a little after his, winning the ATP Next Gen tournament against him soon after he broached the top 20. You’ve kind of revolved near each other since then—you practice together often, like you mentioned—and it seems you and him often make big evolutions for your respective careers in and around the same tournaments.” You droned on, stalling an actual ask of any question, and you hoped no one took notice.

His face was strained, though his eyes were still on you—even though you hoped to cover your intent, it seemed Jannik had caught on to your attempt to alleviate the need for him to use any further brain power. You could tell he’d switched off from listening because of it, now focusing on his body. You continued to string together facts in the background, trying to catalog Jannik’s state as you did. 

Within the minute and half you spoke, it seemed he couldn’t help but fidget in all his fatigue. He flexed his right wrist once. And lifted one heel, and then the other. Rolling his shoulders back four times and then forward three times. He hit the heel of his palm against his quads, once, then once more. And his fingers twitched, rubbing absently at the sorest spots—digging into the tender muscle of his forearm, kneading at the base of his neck. 

Every shift in position came with the faintest grimace, something only you could catch in your proximity to him. In all your closeness to him.

Then Jannik parted his mouth every so slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as he did. He shifted his jaw side to side in a slow, stiff motion, testing the tension held there before it clicked with a faint pop. And, words still on autopilot, you forgot yourself.

You kept speaking, though the spiel was probably well past erring on excessive, but you unconsciously reached a hand up. Your palm settled on the side of his face, index on the bone behind his ear, thumb on hinge of his jaw. Your fingers nestled under the hair at the nape of his neck as you gently rubbed your thumb back and forth. 

It was a simple, almost thoughtless action. An instinct. An undeniably intimate one. And then, before you could move to pull away, he caught your hand in his.

He lifted it ever so slightly, so your palm rested on his cheek, and he pressed his own hand into yours as he leaned his face into your touch. 

The gesture was effortless, organic, like he had done it a hundred times before. Like he needed it then.

He sighed and his eyes flickered closed. His thumb brushed against the back of your hand, and he didn’t let go immediately. And when he did open his eyes, his expression softened just slightly as he glanced at you, as if all his strain melted away with your warmth.  

The whole display happened within just a handful of seconds, but it was like the stadium fell still. And it might have just been the moment between you, but as you slipped your hand back to your side from underneath his, it really did feel like the entirety of the crowd was holding their breath.

You had trailed off somewhere in your monologue, and you couldn’t be sure of where, but you didn’t dare risk a look at the camera or towards your crew. The audience came alive again, murmurs rippling through the stands.

Jannik ran a hand over his face, taking only a beat to reset and set his attention back to the interview, looking as collected as ever. You tried to follow suit and compose yourself, finally asking the last question. "So, how do you plan to go into the match with Alex?"

You resisted smacking your hand to your face as soon as you said it. That might as well have been the exact question you’d asked earlier—it basically was—and it was far from the natural recovery you’d wanted. But Jannik, to his credit, took the redundant ask in stride and mixed up his response from his last one.

“Alex has kind of this defensive playing style that matches well with mine, and, of course, he’s fast and has the ability to return every ball. I’ve seen him grow and develop into an even better player in the past few years… so, it will be a very tough match—but, we’ll see.”

“Yes, we will!” You tried not to slump in relief when you caught the times-up signal in your periphery, and faked the best, most enthusiastic camera voice you could muster. “Thank you, Jannik, and good luck!”

You avoided his eyes, and the lens of the camera, and he smirked a little at that as he waved once more to the crowd before walking back to his bag. You allowed a single glance at him when he moved to the tunnel after signing some autographs, and he was already looking towards you. His smile was small and teasing, and you could see the mirth in his eyes even from your distance. You shook your head at his expression, just enough for him to see—he should’ve been more scared.

Because you both were in for it.

It was all out now.

---

The internet lost its mind.

For a year—two, even—everyone had speculated. The entirety of the tennis world.

They analyzed every glance, every subtle moment, every clipped interaction, convinced there was something there. And now? There was no denying it.

What you both pulled in that last interview couldn’t be faked, it couldn’t be rationalized. This wasn’t playful banter or a viral compilation of smirks and long-held eye contact. This was something neither of you could explain away. It was intrinsic. Reflexive intimacy, something was too practiced, too familiar.

It was proof.

Slow-motion replays were everywhere even before you ended the interview. The reception flooded all social media platforms.

Okay that wasn’t just chemistry. That was straight-up muscle memory. This whole time??? This WHOLE time?? I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. Guys we called it

Tennis journalists tried to stay professional, but even the most formal accounts posted some variation of "well, this is interesting… "

And the fan posts were endless. Someone strung together a complete timeline of your relationship, tracing back all the way to when you started your role. Another person edited a fake wedding invite. 

And the players—the players…

When Jannik walked into the gym to cool down, it was like stepping into an ambush. All eyes were on him.

Everyone behind the scenes has stopped in their tracks to watch the legendary game of his that had just gone down. And so, everyone behind the scenes also witnessed your accidental reveal. The confirmation.

Every congratulations he received was immediately followed up with some sort of reference to it.

“Great game,” Alex De Minuar said. “...And, mate… the whole time?

"That game was insane, man…" Ben Shelton patted Jannik on the back as he passed, turning as he added. "And I guess now's as good a time as any… to hard launch I mean."

“No words, no words.” Carlos Alcaraz, from where he was stretching, shook his head up at Jannik in disbelief. “For that match, and for the reveal.”

Jannik chuckled a little with Carlos, shaking his head to himself as he moved deeper into the facility.

“I knew it so—” Coco just watched from a distance, her and Madi Keys stopping mid conversation when Jannik entered. "Like literally the whole time, I believed it."

"Niente da dire?" Nothing to say? Matteo drawled, clapping Jannik on the back with a smirk. "Neanche una spiegazioncine?" Not even a little explanation? 

And, around then, you’d made your way back to the commentary box, bracing yourself. You heard John McEnroe's voice from behind the door before you even entered. You couldn't help but cringe at the volume.

“Where is she?” The sound of a headset being placed down, with significant force. Laughter came from around him. “Where is she at?”

“Here we go.” You whispered to yourself.

---

Okay so, tell me, like for real, were you surprised? Did you know they were together all along, or did I get you? Because, I meant to get you, I did. Tell me where you realized, please please. It's okay if it wasn't a surpise, dw

Okay anyways, this was so fun. Too fun. Got carried away, in a lot of places, but I hope it's a fun read. Did not in fact edit, don't care, too long, didn't read—jk I'll go back in at some point soon. But if you're one of the lucky early few, read with one eye closed, and with the other mostly squinted.

Got almost all my favs in here, not nearly enough of the ladies, but my near-goat Ms. Coco has a cameo and what else really matters. What else really matters? And maybe, while reading, you were wondering: when is Jannik coming in? Does he ever? Well, I was wondering the same, okay...

K , kisses xx

[pumpkinpaix]

You have questions! We might have answers.

What is this collection?

As Maria puts it: this collection is a critical look at some of the things that we, the editors, think have made CQL such a hit around the world. Of course, part of that success comes from the webnovel MDZS and the show CQL themselves—we love the characters, the mystery, and the drama, who doesn’t?! However, the authors in our book also look at topics like translating danmei (both officially and unofficially), adapting danmei for new audiences, and interacting with fandoms and fanworks. The larger argument of the book is that all of these things played a huge role in CQL’s visibility and success, and we wanted to start making those moving pieces visible, especially for audiences who mainly watched CQL in translation.

You keep using the word “academic”—what does that mean, exactly? 

Maria: Ok, not to get pedantic here, but this actually touches on some things that I’m really excited about for the book. Traditionally, academic work is written by people who have a deep expertise in the subject (signified by having a PhD and doing specific kinds of research), and then the work itself is peer-reviewed (i.e., sent to other experts in the field for them to evaluate whether it’s sound, original, and interesting enough to publish, without knowing who wrote it). And both of these things are true about our book—our authors have deep knowledge and the book was peer reviewed—but also. We specifically asked for chapters from younger scholars and from fans who also have deep knowledge about topics that academia doesn’t always know or value enough, and we include an interview from the fan-translator K. who did the Exiled Rebels translation. So the hope is that: this book is academic, and also—more!

Who are you? 

Yue studies adaptation, fantasy, and popular culture texts using a feminist lens. She wrote an early, influential article about danmei adaptations and also has a book about feminist adaptations of Chinese fantasy.

Maria studies fanworks, contemporary fantasy, and genre literature. She’s scrambling to finish her dissertation right now.

How were the chapter spotlights chosen?

Voluntarily! The concept of a small social media promo was kicked around by some of the contributors and those interested in the idea filled out a short interview with what they wanted to share. We'll be posting about 2 introductions and 2 spotlights a day for the next week or so!

Who's running this social media campaign anyway?

Not the publishers! A few enthusiastic collection contributors got together and, with the assistance of the editors, have put this promotion together. We do not in any way represent Peter Lang in an official capacity! We just worked hard and wanted to share. :)

Are you making any money off of royalties from this book? 

LOL not even remotely

What about this promotion?

also no. alas

Where can I find this book? 

You can find our listing on Peter Lang’s website here. As for other retailers, a quick search should turn us up!  

How can I access this book if I cannot buy it from Peter Lang / [book retailer of choice]?

As collection editors and contributors who signed a legal agreement with Peter Lang, we have granted Peter Lang exclusive right and license to edit, adapt, publish, reproduce, distribute, display, and store our contributions, and we must cooperate fully with the Publisher if the Publisher believes a third party is infringing or is likely to infringe copyright in the contribution. 

That being said, these are academic papers, which means that contributors may make copies of the contribution for classroom teaching use! (These copies may not be included in course pack material for onward sale by libraries and institutions). Of course, any linking, collection or aggregation of chapters from the same volume is strictly prohibited.

(FAQ may be updated periodically!) (all posts on Catching Chen Qing Ling)

[the-offside-rule]

Jude Bellingham (Real Madrid) - Dorada

Requested: no

Prompt: Jude couldn't make it to the Ballon D'or, but Y/n brought it to him

Warnings: none

The night sparkled in Paris. Photographers flashed their cameras, calling Y/n's name, hoping for a radiant shot of the footballer nominated for the Women's Ballon d'Or. She was flawless for the cameras, dressed in a shimmering dark blue gown. As the interviews began, she felt the familiar weight of Jude's absence. Real Madrid's sudden boycott meant he couldn’t be by her side tonight. She kept her head up, flashing that confident smile she’d mastered over the years. One of the reporters stepped forward with a curious look. "Y/n, tonight's a big night, and we all know you’d hoped to share it with Jude. Is there any reason he couldn't make it tonight?"

"You get to interview a Ballon D'or nominee and thats the question you ask?" She chuckled, earning an approved laugh from her captain, Alexia beside her. Y/n took a deep breath and gave her rehearsed response. "It’s just a decision that’s out of my hands. It isn’t the time to focus on that. I'm here to talk about my football, about my season, and if all goes well, hopefully my first Ballon D'or." Her voice remained calm, her smile unwavering, though inside she felt a pang.

As she moved along the red carpet, she caught whispers of fans and reporters speculating. There were murmurs about a breakup, suggestions that the long distance between Barcelona and Madrid had driven a wedge. She could feel the weight of it but chose to brush it off. Tonight, she was here for her dream. Jude would understand.

Finally, it was time. The ballroom filled with anticipation as the names were called, leading up to the grand announcement. "And this year’s Women’s Ballon d’Or goes to-" The pause ate away at her. It felt like forever. Who won? Who won? "Y/n Y/l/n, FC Barcelona!" A mix of shock and joy washed over her. The room exploded with applause, her teammates standing and cheering as Y/n made her way to the stage, trying to process the enormity of the moment. She turned to smile, holding back the tears and simply trying to think of what to do, what to say. Her hand was shaking as she accepted the golden trophy, its weight somehow grounding her. She barely registered the applause as she stood before the room, her teammates cheering her on, her eyes welling up slightly as she approached the stand. She was handed her trophy, the one trophy she was missing.

She stepped up to the microphone, her voice steady but tinged with emotion. Gripping the golden trophy, Y/n began her speech. "Wow, um, I didn’t expect so many people to be here." The crowd laughed as she calmed herself down. "Alexia and Aitana make this look so easy." Another laugh. She finally felt calmer. "I've been thinking on what I would say all week if I won this prestigious award and honestly, all the practiced speeches are just-" She waved her hands. "Gone. They're gone." She smoothed out her dress and placed the ball onto the stand. "Firstly, I would like to thank my club, my coaches, and to the girls who make every match something I look forward to. You guys make every training, every game, every win and every loss worth it and I am so happy to be alongside each and every one of you. It is truly an honour." The room.erupted into claps as Y/n thought of what to say next.

"To my family back home, who believed in me from the beginning. To the culers who watch us at home, to the culers who follow us around the globe, I dedicate this to you. Thank you for making my jersey sales so high." The room laughed once again as she found a new confidence in herself. She took a moment, gathering her thoughts. And then, with a gentle smile, she continued. "And to the silly little boy I met all those years ago in Dortmund, thank you for cheering me on tonight from Madrid. I love you, and I am so sad you couldn’t make it. I know you would be taking photos of me for my instagram, so maybe it's the thought that counts." She waited for the crowd to quieten once more so she could deliver the most important part in her opinion.

"And finally, to all the little girls out there watching. To the little girl who will one day stand up here and win this award, don't you ever give up! Keep going, and enjoy the journey. Visca el Barça!" She smiled, raising the trophy and wiping her tears away as she walked down back towards her teammates. The crowd cheered, and Y/N stepped off the stage, her heart a mix of pride and longing. She knew Jude was watching, and she couldn't wait to tell him everything.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

As the celebrations continued, her phone buzzed. It was a video notification. Opening it, she saw Jude's mom had posted a clip on Instagram. The video showed Jude’s face lighting up as her name was announced, pride etched all over his expression. He cheered loudly as she walked up the steps. "That’s my girl!" Y/n laughed, her heart feeling warmer than it had all evening. She wanted nothing more than to see him. Turning to her good friend, Laia from Atlético Madrid, she pulled her aside. "Laia, would you mind if I joined your flight back to Madrid?" She asked, biting her lip. Laia grinned, immediately understanding. "Of course! You want to see your boy, right?" Y/n nodded, a bit shy. "Yeah… I need to be there. Tonight wouldn't feel complete otherwise."

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

It was late when she arrived, but the city lights twinkled as her cab rolled through familiar streets. Thank God she had brought Jude's hoodie with her to Paris or she would have froze to death. She carried the golden Ballon d'Or and her luggage up to Jude's door. She barely had time to knock before the door opened. She had messaged Denise that she was coming sos he could surprise Jude, so she was happy to see her boyfriend's mum at the door to open it. "Comgratulations, darling." She whispered, hugging Y/n gently. "Thank you so much!" Y/n replied, before the pair walked in and up the stairs to Jude's room.

She sat down on his bed, still holding her trophy in one hand. Her other reached up to his cheek to caress his face. He stirred, his eyes flickering open. "Babe?" Jude whispered,his eyes now fully open. "Did someone order a Ballon d'Or?" She said with a grin. Jude laughed, pulling her into his arms, hugging her as if he’d never let go. "I did! Took long enough to arrive, though." He teased, eyeing the trophy she carried.

"I am so sorry I wasn't there. I wanted to be there. You know that, right? That I hated not being there?" She sighed softly. "I know. I wanted you there, but I understand why you couldn’t be." He wrapped an arm around her, his voice warm with affection. "You deserved every moment up there. It was all you." She looked at him, her gaze soft. "Not all me. It was partly you, too, Jude. You’ve been with me through everything, even if we’re miles apart."

Jude chuckled, shaking his head. "A whole Ballon d'Or winner, calling me a ‘silly little boy’ on live TV." He laughed, nudging her playfully. She grinned. "Well, it's the truth. The boy who used to kick balls at me during training just to get my attention." He pulled back, beaming as he looked down at her. He shook his head with a grin. "Look where that got me." He murmured, leaning over to kiss her forehead. They both laughed, the months of long distance and tonight’s worries melting away. She handed him the trophy, watching as he held it with reverence. "It’s lighter than I thought it would be." He murmured, grinning. "Oh, really?" She challenged. "I didn’t think you’d get to hold one just yet." She winked playfully, knowing that her banter would fire him up. "That was far." Jude said, looking towards his mum who was laughing by the doorway.

Jude laughed, feigning shock. "You just wait. You give me a year." His gaze softened, and he ran a thumb over her cheek. "I’m so proud of you, though. You deserved every bit of that." Pulling her close, Jude took out his phone. "Okay, one last thing. Let’s get a picture. Just so we can recreate it when I win mine." She rolled her eyes, leaning in and making sure to show the shiny trophy. They snapped a quick selfie: Y/n in Jude’s hoodie, cuddled up with the Ballon d'Or shining between them. She gave a goofy grin while he kissed her temple, pride and love written all over his face.

As he posted the photo, the caption silencing those who whispered all evening.

Finally got to celebrate my girl, the Ballon d'Or winner, up close

"That long-distance stuff?" He murmured. "We’ll make it work. No one’s stopping us."

[sgiandubh]

Delulu vs. trululu

As expected, promo for the overall stodgy TCND just started in NYC, including with this released and then quickly deleted Instagram pic, shared by the Sassenach Spirits' account:

Not the cleverest marketing & sales move, if you ask me. Knowing this fandom's usual bigot and/or scoffing triggers (which I tend to think S & team do, and rather very well), why even entertain lurid speculation and, by the same token, an unnecessarily juvenile image of The Co-founder? Oh, how I wish they'd step up their game a bit and perhaps be more coherent with that fresh, witty sales approach that first caught my eye!

Why. A rhetorical question that never grows old, as far as SC are concerned. Take for example the latest interview released yesterday by the Fangirlish.com website, which is barely a blurb in the great Instagram tapestry. 6k followers do not a great media outlet make, I believe and they've been around since 2011 (!).

Perhaps on design or perhaps because both of them DGAF anymore, we were treated to these parallel public statements on a rarely brought about and carefully censored calibrated topic: personal lives.

[Source: https://fangirlish.com/2025/01/12/interview-sam-heughan-and-caitriona-balfe-on-jamie-claires-growth-in-outlander/]

While C ambiguously mentions what Claire's character brought to who she is now, she is probably throwing to the scrapheap that constipated but convenient braggadocio that she was 'totally able to separate between Claire and herself'. Something we kept on reading ad nauseam from EFH to the Remarkable Week-end and beyond. She now readily acknowledges she has led 'this project alongside S', all the while - which is even more telling - 'assuming everything that implies'. For some reason, I doubt she simply meant the rather decorous EP functions, but also the entire emotional burden of it all, to which this damned fandom is not exactly a stranger. As we have long surmised, they are in this thing together and they did it together (been together, loved together, lived together, lied together...) all along this tortuous path. Cue in the usual venom that they can't stand each other anymore, I don't really care, at this point in time.

S dutifully obliges as C's sounding board and takes it the needed (but completely unnecessary, Narrative-wise) extra mile: JAMMF has given him 'an incredible relationship, one I never thought I’d have'.

Surely he does not mean Flukenzie Floozy or the entire Fitness Harem panoply, Ha-wa-wee 🐰and Dubai Burlesque included. And she could have rectified on the spot or poked fun at him or anything in between. Yet, she did not: surely Tracula is again the 'very understanding' character of that plot!

Why even bring it up all of this now? Why even mention personal stuff both of them have a rather appalling PR management of, from unnecessary exposure to gaslighting an entire fandom and probably also the kitchen sink?

For the sake of an ending series?

Oh, come on - give me a break, here. We are neither delulu, nor stupid.

PS: Thank you for the pic. You know who you are ;)

Later edit: I am told with good reason that is was not Sassenach Spirits which posted that pic, but the Instagram user @stevieme88 - a bartender at that last SS event in the US. He then proceeded to go private again, but the pic was downloaded and shared by that very well informed vigilante account, which then chose to tag Sassenach Spirits (why?).

Gracias a ti, siempre.

[foldingfittedsheets]

When I was working at the sex shop I was pulling poverty wages. I loved my job but I was on food stamps and still barely getting by. When they hired the stores first male employee and he started at my pay rate after I’d been there for three years I quit.

I was initially really nervous when I saw the post for the mattress job. It listed a pay scale that I couldn’t even conceptualize and I appeared qualified. When I got an interview I was over the moon but also petrified. Reactions to my line of work often varied but most people were very embarrassed or skeptical. I worried about how I’d address it in the actual interview.

I lived far to the north of their headquarters and drove almost two hours to get there. When I finally arrived it was in the nicest thrift store clothes I could find, but I shrank inside to see a room full of older white men in nice suits waiting to be interviewed for the same job.

Why did I bother? I was decades younger than anyone else in the room, shabbily dressed, and I suspected I was the only afab person in the entire building. I stewed in my insecurities until I was called in.

The second I met my interviewer I was instantly put at ease. The man had the energy of a therapy dog, he was abound with positive, good natured energy. He was also incredibly beautiful. I grinned back at his welcoming smile as we said our pleasantries. But still. This very beautiful polished man seemed very innocent. How would the sex shop question go?

“I see here you worked at STORE?”

“Yes,” I said hesitantly.

“And that was sales? Or you just rang people up.”

“No, it was sales. I’d help people find products, we were encouraged to upsell, there was sales spiffs, and most importantly we educated customers on products to help them find what they liked best.”

He grinned approvingly and asked, “Can you give me an example of a time you successfully upsold a customer?”

I paused, wringing my hands before I asked, “How vague would you like me to be…?”

“Not at all!” He assured me. “Go for it!”

“Well. A man came in looking for something to make his fingers vibrate so when he was touching his wife it would enhance that sensation. We had cheap $10 cockrings that I showed him first. But we had a rechargeable waterproof one made of nicer material, and after I showed him a demo he bought that one.”

“How much was that one?”

“$110”

“Wow! You had an upsell of 100% from what he came in looking for! That’s incredible!”

He was so truly genuinely stoked and not at all embarrassed that for the first time I saw a tiny glimmer of a future where I didn’t have ramen and peanut butter tiding me over between paychecks.

He asked me to wait then came back to tell me he liked me so much that he wanted to send me right into another interview, if that was okay. He didn’t want me to have to drive back later, it was terribly considerate and exciting. I beamed and told him it would be lovely.

I then had the second worst interview I’ve ever had. The worst goes to the time I applied to be a store manager for a pet food place years later. The district and store manager interviewing me passed notes and texted while I was speaking. When the district manager called to inform me I didn’t get the job I told him I’d never have accepted anyway because I’d never had such a disrespectful interview.

The new man sitting behind the desk radiated an aura of a brick wall. As someone with anxiety I’m highly keyed into the emotional states of people I’m talking to. To receive no feedback at all was my personal hell. After a perfunctory greeting he asked me with no inflection to sell him a pen.

I gathered the shreds of my courage and attempted the Herculean task he’d set me. Through my whole improvised spiel he resisted all attempts at engaging him, regarding me with a cold apathy as I touted the benefits of my fictitious pen.

Halfway through I broke into a cold sweat. My smile didn’t waver but it grew strained as I projected friendliness and warmth into the black hole of his heart. My thoughts scattered and my sales pitch grew redundant in the face of his nothingness. I finally concluded with a hard close and he simply nodded.

He glanced at my resume and commented, “You didn’t ask me to touch or hold it. Though I suppose I can understand from your previous line of work why you wouldn’t.” I shriveled and died inside knowing that I encouraged people to touch dildos all day long and had been too frazzled to offer him the pen.

He bid me a cool farewell. I made it to my car before I started sobbing. I had never been so rattled. I couldn’t understand what I’d done to make him so unfriendly or if my threadbare clothes were what had made him treat me like dirt. I drove an hour and a half to get home, weeping intermittently.

I was therefore taken by complete surprise to receive a call the next day inviting me on board for their five week training program. The first man who’d interviewed me gushed on the phone about how the second guy had loved me and that I was going to be fantastic.

I was in shock. When I showed up to training the second interviewer was charming my new classmates, beaming and laughing. He was an utterly different person. To my dismay I learned he was the trainer for my district and would be my point of contact if I made it through training.

He joked with me later that his interview facade was just a tactic to see how people held up under pressure and I filed him into a category of my deepest enmity. I never forgave him for how small he made me feel that day, but I never showed him the depths of my fury.

I aced every test and went on to be valedictorian of the eight people who had survived the rigorous training process to earn a sales position. When I got my first paycheck I bought myself new clothes, the first non-thrifted things I’d owned in years.