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Jude didn’t care what anyone had to say; playing football could actually be one of the harder occupations in the world. Not because of the pay or the job itself – he was insanely lucky to be able to play around on a field for a living – nor because of the status it gave him.
No, it was hard because of the endless pressure hanging over you at all times. The hope from all generations, the roaring of the large crowds, the pushes from nosy and prying interviewers, and the trust the fans put into supporting your club.
Not to mention the pressure when representing your home country. Especially when representing your home country.
Sure, sue him for being ignorant or whatever. He couldn’t find a single part of him that gave a damn. Not in that moment.
Not when the whistle rang across the field, settling both Argentina’s victory and England’s loss. Proving how England would never see a grand final in 2026.
Fucking, bloody hell.
The first goal had been so, so perfect. For a good portion of the match, England and its supporters had rode out a high, the World Cup trophy seeming closer than ever.
Funny how Argentina could flip a match in such a short amount of time.
And Jude hadn’t helped. Sure, Gordon had nailed a goal, but Jude should have done something, been useful, damn it!
The world spun around him, feeling blurry and shapeless, and Jude suddenly realized the team had moved to the lockers. In sharp contrast to the fully blown party they’d thrown after the match against Norway, the vibe was sunken all the way to the floor – only quiet murmurs and frustrated tears heard.
And when already thinking about Norway, Jude couldn’t help but wonder if this was how the players from the Nordic country were feeling after their loss to England only a couple of days ago. Gosh, had it really been this hard on them? On Erling? Jude hadn’t forgotten, and would probably never forget, the look on Erling’s face as the blonde finally broke down in Jude’s arms when they were alone, allowing himself to cry of sadness, frustration and anger. They’d spent well over an hour in that forsaken locker room, back in Miami, just holding on to one another. Jude hoped it had helped the other back then. Because now that he felt what Erling had, he could confirm it was the worst headspace he had ever been in.
«Oi, Jude.»
Jude looked up. His body had seemingly moved on autopilot, as he was changed into sweats, his white uniform thrown messily into his bag. He just wanted to get out of here. So what in the world did Rashford want? «What?»
«Someone’s here to see you,» Marcus said, head gesturing towards the door before going back to his bag.
What the hell? If this was a reporter, Jude would have to restrain himself not to swing a punch. Couldn’t they let him get one day of being alone before bombarding him with everything he could have done differently.
Oh well. His bag was packed and ready either way. He just had to grit his teeth, get through it, and then sink down into his bed back at the hotel. Sighing, Jude opened the door and walked out, only to see-
He froze.
None other than Erling Braut Haaland was standing outside the locker room, leaning casually against the wall.
What?
«What the hell?» Jude’s bag nearly fell to the ground as his grip went slack, mind spinning with confusion. «Erling, what- What are you doing here?»
Erling raised a brow. «Not happy to see me? I’m offended, Bellingham.»
«Oh my god, shut it! Mate, you’re supposed to be back home in Norway! Or at that fashion show in Italy, or whatever. Answer me: what are you doing here?»
Pushing himself off the wall, Erling’s face softened, and after a brief glance around the hallway, he took a hold of Jude’s hand. «Did you truly believe I was going to skip out on this match? The most important match of the year for you? You must be crazy.»
Jude tensed. Erling had been in the audience. He had seen their failure, had seen Jude’s failure. The brit hastily ripped his hand out of Erling’s grip, jaw tightened. «Then you know there was absolutely nothing to be proud of out there.»
The Norwegian opened his mouth, then closed it. Eventually, he spoke again. «Walk with me.»
With that, he suddenly walked past, headed down the hallway. Jude blinked once, twice, before his legs got the memo and followed. Erling took them through turn after turn. From above, Jude could still hear the fans shouting and cameras rolling. He swallowed heavily. The next day would be rough.
Erling finally seemed to find his stop; an empty meeting room. He shut the door after Jude, locking it.
Jude leaned against the table and sighed. «Mate, as much as your freaky Viking-stamina is nice, I’m not up to challenging the fates today.» Sure, Erling's lips and body were quite vivid memories, but not exactly what he needed.
His comment got an impressive eye roll, and Erling walked up to him again. «Jude. Quit the act.»
«Act?»
«I know you, Jude. Only four days ago, our roles were swapped, and you were the one to hold me after quite literally grinding my team to dust. By yourself, may I remind you. But today, it’s more than okay for you to let go the way I did.»
Not being able to stop himself, Jude let out a huff of disapproval. He couldn’t. His anger and frustration was simmering so close to the surface that if he "let go", nobody would like what he released.
«I know how much this meant to you, Jude,» Erling mumbled, fingers treading between Jude’s. «I know it because it meant the exact same to me. So let me help you.»
Jude was going to retract his hand once again, telling Erling Haaland that he was fine, really. However, he suddenly heard footsteps from outside the door. A second later, a voice followed. A voice laced heavily with the accent of a reporter.
«And now, we are nearing the wardrobes of the English players, hoping to get a comment on their devastating loss. How it makes them feel, especially considering their past success against Norway. Will Jude Bellingham repeat the victorious goals in the bronze final, or is his World Cup glory from 2026 over? More will follow in a minute…»
The steps and voice faded away. Hearing the words, all fight left Jude immediately. His shoulders – which he hadn’t realized were so stiff – finally dropped its stance, allowing his body to sink into a puddle. He had failed. He had failed his team, his family, his entire country, his-
Erling was suddenly there, holding on tight. His strong hold was somehow the last piece of the puzzle to break Jude’s walls, and the Brit felt tears swelling in his eyes.
«I couldn’t do it. I was useless.» His voice broke on the last word, as Jude finally gave way to tears. He dove for Erling’s shoulder, burrowing his face intro the crook of his neck. The man he had faced losses with back in Dortmund, the man he trusted with everything, the man whose shared romance Jude kept hidden from the world and its lack of privacy. The man who had everything he needed at the moment.
«Jude…» Erling said, a hand resting at the nape of the smaller man’s neck. «We’re in this together, all right?»
«You saw everything I didn’t do out there. You saw how I failed.» England wouldn’t win. The fans would be let down once again.
«I saw a man giving everything for his country. I saw Jude Bellingham, champion of the World Cup. It doesn’t matter if you’re holding a trophy or not.»
That only made more tears escape, as Jude wailed. They perfectly mirrored their counterparts from only a few days ago, roles swapped, but tenderness kept.
His eyelids felt heavier, Jude noticed, as he finally let the exhaustion crash into him like a train.
«Erling…»
«I’m here,» was the answer. «I’m here.»
Jude believed him. He couldn’t imagine a time he wouldn’t.