Love

The atmosphere in the dressing room was thick with the usual post-session energy—the scent of deep-heat rub, the rhythmic thud of boots hitting the floor, and the relentless banter that defined professional football. At the center of the quietest corner sat Michael Olise. He was, as always, a man of few words, his expression a mask of cool indifference as he scrolled through his phone.

"I’m telling you, it’s a myth," Eberechi Eze announced, leaning against his locker with a mischievous grin. "The man is a ghost. He leaves training, disappears into the mist, and reappears the next morning. There is no way Michael has a girlfriend."

Michael didn’t even look up, though a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ve seen him smiling at his phone," Marc Guéhi chimed in, pointing a finger accusingly. "Actually smiling. Not the 'I just scored a worldie' smile, but the soft, 'I’m thinking about puppies' smile. It’s suspicious."

Michael finally locked his phone and tucked it into his bag. "You lot talk too much," he said, his voice low and smooth, carrying that characteristic nonchalance.

"Prove it then," Eze challenged. "Bring her to the charity open training session tomorrow. If she exists, we want to meet the woman who managed to get more than three words out of you in one sitting."

Michael stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He paused at the door, looking back at his teammates who were all watching him with expectant eyes.

"Fine," he said simply. "But don't be weird."

The next afternoon, the training ground was buzzing. It was one of those rare sunny days in South London where the air felt light and the fans in the stands were cheering for every successful drill. The players were putting in the work, but the real focus for the squad wasn't the tactical transition drills—it was the sidelines.

"Do you see anyone?" Eze whispered as they took a water break.

"Just the usual staff," Joachim Andersen replied, scanning the small crowd of family and guests near the dugout.

Then, the gate near the media center swung open.

A young woman walked in, and she was impossible to miss. She was small—petite enough that she seemed to disappear into the oversized vintage football jersey she was wearing. Her hair was tossed into a messy but somehow perfect bun, and she was carrying a pink insulated water bottle covered in glittery stickers.

She wasn't walking; she was practically skipping. As she approached the sidelines, she tripped slightly over a stray cone, let out a loud, infectious giggle that carried across the grass, and gave the cone a stern look as if it had offended her personally.

"No way," Guéhi muttered. "That can’t be her. She’s... she’s a sunbeam. Michael is a thunderstorm."

Michael, who had been focused on a passing drill, suddenly stopped. His entire demeanor shifted. The cool, detached professional vanished, replaced by something much softer. He didn't wait for the whistle to blow for the end of the segment. He simply started walking toward the touchline.

"Mimi!" he called out.

The girl, Mimi, beamed. Her entire face lit up, her eyes crinkling into half-moons. "Mikey! You’re sweaty!"

The squad stood frozen as they watched the interaction. Michael reached her and, to everyone’s absolute shock, didn't just give a nod or a cool handshake. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of her neck for a brief second before pulling back to look at her.

"You’re late," Michael murmured, his voice sounding entirely different—warm, intimate, and incredibly sweet.

"I saw a cat," Mimi explained earnestly, gesturing wildly with her hands. "It was a very fluffy cat, Michael. I had to negotiate with it. It wouldn't let me pass the driveway without pets. It was a hostage situation."

Michael chuckled—a genuine, vibrating laugh that his teammates had heard maybe twice in three years. He reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering on her cheek. "Of course it was. You okay? You have enough water?"

"I have my sparkles," she said, shaking the glittery bottle.

By now, the rest of the team had slowly migrated toward them, driven by a mixture of curiosity and disbelief. Eze was the first to reach them, clearing his throat loudly.

"Alright, Michael, aren't you going to introduce us?"

Michael sighed, though he didn't pull his hand away from Mimi’s shoulder. In fact, he pulled her a little closer to his side, his thumb stroking the fabric of her sleeve. "Mimi, this is Ebere, Marc, and Joa. Guys, this is Mimi."

"Hi!" Mimi chirped, stepping forward with a hand extended. "I’ve heard so much about you guys. Ebere, Michael says you’re the only person who understands his hair products. Marc, he says you’re the 'sensible dad' of the group."

Marc blinked, looking at Michael, who suddenly found a patch of grass very interesting. "The sensible dad, eh?"

"He says it with love!" Mimi added quickly, her eyes wide and honest. "Usually after you tell him to stop playing video games until 3:00 AM. He’s like a grumpy teenager, isn't he? I have to hide his controller sometimes."

"You hide his controller?" Eze doubled over, laughing. "And you’re still alive? Michael, I didn't know you let anyone touch the PS5."

Michael shrugged, his arm snaking around Mimi’s waist. He looked down at her with an expression that could only be described as completely smitten. "She’s the only one who gets away with it."

The players watched in awe. Michael Olise, the man known for his "don’t touch me" aura and his stone-cold interviews, was currently acting like a clingy golden retriever. He wouldn't let go of her. Every time she moved to adjust her bag or point at something on the pitch, his hand would find its way back to her waist, her shoulder, or her hand.

"So, Mimi," Andersen asked, crossing his arms with a smirk. "How do you do it? How do you deal with Mr. Silent and Moody over here?"

Mimi tilted her head, looking up at Michael, who was watching her with a softened gaze. "Oh, he’s not moody with me. He’s actually very chatty. Last night he spent twenty minutes explaining why a certain type of pasta shape is superior to all others. He’s very passionate about fusilli."

"Fusilli?" Eze echoed, clutching his chest. "Michael, you told me you didn't care about food! You said 'food is just fuel'!"

"It depends on who I'm eating with," Michael muttered, his cheeks flushing a faint shade of pink.

"He’s a big softie," Mimi whispered loudly to the group, shielding her mouth with her hand as if Michael couldn't hear her. "He likes to be pampered. If I don't give him head scratches while we watch movies, he pouts. A literal pout."

"I do not pout," Michael protested, though the way he leaned his head toward her suggested she was telling the absolute truth.

"You do! You do the little lip thing," she teased, reaching up to boop his nose.

The entire squad gasped in unison. Nobody booped Michael Olise. It was a death wish. But Michael didn't snap. He didn't walk away. He simply caught her hand, kissed her palm, and held it against his chest.

"Go sit in the shade," he told her softly. "We have twenty minutes left of the session. I’ll come find you as soon as we’re done."

"Okay! Don't work too hard, you’ll get all wrinkly," Mimi joked, waving to the players before skipping off toward the VIP seating area, her glittery bottle catching the sun.

The silence that followed her departure was heavy. Michael turned back to his teammates, his face instantly reverting to his usual blank expression. "What?"

"Who are you?" Eze asked, bewildered. "And what have you done with the real Michael?"

"Shut up," Michael said, turning to jog back onto the pitch. "Let's just finish the session."

For the next twenty minutes, the team was distracted. They watched Michael, who seemed to have an extra spring in his step. Every time the ball went out of play, his head instinctively turned toward the stands, checking on the small woman in the oversized jersey.

When the coach finally blew the whistle to signal the end of training, the players began their usual routine of stretching and heading toward the tunnel. But Michael was on a mission. He didn't even stop for his tracksuit top. He headed straight for the stands.

Mimi was already waiting at the railing, leaning over with a wide grin.

"Did you win training?" she asked as he approached.

"You don't win training, Mimi," he said, though he was smiling.

He reached the edge of the railing and didn't hesitate. He reached up, his large hands framing her face, and pulled her down for a deep, lingering kiss. It wasn't a quick peck for show; it was the kind of kiss that spoke of long-term comfort and genuine adoration.

Behind him, the squad had stopped in their tracks.

"Look at that," Eze whispered, shaking his head. "He’s actually sweet. I’m going to cry."

"They're actually the cutest couple I’ve ever seen," Guéhi admitted, watching as Michael finally pulled away, only to rest his forehead against Mimi’s.

Mimi reached down and wiped a smudge of sweat from Michael's temple with her thumb. "You’re very gross and salty," she giggled.

"You’re the one who came over here," Michael reminded her, his voice loud enough for the nearby players to hear. He took her hand, pulling her toward the exit. "Come on. I’m hungry. We’re getting the superior pasta for dinner."

"Fusilli?" she asked brightly.

"Fusilli," he confirmed.

As they walked away, Mimi turned back and waved one last time to the team. "Bye, guys! Take care of his legs! They’re expensive!"

Eze waved back, a wide grin on his face. "We will, Mimi! See you later!"

Once the couple was out of earshot, the dressing room talk resumed, but the tone had shifted. The mystery of Michael Olise had been solved, and the answer was far more wholesome than any of them had expected.

"I get it now," Andersen said, picking up his gear. "He spends all day being the 'cool guy' because he saves all the energy and personality for her. It’s actually kind of respect-worthy."

"It’s more than that," Guéhi added, looking toward the gates where the tall, quiet winger and the small, bubbly girl were walking toward the parking lot, hand in hand. "She’s his balance. Everyone needs a bit of sun when they spend their life in the shadows."

Across the parking lot, Michael opened the car door for Mimi, making sure she was settled before closing it with a gentle click. He looked back at the training ground for a split second, seeing his teammates watching from the distance. He gave them a single, subtle nod—a silent acknowledgment that yes, they had seen the real him, and no, he didn't care.

He got into the driver’s seat, and as the car pulled away, the last thing the players saw was Mimi’s animated gestures through the window and Michael’s head tilted toward her, a permanent smile fixed on his face.