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The blue light of the smartphone screen illuminated Jamal’s face in the darkness of his living room, casting sharp shadows across his features. He should have been sleeping. The clash against Paris Saint-Germain was less than twenty-four hours away, and his body needed the recovery. Yet, his thumb kept hovering, scrolling, and pausing on the same image that had set the internet on fire.

It was Mi. His Mi. In the video, she was a whirlwind of energy, her vibrant red curls bouncing in sync with a choreography that was as sharp as it was provocative. She was wearing a pleated black miniskirt that defied gravity every time she spun. At one specific moment—the moment the entire world seemed to have screenshotted—the hem rose just high enough to reveal the soft curve of her cheek.

The comments were a mess of fire emojis and marriage proposals. But it wasn't the fans that had Jamal’s jaw tightening. It was the "Like" from Désiré Doué.

The media had already spun the narrative. Mind games, the headlines screamed. Doué targets Musiala’s heart before the pitch. They were painting it as a tactical move to unsettle Bayern’s star boy. Jamal knew Mi was a fan of the French style of play; she had grown up admiring their technique, and she had attended several Ligue 1 matches before they even started dating. He wasn't the jealous type, usually. But seeing another player—a rival he was about to face—publicly admiring his girlfriend’s most suggestive video felt like a deliberate foul.

He sighed, tossing the phone onto the velvet sofa. He couldn't shake the unease. It wasn't that he didn't trust her; it was that he wanted her close. He needed to feel that she was his, regardless of what the tabloids or the PSG roster thought.

He picked the phone back up and typed a quick message.

Are you busy? Can you come over and stay the night? I just want you here.

Ten minutes later, the front door clicked. Mi walked in, looking smaller than usual in an oversized hoodie that swallowed her petite frame. Her red curls were tied back in a messy bun, and her face was scrubbed clean of her stage makeup. She looked like a doll, even in the dim light.

"You're still awake," she said, her voice a soft melody that immediately eased the tension in his shoulders. "Is the pre-game jitters hitting you that hard?"

Jamal didn't answer immediately. He just stood up and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and hair dye.

"Just stay," he whispered, his grip tightening slightly.

Mi laughed softly, her small hands coming up to stroke the back of his neck. "I'm here, Jamal. I'm not going anywhere."

He didn't mention the video. He didn't mention Doué. He just held her. When they finally moved to the bedroom, he was uncharacteristically clingy, his limbs tangled with hers under the heavy duvet. He kept one arm draped firmly over her waist, his fingers curled into the fabric of her shirt as if anchoring himself. Mi didn't question it; she simply pressed her back against his chest and fell asleep to the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat.

The next afternoon, the Allianz Arena was a cauldron of noise and color. The atmosphere was electric, the air thick with the smell of grass and anticipation.

In the VIP section, the paparazzi were having a field day. Mi had arrived early, and she was impossible to miss. She wasn't wearing the customary Musiala jersey today. Instead, she wore a crisp, sleeveless white shirt tucked into denim shorts that were daringly short, showcasing her toned legs. Under the bright Munich sun, her cheeks were naturally flushed a soft pink, giving her an innocent, doll-like radiance that contrasted sharply with the "sexy idol" persona from the viral video.

As the players took the pitch for warm-ups, Jamal’s eyes instinctively scanned the stands. He found her immediately. She waved, a bright smile lighting up her face, but he noticed she wasn't wearing his colors. He felt a sharp pang of something he couldn't quite name. She was a fan of the game, a fan of the French flair—he knew this. But today, of all days, the neutrality felt like a statement.

The match was a grueling affair. PSG played with a clinical, aggressive edge. Doué was everywhere, his movements fluid and confident. Every time the Frenchman touched the ball, the whispers of the previous night’s social media scandal seemed to echo through the stadium.

Jamal played well, his dribbling as hypnotic as ever, but the French side was impenetrable. When the final whistle blew, the scoreboard read 2-1 in favor of the visitors. The Parisian fans erupted in joy.

From his position on the pitch, Jamal saw Mi standing. She was clapping. She wasn't cheering for his defeat, he knew that, but the genuine appreciation on her face for the winning side stung more than the loss itself. She looked happy. She looked like a girl who had just watched a beautiful display of football, regardless of who provided it.

The post-match press zone was a gauntlet of cameras and microphones. Jamal moved through it with his head held high, though his heart was heavy with the day’s events. He knew what was coming before the reporter even finished the sentence.

"Jamal, a tough loss today," the journalist began, leaning in with a predatory glint in his eye. "But the internet is more focused on the sidelines. Your girlfriend, Mi, has been quite vocal about her admiration for French football, and after Désiré Doué liked that... provocative video of her yesterday, people are wondering. Does it bother you that she’s such a big fan of your rivals? Is there trouble in paradise?"

Jamal stopped. He took a slow breath, looking directly into the lens of the main camera. He thought of Mi’s red curls on his pillow the night before. He thought of her small hands in his.

"Mi is an artist and a fan of the sport," Jamal said, his voice calm and steady, devoid of the irritation he felt inside. "She has her own tastes and her own opinions. I don't mind that she appreciates good football, no matter where it comes from. It has nothing to do with our relationship."

"And the social media interaction from Doué?" the reporter pressed.

Jamal offered a small, tight smile—the kind that didn't reach his eyes but signaled the end of the conversation. "People like what they like. It doesn't change what we have at home. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a team to debrief with."

He walked away, the flashes of the cameras strobing behind him. He had said the right things. He had defended her. But as he entered the locker room, he pulled his phone out one last time.

There was a message from her.

You played beautifully today. I’m waiting in the car. I brought your favorite snacks.

Jamal leaned his head against the cold locker. The world could talk all it wanted. They could like her videos, they could analyze her outfits, and they could cheer for her "betrayal" of the Bayern colors. But at the end of the night, when the lights went out, she was the one who came home to him.

He quickly changed, ignoring the sympathetic looks from his teammates. He didn't want their pity. He wanted the girl with the red hair and the pink cheeks who loved the game almost as much as she loved him.

When he reached the parking garage, he saw her leaning against the car, her white shirt glowing in the fluorescent light. She looked up and smiled, and for the first time since the "like" appeared on his feed, Jamal felt the tension truly leave his body.

"Ready to go?" she asked, opening the passenger door for him.

"Yeah," Jamal said, pulling her into a quick, firm kiss before sliding into the seat. "Let's go home."

She started the engine, the hum of the car filling the silence. As they drove out of the stadium, Mi reached over and squeezed his hand.

"By the way," she said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "I think you should wear your red kit more often. It suits you better than the white one."

Jamal laughed, finally feeling the weight lift. "I'll keep that in mind, Mi. I'll definitely keep that in mind."