Love

The Parc des Princes was electric, a pulsing cauldron of noise and blue-red lights that seemed to vibrate against Mi’s very skin. For most people in the stadium, the focus was entirely on the pitch, where the stars of Paris Saint-Germain were weaving through their opponents with practiced elegance. But for the cameras lining the touchline, a different story was unfolding in the VIP stands.

Jamal Musiala sat leaning toward Mi, his long frame draped comfortably in a stylish black trench coat that contrasted with the bright, energetic curls of the girl beside him. Mi was a tiny force of nature, her petite frame almost swallowed by the oversized seat, but her eyes were wide and sparkling as she watched the French internationals she had admired from afar for years.

"Look at the way Dembélé changes pace," Mi whispered, her voice barely audible over the roar of the Ultras. She leaned in close, her curly brown hair brushing against Jamal’s cheek. "It’s like he doesn’t even have bones. He just flows."

Jamal chuckled, a low, warm sound that Mi felt more than heard. He reached over, his large hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together. "He’s quick, yeah. But you’re only watching him because you think his dribbling is better than mine today."

Mi turned her head, a playful pout on her lips. "I didn't say that. You’re the best in the world, obviously. But today is my birthday, and today, I am allowed to have a crush on French football."

"Is that so?" Jamal teased. He squeezed her hand, his thumb tracing circles over her knuckles.

He didn't care about the lenses pointed their way. He didn't care that by tomorrow morning, every sports tabloid from Munich to Paris would be analyzing the way he looked at her. In that moment, as the stadium lights reflected in her dark eyes, he leaned in. It wasn't a calculated move for the cameras; it was a natural pull. He pressed a soft, lingering peck to her lips, a silent "Happy Birthday" that tasted of the cold Parisian air and the sweetness of the moment.

Mi flushed a deep rose color, ducking her head against his shoulder as the crowd erupted—not for a goal, but for a near-miss on the pitch. She didn't realize that at that exact second, a photographer had captured the perfect shot: Jamal’s protective lean, the soft press of his lips, and her hand gripping his like he was her entire world.

As the final whistle blew and the stadium began to empty, Jamal didn't stand up to leave. Instead, he checked his phone and gave her a mysterious wink.

"Ready for the second half of your present?" he asked.

"Jamal, we have to beat the traffic," Mi said, already reaching for her scarf. "And I’m starving. Can we get those crepes you promised?"

"Crepes can wait five minutes," Jamal said, standing up and pulling her with him. "I spoke to a few people. The PSG staff said we could head down to the tunnel area. Just for a few minutes."

Mi’s heart skipped a beat. Her shyness, which usually took a backseat during the excitement of a match, suddenly came roaring to the front. "Down there? With the players? Jamal, no. I look like a mess, and I’ll probably forget how to speak French. Or English. Or any language."

"You look beautiful," he insisted, guiding her toward the private elevators. "And don't worry. I’ll do the talking. You just stand there and look cute, which you’re already an expert at."

The tunnel was a world away from the stands. It smelled of freshly cut grass, expensive cologne, and the metallic tang of adrenaline. Mi gripped Jamal’s arm tightly, feeling like a small boat in a very large ocean. When a group of players began walking toward them, she instinctively tried to hide behind Jamal’s shoulder.

Among them was Désiré Doué, the young sensation who had been lighting up the league. He spotted Jamal—a peer he clearly respected—and a wide grin broke across his face.

"Jamal! What are you doing in Paris, man? Looking for a transfer?" Doué joked, switching to English as he approached.

Jamal laughed, shaking the younger player’s hand. "Not today. It’s my girl’s birthday. She’s a massive fan of the French team, so I had to bring her to the source."

Doué turned his attention to Mi, who gave a tiny, hesitant wave from behind Jamal’s arm. "Happy birthday! Did you enjoy the game? Even though Jamal was probably complaining about the tactics the whole time?"

Mi felt her face heat up. She looked at Jamal, pleading with her eyes for him to take the lead.

"She loved it," Jamal said smoothly, rubbing Mi’s arm to settle her nerves. "She’s been scouting you guys all night. I think she has a list of things you could do better, actually."

"Oh, really?" Doué laughed, leaning back against the wall. "Well, I have to know then. Who is the favorite? Is it Mbappé? Barcola? Don’t tell me it’s a defender."

Jamal nudged Mi gently. "Go on. Tell him."

Mi took a small breath, her voice coming out a bit squeaky. "It’s... it’s actually you. I love the way you play."

Doué’s eyebrows shot up, a genuinely flattered expression crossing his face. "Me? Over all these big stars? Now I definitely like her more than I like you, Jamal." He reached out and pat Jamal on the shoulder before turning back to Mi. "Since I am the favorite, we have to take a picture. It is the rule."

Jamal took Mi’s phone, grinning as he framed the shot. Mi stood next to Doué, looking tiny and radiant, her curly hair bouncing as she finally managed a wide, genuine smile. After the photo, Doué chatted with them for a few more minutes, even promising to send Mi a signed jersey through Jamal, before he had to head to the dressing room.

The walk back to the car was a blur. By the time they reached their hotel suite overlooking the sparkling lights of the Eiffel Tower, the adrenaline had fully kicked in. The shyness was gone, replaced by the sheer, unadulterated joy of a girl who had just had her best day ever.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Mi spun around and threw her arms around Jamal’s neck.

"That was incredible!" she squealed, jumping slightly so he had to catch her by the waist to steady her. "I can’t believe you did that. I can’t believe I talked to him! Did I sound stupid? I felt like I sounded stupid."

"You sounded perfect," Jamal said, laughing as he carried her the few steps to the sofa, sitting down with her still draped across his lap. "You were so shy, I thought you were going to disappear into your scarf."

"Because it’s intimidating!" Mi exclaimed, pulling back to look at him. She showered his face with tiny, rapid-fire kisses—his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. "But you were so cool. You’re always so cool. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

Jamal smiled, his eyes softening as he watched her. He loved this version of her—the energetic, bubbly girl who didn't care about being "composed." He reached up, tucking a stray brown curl behind her ear.

"I’d do it every day if it made you this happy," he whispered.

Mi didn't say anything to that. Instead, she leaned in and gave him a proper kiss, deep and full of the gratitude and love she felt for the boy who, despite being a global superstar, always made sure she was the one center stage in his life.

She pulled back just an inch, her nose brushing his. "You know, Doué is great and all..."

"But?" Jamal prompted, a smirk playing on his lips.

"But you’re still my number one," she whispered. "Even if you are a German playing in Munich."

"I'll take it," Jamal laughed, pulling her back in for another hug. "Happy birthday, Mi."