Love

The afternoon at Thomas Müller’s home had been a chaotic, sun-drenched blur of laughter, oversized dogs, and the intoxicating scent of a summer barbecue. It was meant to be a private celebration for the arrival of the team’s newest "honorary member"—a tiny, swaddled bundle belonging to one of Jamal’s closest teammates. But in the age of social media, privacy was a relative term, especially when your host was as trigger-happy with a smartphone as Thomas.

Mi shifted slightly on Jamal’s lap, her denim miniskirt riding up just an inch further as she adjusted her weight. Jamal didn’t seem to mind. In fact, his hand was a constant, grounding presence, fingers splayed firmly across her waist, pulling her back against his chest every time she leaned forward to emphasize a point in conversation.

"I’m telling you, Jamal is convinced he can teach the baby to dribble before he can walk," Mi laughed, her long curls bouncing as she looked back at him.

Jamal grinned, his chin bumping her temple. "It’s about muscle memory, Mi. You have to start early."

"He can’t even hold his own head up yet, Bambi," Leon Goretzka chimed in from the opposite lawn chair, nursing a water. "Let the kid breathe."

It was in that moment that Thomas had snapped the first photo. It captured the stark, adorable reality of their height difference—Mi looked like a porcelain doll tucked into the frame of a professional athlete. Her feet, clad in dainty white sneakers, were dangling inches off the grass, unable to reach the ground while she sat perched on Jamal’s sturdy thighs. She looked small, protected, and radiantly happy.

The second photo, however, was the one that broke the internet.

The baby’s father had leaned over, carefully transferring the sleeping infant into Mi’s waiting arms. Jamal hadn't moved; he simply shifted his stance to provide her more stability, his chin coming to rest heavily on her shoulder so he could peer down at the tuft of dark hair against Mi’s chest. The camera caught the soft, maternal curve of Mi’s smile and the way Jamal looked at her—not at the baby, but at her—with an expression of such raw, unshielded devotion that it felt almost intrusive to witness.

By the time they were driving back to their apartment in Munich, the images had already racked up millions of likes.

"My phone won't stop buzzing," Mi muttered, scrolling through the comments as Jamal navigated the quiet evening streets. "People are calling us 'parents-in-training.' Jamal, look at this one—someone started a petition for us to have a reveal party."

Jamal chuckled, his eyes fixed on the road, though a slight flush crept up his neck. "Thomas has a lot to answer for. I told him not to post the one where your feet aren't touching the floor. Now everyone knows how tiny you are."

"I am not tiny, you're just a giant," she defended playfully, reaching over to poke his arm.

The playful atmosphere followed them inside, but as the night deepened, the energy shifted. The adrenaline of the day began to fade, replaced by the heavy, comfortable silence that only comes with being truly at home with someone.

Mi stood in front of the bathroom mirror, tugging a comb through her curls. She had swapped the denim skirt for one of Jamal’s oversized hoodies, the hem reaching her mid-thigh. In the reflection, she saw Jamal lean against the doorframe, watching her. He had already changed into his sweatpants, his hair damp from a quick shower.

"You were good with him today," Jamal said softly.

Mi paused, a knot of hair caught in the comb. "With the baby? He was an angel. Most babies scream the second I touch them, but he just fell right back asleep."

Jamal walked over, taking the comb from her hand. He stood behind her, his height towering over her even more in the cramped space of the bathroom. He began to work through the tangles with a gentleness that always surprised her, given the intensity he showed on the pitch.

"I think it’s because you’re calm," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror. "He could feel that."

"Maybe," she whispered, leaning her head back against his chest.

They moved into the bedroom, the moonlight filtering through the sheer curtains. The viral photos were still looming in the back of Mi’s mind—the way the world saw them versus the way they actually were. To the public, they were a glamorous couple; here, in the dark, they were just two young people trying to figure out the weight of their own hearts.

As they climbed into bed, Jamal pulled her close, his long limbs tangling with hers. He tucked his face into the crook of her neck, the same way he had in the photo, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.

"The comments today," Jamal started, his voice muffled against her skin. "About us being parents."

Mi felt a flutter in her stomach, half-nervous, half-amused. "They’re just fans being fans, Jamal. They see a cute picture and they go crazy. You know how it is."

"I know," he said. He pulled back just enough to look at her, his dark eyes searching hers. "But it didn't feel like a joke to me."

Mi held her breath. "What do you mean?"

Jamal rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that surfaced whenever he was stepping outside his comfort zone. "Seeing you hold him... seeing how you looked. I don't know. I’ve spent so much time focusing on the next game, the next trophy, the next contract. But today, looking at you in that chair, I realized that’s the only 'next' I actually care about."

He took a sharp breath, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them.

"I want a family with you, Mi. Not just one day in the vague future. I mean, I want that. I want us to have what they have."

The silence that followed was deafening. Mi felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room. She stared at him, her lips parted, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Jamal, usually so composed and calculated, looked vulnerable. He looked like he was bracing for a blow.

"Jamal," she breathed, her voice cracking.

"I know we’re young," he added quickly, misinterpreting her silence. "And I know my life is crazy, and we travel a lot, and maybe it’s too soon to even say it out loud, but when I saw those pictures... I didn't see a viral moment. I saw my whole life. I saw what I want to come home to every day."

Mi felt a hot prickle behind her eyes. A sob caught in her throat, and she had to press her palm against her mouth to keep it back. The sheer gravity of his confession—the weight of a man like Jamal Musiala, who had the world at his feet, choosing to lay his future at hers—was overwhelming.

"Are you crying?" he asked, his voice laced with instant panic. He sat up, reaching for her face. "Mi, I’m sorry. I didn't mean to pressure you, I just—"

"No," she choked out, grabbing his wrists to keep his hands against her cheeks. "No, Jamal, don't be sorry."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I want it too," she whispered, the tears finally spilling over and wetting his thumbs. "I was so scared to even think about it because your career is so big, and I didn't want to be the one to slow you down. But seeing you with him today... I’ve never loved you more than I did in that moment."

Jamal let out a long, shaky exhale, leaning forward until their foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes, his thumbs brushing away her tears in slow, rhythmic strokes.

"You could never slow me down," he said firmly. "You’re the reason I run so fast. I just wanted you to know. I wanted you to know that the pictures weren't just a pose for me."

Mi wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down onto the pillows with her. She buried her face in his chest, listening to the steady, rapid thrum of his heart. It was a terrifying thought—the idea of bringing a life into their world, of changing everything they knew—but as she lay there in the safety of his embrace, the viral photos seemed like a distant memory.

The reality was much better. The reality was the warmth of his skin, the sincerity in his voice, and the quiet promise of a future that didn't need a million likes to be perfect.

"We’re going to need a bigger house," she joked weakly, her voice still thick with emotion.

Jamal laughed, a low, vibrating sound that settled deep in her bones. He kissed the top of her head, his grip on her waist tightening, echoing the way he had held her earlier that day.

"We’ll get whatever you want," he promised. "As long as your feet still don't touch the floor when you sit on my lap."

"Shut up," she laughed, swatting at him, but she leaned into him all the same, falling asleep to the dream of a life that was only just beginning.