Love

The curtains in the master bedroom were drawn tight, casting the room into a perpetual, soft twilight that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and expensive laundry detergent. Jamal Musiala, usually a blur of lightning-fast motion on the pitch, was currently a motionless mound of blankets. A single arm escaped the duvet, looking strangely pale against the dark fabric.

He groaned, though the sound was perhaps a decibel louder than his actual discomfort required. The flu had hit him like a sliding tackle he hadn't seen coming, knocking the wind out of the golden boy of German football. But as he lay there, he heard the soft click-clack of footsteps on the hardwood hallway, and his heart did a little flutter that had nothing to do with his fever.

The door creaked open. Mi stepped in, balancing a wooden tray with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb disposal. She was a tiny force of nature, her oversized hoodie reaching mid-thigh, her hair tied up in a messy bun that seemed to defy the laws of gravity.

"The patient is awake," she whispered, a bright smile lighting up her face. She set the tray down on the nightstand and immediately pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "You’re still a bit warm, Bambi. How are you feeling?"

Jamal looked up at her, putting on his best weary expression. "Better than yesterday, I think. But my head still feels like it’s full of cotton wool."

"Well, cotton wool needs nutrients," Mi declared, hoisting him up against the pillows with surprising strength for someone so petite. "I made chicken soup. My grandmother’s secret recipe—which mostly involves me calling her three times to ask if the carrots should be sliced or diced."

She sat on the edge of the bed, blowing on a spoonful of the steaming broth before offering it to him. Jamal took it, the warmth spreading through his chest. It was delicious, but the taste was secondary to the way Mi was looking at him—with a mix of fierce protectiveness and genuine worry.

"You’re a lifesaver, Mi," he mumbled after the third spoonful.

"I’m a miracle worker, clearly," she teased, reaching out to brush a stray curl away from his eyes. "You were shivering so hard last night I thought you were trying to vibrate through the mattress. I’m just glad the fever broke this morning."

Jamal froze for a split second. He knew the fever had broken. He felt clear-headed, his muscles no longer ached with that dull, flu-ridden throb, and his appetite had returned with a vengeance. By all medical accounts, he was fit to get up, walk to the living room, and maybe even play a bit of FIFA.

But as Mi dipped the spoon back into the bowl, her eyes soft and focused on him, a selfish thought took root. If he got better, the soup service stopped. The head scratches stopped. The way she hovered over him, smelling like vanilla and sunshine, would be replaced by the usual frantic schedule of training sessions and press conferences.

He let out a small, strategic cough. "I think... I think I might still have a bit of a chill."

Mi’s expression shifted instantly to high alert. "A chill? Oh, no. Lean back."

She set the soup aside and climbed onto the bed, tucking the duvet tightly around his shoulders. Then, she crawled in beside him, sitting against the headboard and pulling his head down to rest in her lap. It was his favorite place in the world.

"Is this okay?" she whispered, her fingers beginning to rhythmically stroke his hair.

"Yeah," Jamal sighed, closing his eyes. "Much better."

"You work too hard, Jamal," she murmured, her voice a soothing lilt in the quiet room. "Your body just decided it had enough. You need to learn that it’s okay to just... be. You don't have to be the star every second of the day. Here, you're just my Jamal."

He felt a pang of guilt, but it was quickly buried under the sheer bliss of her fingers grazing his scalp. She was so small, yet she felt like his entire world when she held him like this. She began to hum a low, tuneless melody, her other hand patting his shoulder in a steady, comforting beat.

"Mi?" he asked softly.

"Hmm?"

"Do you think I could have some of those orange slices? The ones you put the little toothpicks in?"

Mi chuckled, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against his head. "You and those toothpicks. You’re like a giant toddler. Give me two minutes."

As soon as she slipped out of the room, Jamal sat up, stretching his arms over his head. He felt fantastic. His energy was surging back, and he felt like he could run a marathon. He quickly checked his reflection in the darkened TV screen, smoothing down his hair so he didn't look too healthy, and scrambled back into a slumped position just as he heard her returning.

She walked in with a plate of perfectly sliced oranges. "Here you go, your majesty."

She fed them to him one by one. Jamal made sure to move slowly, feigning a slight weakness in his grip when he reached for the glass of water.

"You're still looking a bit pale," Mi said, her brow furrowed. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, her lips cool against his skin. "Maybe I should call the team doctor? Just to be sure?"

"No!" Jamal said, perhaps a bit too quickly. He lowered his voice. "No, I don't want to bother him. I just need... more rest. And maybe that movie you were talking about? The one with the talking dogs?"

Mi laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that made him feel like he was winning the Champions League. "You hate talking dog movies, Jamal. You said they were 'deeply unsettling' last week."

"I think the fever changed my mind," he lied effortlessly. "They seem... comforting now."

"Alright, alright. Move over."

She wiggled under the covers next to him, grabbing the remote. Within minutes, the movie was playing, but Jamal wasn't watching the screen. He was watching Mi. She was engrossed in the plot, her nose wrinkling at the jokes, her hand still mindlessly playing with his fingers.

She was so dedicated to his recovery. She had spent the last twenty-four hours checking his temperature every hour, bringing him cold compresses, and making sure he stayed hydrated. The guilt finally started to outweigh the perks of the pampering.

"Mi?"

"Yeah?" she replied, not taking her eyes off a Golden Retriever that was currently delivering a monologue.

"I have a confession."

She turned to him, her eyes wide with sudden fear. "What? Do you feel sick again? Is it your stomach? Do I need the bucket?"

"No, no," Jamal said, sitting up straight. He took a deep breath, looking at her healthy, glowing face. "I'm actually... I'm feeling a lot better. Like, totally better."

Mi blinked, her hand pausing in mid-air. She looked at him, then at the thermometer on the nightstand, then back at him. "Totally better?"

"Yeah," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "I think the fever broke hours ago. I just... you were being so sweet. I didn't want the 'nurse Mi' treatment to end."

There was a long silence. Jamal braced himself for a lecture, or perhaps a pillow to the face. Instead, Mi’s face slowly broke into a mischievous grin.

"Oh, really?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave.

"I'm sorry," he said, though he was starting to smile back. "It’s just, you’re really good at taking care of people. It’s nice to be looked after."

Mi reached out, but instead of a head scratch, she gave his ear a playful flick. "So, you’ve been faking it for the last three hours? While I slaved over a hot stove and hand-fed you oranges?"

"Slaved is a strong word," Jamal teased. "But yes. I am a terrible person."

"You are a terrible person," she agreed, sliding out of the bed and standing up with her hands on her hips. "And here I was, worried sick. I was going to cancel my dinner with Sarah tonight to stay here and watch more talking dogs with you."

Jamal’s eyes widened. "Wait, you were?"

"I was," she said, though the twinkle in her eye gave her away. "But since you are a medical marvel and have made a miraculous recovery, I guess I can go out. And you can do the dishes."

"The dishes?" Jamal groaned. "But I'm a recovering patient!"

"You’re a fraud," Mi laughed, grabbing a pillow and tossing it at him. He caught it easily, his reflexes sharp and back to normal. "But you’re a cute fraud."

She walked over to the bed, leaning down to give him a proper kiss this time—one that definitely didn't feel like it was meant for a sick person.

"I’m glad you’re okay, Jamal," she whispered against his lips. "Truly. Even if you are a big baby."

"Does this mean the head scratches are over?" he asked hopefully.

Mi headed toward the door, pausing at the threshold. She looked back at him, her expression softening. "Get the dishes done, and maybe I’ll give you five minutes of 'nurse treatment' before we go to sleep."

Jamal watched her go, a massive grin plastered on his face. He hopped out of bed, feeling light on his feet. The flu was gone, but he realized he didn't need to be sick to get her attention. He just had to be himself—and maybe, occasionally, agree to watch a movie about talking dogs.

He headed toward the kitchen, humming the tuneless song she had been humming earlier. He had a mountain of soup bowls to wash, but for the first time in his life, he didn't mind the manual labor. After all, he had a reputation to maintain as the most pampered man in Munich.