Love you

The training ground at Säbener Straße was buzzing with the usual post-session energy. Players were lingering, some stretching on the grass while others headed toward the locker rooms. Jamal Musiala was standing by the sidelines, sipping from a water bottle, his lean frame slightly hunched as he listened to Thomas Müller recount a joke for the third time that week.

Then, there was a blur of motion.

Mimi appeared like a small, curly-haired whirlwind. She didn't care about the cameras, the coaching staff, or the teammates watching with amused grins. She navigated the crowded space with a single-minded focus until she reached Jamal.

Without a word, she stepped into his space, her petite frame barely reaching his shoulder. Her long, dark brown curls tumbled over her shoulders in a wild cascade as she threw her arms around his waist. She buried her face in his chest, inhaling the scent of his laundry detergent and the faint metallic tang of sweat.

"Hi," she whispered against his jersey.

Jamal’s face instantly flushed a deep shade of crimson. He gingerly placed a hand on her back, his fingers twitching. "Hey, Mimi. You’re early."

She didn't pull away. Instead, she tilted her head back, her eyes shining with an intensity that always made Jamal feel like he was the only person in the world. Her hand traveled up his arm, her thumb tracing the line of his tricep before she stood on her tiptoes. Peck. A kiss on his chin. Peck. A kiss on the corner of his jaw.

"I missed you," she murmured, her hand now resting on the back of his neck, her fingers playing with the short hairs there.

Across the field, Leroy Sané let out a loud whistle, followed by a chorus of chuckles from the other boys. Jamal ducked his head, his ears burning. He loved her—he loved her more than he knew how to express—but the public displays of affection always felt like a spotlight he wasn't quite ready for.

"Mimi, everyone’s looking," he whispered, though he didn't pull away. He never could.

"Let them look," she replied simply, reaching up to press a lingering kiss to his cheek, her soft curls tickling his nose.

A few days later, the scene repeated itself, albeit in a different setting. The team was at a charity gala, a formal affair where everyone was dressed to the nines. Jamal looked sharp in a slim-fit black suit, but he felt stiff and out of place in the sea of flashing bulbs and high-society chatter.

Mimi was his anchor. She wore a simple silk dress that complemented her olive skin, her hair down as always, flowing like a dark river down her back. Throughout the evening, she was never more than an inch away from him. When they stood in a circle with the club directors, her hand was tucked firmly into his, her thumb stroking the back of his knuckles in a rhythmic, soothing motion.

When the conversation lulled, she leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder. Her lips brushed against his neck, a soft, fluttering contact that sent a jolt of electricity through him.

"You're doing great, Bambi," she whispered against his skin.

Jamal cleared his throat, trying to focus on what the Sporting Director was saying about the upcoming Champions League draw. He felt a bead of sweat form at his temple. He could feel the eyes of the room on them—the "Golden Boy" and his devoted girlfriend. It was sweet, he knew that. He could hear the whispers of "They're so goals" from the younger fans nearby. But the shyness that had followed him since childhood was hard to shake. He felt like a deer in headlights, even as Mimi’s warmth kept him grounded.

The most frequent "infraction," as Jamal playfully thought of it, happened during their weekly movie nights with friends. They were gathered at Alphonso Davies’ place, sprawled across a massive sectional sofa. There was plenty of room for everyone, but Mimi didn't want the cushion next to Jamal. She wanted Jamal.

As soon as the movie started, she climbed onto his lap. She sat sideways, her legs draped over his knees, her head tucked into the crook of his neck. Jamal instinctively wrapped his arms around her waist to keep her steady, his hands disappearing into the mass of her curls.

"Mimi, you’re blocking the subtitles," Phonzy teased, throwing a piece of popcorn at them.

"Read faster then," Mimi shot back playfully, not moving an inch. She turned her face toward Jamal’s neck, peppering the sensitive skin there with tiny, butterfly kisses.

Jamal tried to watch the screen, but it was impossible. Mimi was a sensory overload. She smelled like vanilla and cocoa butter, and the weight of her against him was the most comfortable thing he’d ever experienced. Yet, he could feel his teammates’ smirks in the dark. He felt that familiar itch of awkwardness, the desire to be "cool" and composed conflicting with the reality of being adored so loudly.

"You okay?" Mimi whispered, sensing his slight tension. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her lips hovering inches from his.

"Yeah," he breathed, his voice a little strained. "Just... focused on the movie."

She grinned, knowing he was lying, and pressed a firm, sweet kiss to his lips that lasted just a second too long for a "casual" setting. Jamal melted, his grip on her waist tightening, his shyness losing the battle for one brief moment.

Eventually, the night ended, and they were back in the sanctuary of Jamal’s apartment. The heavy front door clicked shut, sealing out the world, the cameras, and the teasing comments of his friends.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. The tension that usually held Jamal’s shoulders high and stiff evaporated. He let out a long, shaky breath and leaned his forehead against the door.

Mimi stood behind him, her hands sliding under his hoodie to rest on the bare skin of his stomach. She pressed her chest against his back, her hair spilling over his shoulders.

"You were really quiet tonight," she said softly.

Jamal turned around in her arms, looking down at her. In the dim light of the hallway, she looked small and fragile, yet she held so much power over him. "I was just tired, I think."

Mimi looked at him intently, her brown eyes searching his. She reached up, cupping his face with both hands. Her thumbs traced the line of his cheekbones. "Jamal, be honest with me. Do I... do I do too much? When we're out?"

Jamal blinked, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in her voice. "What do you mean?"

"The kissing, the hugging, sitting on you," she listed, her voice dropping an octave. "I know I’m obsessed with you. I just want to touch you all the time. But I saw your face today at the gala. And when Phonzy made that joke. You get so red, and you look like you want to disappear into the floor."

She let her hands fall from his face, stepping back half an inch. The loss of her warmth was immediate and chilling.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable," she continued, her gaze dropping to his chest. "If it’s too much, if it’s embarrassing for you... I can stop. I can be more 'normal' in public. Just tell me, and I’ll pull back."

The thought hit Jamal like a physical blow. He imagined a world where Mimi stood two feet away from him at events. A world where she didn't reach for his hand under the table or kiss his neck when he was stressed. A world where she wasn't his constant, tactile reminder that he was loved for who he was, not just for what he did with a football.

He didn't even have to think about it.

"No!" he said, his voice louder and more urgent than he intended.

He reached out, grabbing her waist and pulling her back into his space so forcefully that she gasped. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, the familiar scent of her curls acting like a sedative for his soul.

"Don't stop," he whispered, his voice muffled against her skin. "Please, Mimi. Don't ever stop."

Mimi’s hands found their way back to his hair, her fingers stroking his scalp. "But you get so shy, Jamal. I don't want you to feel awkward because of me."

Jamal pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. He felt the heat in his cheeks, but this time, it wasn't from embarrassment. It was from the sheer intensity of his affection for the woman in his arms.

"I am shy," he admitted, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at his lips. "I’ve always been like that. And yeah, the guys tease me, and sometimes I don't know where to put my hands when you’re kissing me in front of the gaffer. But Mimi... I love it. I love every second of it."

He took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. "When I’m out there, everything is so loud. Everyone wants something from me. They want a goal, they want an interview, they want a piece of my time. But when you touch me, when you’re just there, it reminds me that I’m just Jamal. It makes me feel safe."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers. "I might look awkward, and I might turn as red as a Bayern kit, but that’s just me being me. If you stopped... I’d feel like I was floating away. You’re my gravity, Mimi."

Mimi’s eyes welled up with tears, a bright, radiant smile breaking across her face. "Gravity, huh? That’s pretty poetic for a guy who claims he can’t talk about his feelings."

Jamal chuckled, feeling the last remnants of his social anxiety fade away. "I have my moments."

"So, just to be clear," Mimi said, her voice turning playful again as she hopped up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Jamal caught her instinctively, his arms locking beneath her thighs. "I can still sit on your lap at movie night?"

"Yes," Jamal said, walking them toward the living room without letting her go.

"And I can kiss you whenever I want? Even if Thomas is right there?"

Jamal winced slightly at the thought of Müller’s inevitable commentary, but he nodded firmly. "Even then."

"Good," Mimi whispered.

She leaned in, her lips finding his in a deep, slow kiss that tasted like home. There were no cameras here, no teammates, no pressure to be the "Golden Boy." There was just the weight of her in his arms and the steady beat of his heart against hers.

They ended up on the sofa, the television remained off. Mimi was sprawled across him, her head on his chest, her fingers idly tracing the patterns of his tattoos through his shirt. Jamal was completely relaxed, his head resting back against the cushions, one hand stroking her long brown hair.

"You know," Mimi murmured, her voice drowsy. "Phonzy told me he’s just jealous because he doesn't have anyone to block his subtitles."

Jamal laughed, the sound deep and genuine. "He probably is. They all are."

"They should be," Mimi said, lifting her head to give him one final, soft kiss on the tip of his nose. "Because you're mine."

"And you're mine," Jamal replied, pulling the throw blanket over both of them.

He realized then that the shyness would probably never fully go away. He would always be the boy who blushed when the spotlight hit him too brightly. But as long as Mimi was the one holding the light—as long as her hands were in his and her curls were brushing against his skin—he didn't mind the heat at all. In fact, he lived for it.