Yours

The midday sun beat down mercilessly on the pristine pitches of Ciudad Real Madrid, casting razor-sharp shadows across the turf. From behind the viewfinder of her Sony Alpha, Nini squinted, tucking a wild strand of curly brown hair behind her ear. Her camera was balanced effortlessly on her gimbal, tracking the ball as it whipped across the grass in sharp, rapid-fire triangles.

She was petite enough that the players always joked she could hide behind the corner flags, but her presence was a staple in Valdebebas. As one of the primary social media managers for the first team, Nini lived her life through five-inch screens and viral clips, capturing everything from lighthearted locker room banters to the cold, focused sweat of matchday preparations.

Right now, her lens was locked entirely on Arda.

Arda Güler moved with a quiet, poetic grace that made editing reels almost painfully easy. The boy didn't sprint; he glided. With a feather-light touch, he trapped an awkward pass from Eduardo Camavinga, dropped his shoulder to fool an imaginary defender, and curled the ball into the top corner of the miniature training goal with his signature left foot.

A chorus of whistles echoed from the squad. Arda offered a shy, subtle smirk, brushing his fringe out of his eyes. And then, as he almost always did, his dark, searching gaze flicked directly toward the sideline—directly into Nini's camera.

Her heart gave an involuntary, familiar flutter, the kind she had been trying desperately to strangle for months.

Through the monitor, his eyes held hers for a beat too long. There was an unspoken gravity there, a quiet pull that had existed between them ever since his first lonely weeks in Madrid. She had been the one to guide him through press duties when his Spanish was still broken, the one who translated his quiet jokes, the one who stayed late in the media room sipping cold tea with him.

"Cut, Nini," Carlo Ancelotti’s assistant called out with two claps, signaling the end of the session. "Good work today."

Nini lowered the gimbal, exhaling a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She adjusted the lanyard around her neck and wiped the sheen of sweat from her forehead, turning toward the tunnel.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. It wasn't a notification from the club's TikTok account.

Dean: I'm parked outside the residential gate. Don't make me wait in the sun, bellissima. I brought those pastries from the bakery by Salamanca.

Nini stared at the screen, her stomach tightening with a complex knot of excitement and dread.

Dean Huijsen.

He was everything Arda wasn't—loud, boldly confident, towering nearly two meters high, and completely unapologetic about taking what he wanted. Having returned to Spain during the international break, Dean had bulldozed his way into her life over the past three months with effortless charisma. He didn't wait for permission to hold her hand; he simply took it. He didn't speak in timid half-glances across media rooms; he told her she was gorgeous under the fluorescent lights of Madrid cafes while laughing loudly.

And yet, every time Dean drew her in, the ghost of Arda’s quiet, lingering silence haunted her.

"Going somewhere fast?" a soft voice asked.

Nini jumped slightly, turning around to find Arda standing just a few feet away. His training kit was soaked with sweat, a white towel draped loosely around his neck. Up close, without the barrier of a camera lens, his youthfulness was offset by eyes that felt far too heavy, far too observant.

"Oh," Nini managed a bright, professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Just wrapping up the clips for the afternoon drop. You were great today, Arda. That curve on the second drill was insane. The fans are going to lose their minds."

Arda didn't smile. He shifted his weight, his dark eyes scanning her face, taking in the faint flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the Madrid heat.

"You're in a hurry," he murmured in his accented Spanish, his voice dropping lower so the passing staff wouldn't hear. "You usually stay to check the audio levels with me."

"I... I have somewhere to be today," she said, looking down at the screen of her camera, suddenly fascinated by the battery indicator. "An appointment."

Arda stepped closer. The faint scent of grass, citrus cologne, and sweat drifted toward her. "An appointment? Or is someone waiting for you?"

Nini felt her chest constrict. "Arda, please."

"I saw his car yesterday, Nini," Arda whispered, his tone stripped of all defensiveness, leaving only raw, aching vulnerability. "At your apartment complex. I was going to bring you the baklava my mother sent from Istanbul. But I saw him walk you to the door."

Nini's breath caught in her throat. She looked up, trapped by the sheer hurt shining in his dark eyes.

"Arda, you never said anything," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For a whole year, you never said a single word."

"Did I really need to say it?" Arda's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping under his skin. "You think I look at anyone else the way I look at you? You think I let anyone else sit in my car and talk about their family until three in the morning?"

Before Nini could find the words to steady the crumbling ground beneath her feet, heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete ramp near the VIP player entrance.

"Nini!"

The deep, booming voice broke the fragile air like shattered glass.

Both of them turned. Striding down the ramp, completely disregarding the security protocols that usually kept non-squad members strictly beyond the lobby, was Dean. Dressed in an oversized designer hoodie and cargo pants, he looked every bit the towering, effortless athlete. His broad grin widened the moment he spotted her, utterly oblivious—or perhaps entirely indifferent—to the tension freezing the air around them.

"Security let me through once I flashed my pass," Dean said, walking straight up to them. He casually slung an enormous, heavy arm over Nini’s small shoulders, pulling her flush against his side with casual possessiveness. "Hey, little one. You took forever."

Nini stiffened under the weight of his arm, terrified to look at Arda. She felt minuscule between them—a fragile doll caught between two colliding tides.

Dean finally turned his attention to Arda, his sharp eyes flashing with subtle recognition. "Güler, right? Nice goal on the weekend. Watched the highlights."

Arda stood motionless. His eyes drifted from Dean's face down to where Dean's hand rested securely on Nini's shoulder, fingers idly playing with a loose curl of her brown hair. A cold, suffocating silence hung between the three of them.

"Thanks," Arda said quietly. The word was flat, lifeless, devoid of the warmth he usually possessed.

Dean chuckled, apparently unfazed by the frostiness, though the grip on Nini’s shoulder subtly tightened. "We're heading out. Taking her to lunch. Good luck with the recovery session, man."

Dean began to steer her away, but Nini couldn't stop herself. She looked back over her shoulder.

Arda hadn't moved an inch. He stood alone on the edge of the manicured grass, the towel slipping from his neck onto the dirt, watching her disappear with a look of such utter, shattered betrayal that it felt like a physical blow to her ribs.

---

The restaurant in the heart of Madrid was stunning, bathed in warm golden light, with a table secluded on an open-air terrace overlooking the city's terracotta roofs. The food was exquisite, the wine rich and sweet, but Nini couldn't taste anything. Every bite felt like ash.

Dean was talking about the differences between Italian and Spanish defensive drills, gesturing animatedly with his fork.

"Dean," Nini interrupted quietly, her fingers nervously twisting the napkin on her lap.

He paused, setting his cutlery down, his confident demeanor softening into something attentive. "What's wrong? You've barely touched the risotto. You've been miles away since Valdebebas."

"You shouldn't have come inside the training grounds like that," she said, her voice small. "I work there, Dean. It's strictly professional. If the club media directors think I'm blurring lines—"

"I was picking up my girlfriend," Dean countered smoothly, leaning forward across the table, his blue eyes intense. "Since when is that a crime? Or is it about the Turkish kid?"

Nini froze, her heart hammering against her ribs. "What?"

Dean offered a dry, humorless smirk, though his eyes lost some of their light. "I’m not blind, Nini. I saw the way he was looking at you before I walked over. And I felt you pull away the second I touched you."

"Dean, it's not like that—"

"Isn't it?" Dean reached out, covering her small, trembling hand with his massive, warm palm. His voice wasn't angry; it was laced with a painful, bruising sincerity that hurt worse than shouting. "Because every time I think you're finally mine, you drift away. You look at your phone during dinner. You get quiet after Madrid matches. I gave you my time, my focus, everything. I’m here in this city for you, Nini."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. Dean wasn't a villain. He was generous, affectionate, and fiercely devoted to her. He had done nothing wrong except love her loudly, while the boy she had fallen for first had only ever loved her in the dark.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, a tear finally escaping and rolling down her cheek. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Dean stared at her for a long, agonizing moment. Slowly, he pulled his hand back, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his face with an exhausted sigh.

"You didn't answer my question," Dean said quietly, not looking at her. "Do you love him?"

The air in the terrace suddenly felt suffocatingly thin. Nini looked at her trembling hands. The image of Arda standing on the grass, his eyes wide and wounded, flashed through her mind like an exposed film negative.

"I don't know," she choked out.

Dean nodded once, stiffly. The warmth that usually defined his handsome face had completely hardened into stone.

"Yes, you do," Dean said softly, his voice breaking just a little. "You just don't have the courage to say it."

---

The sun had long set over Madrid when Nini arrived back at Valdebebas.

She had lied to Dean, telling him she needed to finish an urgent media edit for the Champions League press release that night. In reality, the guilt, the confusion, and the suffocating ache in her chest had made it impossible to go home.

The sprawling training complex was quiet, illuminated only by ambient path lights and the dim glow of security checkpoints. The indoor facilities were nearly deserted, save for a few maintenance workers buffing the floors.

Nini walked down the long, mirrored corridor leading to the media suites, her heels clicking softly against the polished tile. But as she passed the indoor gym and the indoor warm-up pitch, the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of a ball caught her attention.

She stopped.

Through the glass doors of the secondary training hall, a lone figure was practicing.

Arda.

He was in an unmarked black jersey, his hair completely soaked with sweat, his chest heaving. He lined up five balls outside the penalty area, striking each one with vicious, erratic power against the rebound wall. There was none of his usual grace, none of the lighthearted flair. Every strike was furious, reckless, driven by a raw, desperate fury.

On the sixth strike, the ball rebounded violently, spinning out of control and bouncing toward the glass doors where she stood.

Arda chased after it, jogging forward—and froze as he saw her reflection in the glass.

For several seconds, neither moved. The only sound was the distant hum of the facility’s air conditioning and the ragged sound of Arda's breathing.

Slowly, Arda pushed the glass door open. He didn't speak. He just stood there, looking down at her, his dark eyes shadowed with profound exhaustion.

"Why are you still here?" she asked, her voice cracking in the quiet hallway. "It's almost ten, Arda. You're going to pull a muscle."

"Why do you care?" he rasped.

Nini stepped closer, tears instantly blurring her vision. "Of course I care. How can you ask me that?"

"Because you left with him!" Arda suddenly snapped, his voice echoing loudly against the high ceilings of the empty hall. His stoic facade finally shattered into pieces, hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. "You stood there and let him hold you in front of me. You walked away with him while I was standing right there!"

"You never asked me to stay!" Nini cried out, the dam finally breaking. Tears streamed freely down her cheeks, her small frame shaking. "You never told me, Arda! You acted like we were just colleagues, just friends sharing quiet moments in corners. Dean was there. Dean was real. He actually told me what he wanted!"

"Because I was terrified!" Arda shouted back, taking two long, frantic strides toward her until he was standing directly over her, his breathing ragged, his face twisted in torment. "I was an eighteen-year-old kid arriving in the biggest club in the world! I was injured for months, I couldn't speak the language, I was fighting every day just to prove I belonged here! I couldn't afford distractions, Nini! But every single night I went back to an empty house, the only voice I wanted to hear was yours!"

He reached out, his trembling hands cupping her face, rough and warm against her tear-stained skin. His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, catching her tears.

"I thought you knew," Arda whispered, his voice cracking violently as a tear slipped from his own dark lashes. "I thought you felt it every time our hands touched when you handed me the microphone. I thought you saw it in every goal I scored and looked for you in the stands."

Nini’s breath hitched in her throat. She leaned into his touch, her heart breaking into a thousand fractured pieces. "Arda..."

"Tell me you love him," Arda pleaded, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath hot and desperate against her lips. "Look me in the eyes and tell me you love Dean Huijsen, Nini. Tell me, and I will never look at you outside of a press conference again. I will let you go. Just say it."

Nini looked into his dark, luminous eyes, drowning in the depth of his sorrow. The scent of him, the raw intensity of his touch, the sheer weight of a year’s worth of silent longing pressed down upon her chest until she couldn't breathe.

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

From the far end of the corridor, near the players' lounge entrance, the sudden soft ding of the elevator chime cut through the stillness.

Nini stiffened, pulling back slightly in instinctual panic. Arda didn't let go immediately; his fingers lingered on her skin, clinging to her like a lifeline slipping through his grasp, before his hands finally fell limply to his sides.

She looked toward the end of the hall. Standing near the glass exit doors, holding a forgotten car key in his hand, stood Dean.

Dean hadn't gone back to his hotel. He had come back to apologize, to talk, to try and fix whatever was falling apart. But now, he stood frozen under the harsh corridor lights, his eyes fixed on Nini's tear-streaked face and Arda’s shattered stance.

Dean didn't shout. He didn't storm down the hallway. He simply looked at them, his tall frame suddenly looking hollow, defeated.

"Dean..." Nini whispered, taking a trembling step back, her voice barely carrying across the empty space.

Dean looked at her for three long, agonizing seconds. Then, slowly, he shook his head. He dropped the car key into his pocket, turned on his heel, and pushed through the heavy glass doors into the dark Madrid night, disappearing into the shadows without another word.

Nini stood trapped in the center of the vast, empty hallway, the silence ringing in her ears.

Behind her, Arda let out a shaky, shuddering breath, turning his back to her and leaning his forehead against the cold concrete wall, his shoulders trembling silently.

She was surrounded by the two men who held her heart, yet standing entirely alone in the dark.