You don't know how to love

Nini had always lived her life by a clear set of principles, and at twenty-four, her ultimate dream was disarmingly traditional. While her colleagues in sports journalism climbed over one another for prestige and exclusives, Nini quietly yearned for something far softer: a home, a gentle partnership, and a husband who made the chaotic world feel safe. In her romantic fantasies, the man of her dreams was patient, mature, and deeply protective—someone who spoke in calm murmurs rather than raised voices, and who would rather lose an argument than see a single tear well in her eyes.

He was, in short, the exact antithesis of Aleksandar Pavlović.

Aleksandar was nineteen, brilliant, and completely untamed. On the pitch for Bayern Munich, the young midfielder was a whirlwind of raw instinct and swagger, but off it, he was loud, easily provoked, and lived for the sheer adrenaline of the weekend. He liked techno blasting through heavy bass speakers, drove too fast, and got visibly stressed when things did not go his way. Whenever Nini caught sight of him storming through the mixed zone after a frustrating draw, tossing his water bottle aside with a scowl, she would silently shake her head. He was a boy playing a man's game, completely ruled by his immediate impulses.

Nini’s professional life, on the other hand, required immense composure. Armed with a microphone and a press badge, she was a regular fixture at the Allianz Arena and the Säbener Straße training grounds. Her small, delicate frame and cascading, waist-length brown curls gave her a porcelain, doll-like appearance that made almost everyone soften around her. Standing barely five feet tall in her sensible loafers and sharp blazers, she was perpetually dwarfed by towering athletes.

The players teased her relentlessly for it, though always with genuine affection.

"Nini, do you want me to sit down?" Jamal Musiala would ask with his signature shy grin, already sinking into a plastic chair in the press area before she could even balance her notebook. "Otherwise, the camera is just going to catch the top of your head."

Jamal was her absolute favorite to interview. He was polite, thoughtful, and instinctively gentle—the kind of boy any mother would gladly welcome to Sunday dinner. Nini would offer him a bright, dimpled smile, adjusting her audio recorder.

"You're very funny, Jamal," she would reply, her hazel eyes twinkling. "Now tell me about the assist in the sixty-second minute."

She had built a fortress of professionalism around herself. But even the most disciplined journalists needed a release, which was how she found herself at an upscale Munich nightclub on a chilly Saturday night, coaxed out by her best friend after a grueling week of match previews.

Leaving her neutral slacks and tailored coats in the wardrobe, Nini had slipped into a form-fitting, sleeveless black dress that hugged every curve of her petite body. Her long curls were teased into voluminous, glossy waves, and a slick of crimson lip gloss accentuated her full lips and high cheekbones. For once, she was not the girl holding the microphone; she was simply a young woman having a gin and tonic under neon lights.

She certainly had not planned on catching the eye of Aleksandar Pavlović.

Aleks had arrived with a few academy friends, looking every bit the rising football royalty in an oversized designer bomber jacket, heavy silver chains, and an irrepressible grin. He was laughing with his friends near the VIP railing when his gaze drifted across the crowded dance floor and caught on a figure that stopped him dead in his tracks.

He blinked, squinting through the flashing strobe lights. The petite brunette sipping her drink was stunning, radiant in a way that commanded the room. And then her face turned slightly, catching the violet light, and Aleksandar’s jaw went slack.

The little reporter.

She looked nothing like the prim, composed girl who cornered him after training with tactical questions. Gone was the crisp collar and the clipboard; in their place was bare, porcelain skin, long legs in slender heels, and an intoxicating softness he had never noticed before.

A slow, wicked grin spread across Aleks’s face. To him, Nini had always seemed untouchable, a stern little judge in the press room. Seeing her like this felt like finding a secret cheat code. It would be fun, he thought, to rattle that perfect composure. It would be brilliant to see what lay beneath all that seriousness.

He abandoned his friends and made his way through the crowd, sliding smoothly into the space beside her at the bar.

"I didn't think the press allowed this kind of fun," Aleks said, leaning down so his lips were only inches from her ear, his deep voice cutting cleanly through the bass.

Nini turned, her eyes widening in immediate surprise. When she recognized the sharp jawline and mischievous hazel-brown eyes, a natural flush crept onto her cheeks. "Aleksandar?"

"Just Aleks tonight, Miss Journalist," he teased, his grin widening at her obvious fluster. He gestured to the bartender before she could object, ordering another round. "What, no pen and paper? No asking me about my pass completion rate?"

"I am off the clock," she said, lifting her chin with an admirable attempt at dignity, though her heart was thudding erratically against her ribs. Up close, without the barrier of a camera, he smelled intensely of cedarwood and high-end cologne, his tall, athletic frame casting a broad shadow over her.

"Good," Aleks murmured, resting an elbow on the polished mahogany bar and tilting his head down to meet her gaze directly. "Because I much prefer this version of you."

That night had been the spark. For Aleks, it began as an exciting game of pursuit. Over the following weeks, he pursued Nini with a relentless, stubborn energy that bordered on obsessive. He found her number through mutual acquaintances, filling her phone with late-night voice notes and playful banter. He waited for her outside the media room after matches, ignoring the cameras to walk her to the car park, tossing casual compliments that left her breathless.

He took her out to dinner at dimly lit restaurants in the city center, charming her with his animated stories, his goofy sense of humor, and the unexpected flashes of boyish vulnerability he only revealed when he was tired. Nini had tried to resist him. She constantly reminded herself of her checklist: Aleks was too young, too temperamental, too hooked on the fast lane. But whenever he looked down at her with those intense, focused eyes, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her resolve melted.

She began to convince herself that beneath the bravado, he was growing up. She thought of how gently he held her hand when crossing the street, how proud he looked walking beside her. She began to dream, as she always did, of a quiet, beautiful future where he was hers and she was his.

The culmination came on a rainy Tuesday night, after nearly two months of courtship. They had shared a bottle of wine at his minimalist, modern penthouse overlooking the English Garden. The tension that had been building between them finally broke, soft laughter giving way to breathless, urgent kisses on his plush sofa, leading to his bedroom where he handled her with an exquisite, surprising tenderness that completely unmoored her.

To Nini, giving herself to him was not casual. It was a profound declaration. In her mind, you did not invite someone into your bed unless you were preparing to invite them into your life.

The crack in the foundation appeared less than a week later.

It was a Sunday evening, following a brutal Bayern loss against Leverkusen. Aleks had played poorly, picking up a foolish yellow card for shoving an opponent during a heated stoppage-time altercation. When Nini arrived at his penthouse, she found the atmosphere suffocating. The television was on mute, replaying highlights, and Aleks was pacing the hardwood floor like a caged panther, muttering curses under his breath, visibly agitated and stressed.

Nini set her handbag down quietly, stepping toward him with genuine concern. "Aleks, hey. Sit down. It was just one bad match."

"You don't get it, Nini," he snapped, throwing his hands in the air without looking at her. "You write about it, you don't play it. The manager is breathing down my neck, the media is going to tear me apart tomorrow, and you just tell me to sit down?"

Nini stiffened, the sharpness in his tone stinging like a slap. But she breathed through it, trying to be the calm harbor she believed a good partner should be.

"I do get it," she said softly, approaching him and reaching out to touch his tense bicep. "I'm on your side. We’re in this together, remember?"

Aleks stopped pacing, blinking down at her hand as if a foreign object had landed on his skin. His brow furrowed in irritation. "What does that mean? 'In this together'?"

The coldness in his voice made a chill run down Nini’s spine. She took a step back, folding her arms over her chest, the doll-like innocence of her features hardening into something defensive.

"It means we are a couple, Aleks," she said clearly, her voice trembling only slightly. "It means when you have a bad day, you lean on me, and when I have one, I lean on you. It means we’re building toward something."

Aleks stared at her, running a hand aggressively through his dark hair. The suffocating weight of the match, the club’s expectations, and now this—this sudden, heavy emotional demand—triggered his defenses. He felt cornered, the youthful freedom he cherished slipping through his fingers.

"Building toward what, Nini?" he asked, his voice rising, loud and defensive. "A future? A white picket fence? Are you serious?"

"Yes, I am serious!" she fired back, her own temper flaring, hurt quickly morphing into anger. "I have always been serious! I didn't spend the last two months going on dates, meeting your friends, and sleeping in your bed just to be a ghost in your apartment, Aleks! What did you think this was?"

"I thought we were having a good time!" Aleks yelled, his temper boiling over. He gestured wildly toward the room. "I like you, okay? You’re beautiful, you’re smart, and we have fun together! But I’m nineteen years old! I play for the biggest club in Germany! I don't want a fiancée, Nini! I just want to have fun without all this pressure!"

The word pressure hung in the air like a poisoned dart.

Nini stopped shouting. The anger instantly drained out of her face, leaving her shockingly, terrifyingly pale.

The fire vanished from her hazel eyes, replaced by a devastating, hollow realization. She suddenly looked impossibly tiny, shrinking into her oversized sweater, her long curly hair framing a face that had crumpled into sheer heartbreak. She looked so utterly fragile that Aleks felt a sudden, sickening knot twist in his stomach.

A single, hot tear broke past her dark eyelashes, spilling down her cheek.

"Fun?" she whispered. Her voice was barely audible, cracking on the single syllable. "You spent weeks chasing me... you made me believe you actually cared about who I was... just for fun?"

"Nini, wait," Aleks stammered, his loud bravado crumbling into panic. He took an instinctive step toward her, reaching out a hand. "I didn't mean—I do care about you, I just—"

"Don't touch me," she choked out, flinching away from his fingers as if his touch physically burned.

More tears escaped, rolling silently down her cheeks. She didn't wipe them away. She looked at him with an expression of profound pity and grief that cut far deeper than any of his manager's criticisms ever could.

"You're right," she whispered, her chin trembling violently. "I took you seriously. That was my mistake. I was looking for a man, Aleks. I forgot you're just a boy."

She turned on her heel before he could answer.

"Nini, stop! Don't just walk out!" he shouted after her, his voice a frantic mix of anger and desperate confusion. "Can we just talk about this?"

The front door opened.

"Goodbye, Aleksandar," she said softly, not looking back.

The heavy oak door clicked shut with a finality that echoed through the vast, empty penthouse.

Silence descended upon the apartment, heavy and suffocating. Aleks stood frozen in the center of his living room, staring at the closed door, the phantom scent of her vanilla perfume still lingering in the air. His hands were shaking. He felt an agonizing, churning mess in his chest—a chaotic storm of guilt, frustration, and an emptiness he hadn't anticipated.

He did like her. He liked the sound of her laugh, the way her curls smelled, the proud way she held herself, and the quiet warmth she had brought into this cold, modern apartment. He realized with a sickening certainty that he cared for her far more than he had ever admitted to himself.

He slumped onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands, completely overwhelmed.

They were from different worlds. She wanted permanence, promises, and a future carved in stone. He was terrified of tomorrow, desperate only to survive the demands of today. In his pursuit to conquer her serious heart, he had shattered it—and in doing so, he had left himself utterly, hopelessly ruined in the quiet of his own home.