First love

Confessing to Tom Bischof at seventeen had been the easiest thing in the world, precisely because it was supposed to have no consequences.

They had been standing near the rusted bicycle racks behind the gymnasium, the autumn wind biting through their jackets, just days before graduation and departure. He was the golden boy destined for the senior pitch, whispers of professional contracts and stadium lights already trailing in his wake. Nini was nobody destined for the spotlight—just a quiet, petite girl with an unruly cascade of brown curls and a one-way ticket to Brazil to live with her grandparents. She had told him she loved him because the ocean would swallow the embarrassment whole. She had given him a tremulous smile, asked for nothing in return, and vanished across the Atlantic.

Six years was supposed to turn a high school infatuation into harmless folklore. At twenty-three, back in Munich to finish her design degree, Nini had been certain the boy was nothing more than a bittersweet memory.

Until the rain came.

It had fallen in sheets on a late Thursday night in October, drowning the cobblestones of Glockenbachviertel in mirror-black puddles. Soaked to the skin and shivering, Nini and her friend Sophie had ducked into the nearest refuge they could find—a crowded, low-lit bar humming with bass and the clink of glasses. Nini, who had never touched a drop of alcohol in her life, clung to a small glass of sparkling water near the coat rack while Sophie checked her phone.

Across the room, bathed in warm amber light, was Tom.

He sat in a circular leather booth flanked by friends. Aleksandar Pavlović was beside him, laughing loudly at something on his phone, and draped against Tom’s side was a tall, strikingly polished woman with platinum hair and a designer clutch. Tom looked older, broader, his sharp jaw shadowed by light stubble, but the face was unmistakably his. He had a half-empty beer in hand, his cheeks flushed with a tipsy glow.

Then, his eyes drifted toward the door.

Nini had frozen. She watched as his glass stopped halfway to his mouth. The lazy, drunken grin on his face evaporated, replaced by a sudden, intense shock. He blinked hard, squinting through the dim haze as if convinced she was an apparition conjured by too much lager. Even from several meters away, the sheer heat of his gaze made Nini’s breath catch in her throat.

He didn’t look away. He kept staring, completely oblivious to his surroundings, until the woman beside him noticed. Nini saw her frown, snap something sharply into his ear, and yank his sleeve to regain his attention. Tom brushed her off with an irritated flick of his wrist, his gaze snapping instantly back to Nini.

Panicking, Nini shoved her way toward the exit the second Sophie waved an accepted Uber ride on her screen. She hadn’t dared to look back.

The problem wasn't that night. The problem was everything that came after.

Munich was a city of nearly two million people. It was simply statistically impossible to run into an elite Bayern Munich midfielder every other day. Yet, suddenly, Tom Bischof was everywhere.

He was in the small artisan bakery in Schwabing where she bought sourdough on Tuesday mornings. He was crossing the street in front of her tram near Odeonsplatz on Thursday afternoon. On Saturday, she spotted his sleek dark Audi idling near the corner of her street. Every time she caught sight of him, she ducked her head, hidden beneath the curtain of her long brown curls, and walked as fast as her short legs could carry her. It felt surreal, suffocating, and entirely too deliberate.

The cat-and-mouse game finally broke three weeks later in the Englischer Garten.

The afternoon air was crisp and smelling of damp leaves. Nini was walking with her sketchbook tucked under her arm when she heard rapid, heavy footsteps crunching along the gravel path behind her. Before she could instinctively quicken her pace, a warm, calloused hand wrapped firmly around her forearm.

"Nini, wait!"

She gasped, stumbling slightly. Tom was breathing hard, dressed in a black Bayern training tracksuit, his chest heaving as if he had sprinted half a mile to intercept her. Up close, his height overwhelmed her small frame, but his eyes were wide, urgent, and desperately relieved.

"Are you really going to keep running away from me forever?" he panted, slowly loosening his grip until his fingers merely rested against the knit of her sweater.

Nini stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Tom... you're making a scene."

"I don't care," he said, shaking his head. A soft, self-deprecating smile touched his lips. "You vanished into thin air six years ago, and then you show up in a dive bar looking like a ghost. I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to convince myself I wasn't losing my mind."

"You weren't losing your mind," she murmured, clutching her sketchbook against her chest. "I was just... I didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me?" Tom laughed, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. "Nini, please. Walk with me. Just ten minutes. That’s all I’m asking."

Ten minutes had turned into two hours. They walked beneath the towering canopy of chestnut trees, the tension that had suffocated them slowly dissolving into the autumn chill. They talked about Brazil—how she had loved the warmth of the sun and the rhythm of her grandparents' quiet coastal town, but how homesick she had been for the familiar streets of Bavaria. Tom talked about the relentless pressure of Säbener Straße, the brutal training sessions, and how surreal it felt to share a locker room with players he used to watch on television as a kid.

Neither of them mentioned the bicycle racks. Neither of them mentioned the three words she had left hanging between them like smoke on a frozen morning. It was an unspoken truce, a silent agreement to pretend they were starting completely from scratch.

In the weeks that followed, the barrier between them crumbled with alarming speed. They texted constantly between his training sessions and her university lectures. They met for coffee in tucked-away corners of the city where reporters wouldn't look. She learned that behind the polished veneer of a rising football star, he was still the same boy who cracked stupid jokes when he was nervous. He learned that she was still terribly shy, hopelessly addicted to strawberry pastries, and perpetually freezing.

It was comfortable. It was dangerous. And it culminated on a quiet Friday night at his apartment.

The penthouse in Bogenhausen was expansive, sleek, and minimalist, looking out over the glittering expanse of Munich through floor-to-ceiling glass. Pavlo had been there earlier, loudly debating tactics over takeout boxes, but he had left around ten, leaving a heavy, expectant quiet in his wake.

"You really never drink?" Tom asked, leaning against the marble kitchen island. He was holding a bottle of crisp white wine, already half-finished, having spent the evening leisurely sipping while they lounged on the sofa.

Nini sat cross-legged on the oversized couch, dwarfed by one of his heavy wool blankets. "Never. My grandparents were very traditional, and I just... I don't know. The smell always seemed bitter to me."

Tom hummed, an amused glint in his hazel eyes. "What if I make you something that doesn't taste like alcohol at all? Something sweet. Just a taste."

Nini hesitated, biting her lower lip. "Will it make me dizzy?"

"Not unless you chug the whole pitcher," he chuckled softly, already moving to the bar cart. "Trust me."

He mixed a splash of elderflower cordial with sparkling water, a hint of sweet peach liqueur, and a microscopic splash of prosecco over crushed ice, finishing it with a sprig of fresh mint. He carried the glass over and handed it to her, sitting down on the edge of the couch, close enough that the heat radiating from his broad shoulders brushed against her arm.

Nini accepted the glass with both hands. She took a cautious, tiny sip. Her dark eyes lit up.

"It tastes like candy," she said, surprised.

"See? I wouldn't poison you," Tom murmured, watching her intently.

He didn't realize how potent the combination of zero tolerance and sweet liqueur could be. Nini drank it slowly, but within twenty minutes, the entire glass was gone. The effect was almost comical in its immediacy. The perpetual, timid reserve that usually clung to her shoulders melted away. A vivid, petal-pink flush bloomed across her high cheekbones, spreading down to the delicate curve of her collarbone. Her brown eyes grew glossy and wide, and she leaned sideways, resting her head against the back of the sofa with a drowsy, musical giggle at something he said.

Tom stopped talking altogether.

He stared at her, the alcohol in his own veins thrumming with a sudden, sharp heat. She looked impossibly soft. Her long, unruly curls were spilling across the dark cushions like spilled ink, her petite frame curled into a ball under his blanket. She looked innocent, utterly defenseless, and breathtakingly pretty.

"You're very warm," Nini mumbled softly, blinking up at him through thick lashes. "Is it hot in here, or is it just the candy drink?"

"It's the drink, Nini," Tom said, his voice dropping an octave, thicker than before.

He leaned in slowly, testing the waters. She didn't move away. In fact, her eyes fluttered, tracking the movement of his face as he closed the distance between them.

The first touch of his lips was a feather-light peck, tasting of mint and sweet peach. It was gentle, almost questioning. Nini let out a soft, confused gasp against his mouth, a sound that snapped whatever fragile thread of restraint Tom had been clinging to all night.

He shifted his weight, his large hand cupping the side of her jaw, his thumb tracing the burning heat of her cheek. The kiss changed instantly. It deepened, turning heavy and hungry, his mouth parting hers with an urgent, possessive desperation that stole the air straight from her lungs. Nini’s hands instinctively came up, her small fingers clutching at the soft fabric of his gray cotton shirt. The room tilted. Her head spun with a dizzying rush of heat that had nothing to do with the peach liqueur and everything to do with the overwhelming scent of cedarwood, clean sweat, and Tom.

For a few intoxicating seconds, she gave in. Six years of buried longing surged to the surface, meeting him halfway as his arm slid around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest.

Tom groaned into her mouth, emboldened by her compliance. He broke the seal of their lips, dragging his mouth down along her jawline, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive hollow beneath her ear. When his lips grazed the pale slope of her neck, sucking lightly at the tender skin, a sharp, electric shiver bolted through her entire body.

The pleasure was so intense it was violent—and in that violence, reality shattered the alcohol-induced haze like a hammer through glass.

His apartment. His girlfriend. The girl with the platinum hair at the bar.

"Stop," Nini choked out.

Tom was too consumed to hear her at first, his fingers tightening in her hair, pressing another fervent kiss into the crook of her shoulder.

"Tom, stop!"

With a surge of strength fueled by pure panic, she placed both palms firmly against his broad chest and shoved him backward.

Tom stumbled back onto the cushions, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and wet, his eyes clouded with a dark, dazed hunger. He blinked at her, slowly registering the sudden distance between them. "Nini... what's wrong?"

Nini was already on her feet, the blanket pooling at her ankles. She was trembling from head to toe, her pink cheeks now burning with humiliation and a sudden, sharp anger that made her eyes sting with unshed tears. She wiped the back of her hand violently across her mouth, as if trying to erase the ghost of his lips from her skin.

"What's wrong?" her voice cracked, high and brittle. "Are you serious?"

Tom sat up straighter, the haze in his eyes beginning to clear, replaced by a flicker of alarm. "Hey, come on, I didn't mean to scare you. You were into it, I thought—"

"You thought what?" she interrupted, her small hands curling into tight fists at her sides. "You thought that just because I told you I loved you six years ago, I'm just sitting here waiting for you to pick me up whenever you're bored?"

Tom winced, rising to his feet to close the space between them. "No, Nini, that's not it at all—"

"Don't come near me!" she snapped, taking a sharp step back until the back of her knees hit the coffee table. Her chest was heaving, the shy, quiet girl completely swallowed by a fierce, wounded pride. "I was seventeen, Tom! We were kids! I said those things because I thought I’d never have to look at you again. I gave you that truth as a goodbye, not as an open invitation for the rest of my life!"

"I'm not treating it like an invitation," he said desperately, his hands raised in surrender. "I kissed you because I wanted to. I've wanted to since the second you walked into that bar."

Nini let out a bitter, watery laugh, shaking her head as a single tear escaped and tracked down her flushed cheek.

"You have a girlfriend, Tom."

The words fell like lead weights into the silence of the room.

Tom froze. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. The guilt that flashed across his features was so immediate, so sickeningly obvious, that it felt like a physical blow to her ribs.

"I saw her," Nini whispered, her voice wavering, stripped of anger and left entirely with pain. "I saw her with you that night. You’re holding hands with her in public, and then you chase me down in parks, you make me sweet drinks, and you kiss me on your couch like I belong to you. Just because you know how I used to feel doesn't mean you get to use me to cheat on her."

"It's complicated with her, Nini, you don't understand—"

"I don't care to understand," she cut him off, her voice steadying as she wiped the wetness from her cheek. She reached down, snatched her coat and handbag from the end of the sofa, and pulled the wool tightly around her shivering frame. "You don't get to take advantage of my past just because you're reckless in your present."

"Nini, please, don't leave like this. You've been drinking, you can't just—" Tom stepped forward, his eyes pleading, genuine panic coloring his face.

"I can call a taxi," she said, her voice quiet, final, and painfully cold. "Don't follow me, Tom. Don't run after me this time."

Without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and walked out of the apartment, the heavy front door clicking shut behind her, cutting off the warmth of the room and leaving him standing completely alone in the silent, suffocating dark.