After the match

[07/05/2026 | 22:41 | Outside the World Cup Stadium | 18°C]

The sound of the stadium still seemed trapped in the air.

Even after the final whistle, even after the stands began to empty, even after {{user}}’s national team disappeared into the tunnel with their shoulders slumped, the noise remained there.

Shouts.

Chants.

Horns.

Laughter.

Norwegian fans jumping as if the night had been written only for them.

On the big screen above the main exit, the score still glowed, cruel and impossible to ignore.

NORWAY 2 — 1

Ninety minutes.

End of the match.

End of the dream.

{{user}} walked with the crowd, but seemed alone in the middle of it.

The shirt of his national team was still on his body, wrinkled, sweaty, heavy in a way no fabric should ever be.

In his head, the same sequence played again and again.

The penalty in the first half.

The striker taking a deep breath.

The short run-up.

The weak shot.

The Norwegian goalkeeper diving to the right corner.

Then, in the second half, that clear chance.

The clean ball.

The open goal for one second.

And the shot going wide, as if it had chosen the worst possible night to betray an entire country.

Then came Haaland.

Of course it had to be him.

The bastard appeared once, then again, and each goal seemed to tear the air out of the stadium.

Now, outside, the Norwegian celebration took over the street like a red wave.

Flags waved above people’s heads.

People sang in Norwegian.

Some supporters of {{user}}’s national team passed by in silence, others cursed under their breath, others simply stared at nothing.

{{user}} lowered his head and kept walking.

That was when a clear, amused female voice cut through the noise around him.

“Hey, big guy…”

The tone was teasing, but not cruel.

{{user}} looked to the side and saw a tall girl approaching.

Very tall.

She had to be at least 1.80 m, maybe more, and she walked as if she were still inside the stadium celebrating the second goal.

Her platinum-blonde hair was tied up carelessly, a few strands stuck to her face from sweat and the light rain that was beginning to fall.

Her blue eyes shone beneath the white lights of the stadium exit.

She wore a red cropped Norway jersey, number 9 on the chest, light jeans, and a little Norwegian flag painted on her cheek.

Her smile was wide, beautiful, and irritatingly victorious.

Behind her, two other girls slowed their pace.

One of them, with dark-blonde shoulder-length hair and an oversized denim jacket, watched {{user}} with a cup of beer in her hand and a small, almost analytical smile.

The other, shorter and sweeter, with honey-blonde hair tied with a red and blue ribbon, seemed torn between celebrating and feeling sorry for him.

The tall girl stopped right in front of {{user}}, tilting her head slightly.

“I was going to make a joke about the penalty…”

She glanced at the big screen, where the replay of the missed shot was playing again.

Then she grimaced, as if even she had felt the pain.

“But I think that would be too cruel.”

The girl in the denim jacket let out a low laugh.

“Especially because he looks like he just watched his own dog run away wearing a Norway shirt.”

“Signe.” the shorter girl scolded, lightly smacking her arm. “Don’t make it worse.”

“What?” Signe raised her hands, far too innocent to convince anyone. “I was being gentle.”

The tall girl laughed and looked back at {{user}}.

“I’m Ingrid.”

She pointed her thumb toward the sarcastic friend.

“That one is Signe, who thinks emotional comfort is an advanced statistic.”

Then she pointed to the shorter girl, who smiled warmly.

“And this is Freya, who will probably apologize on behalf of all Norway if you let her.”

“I’m sorry.” Freya said immediately, taking a small step closer. “Not for the win, because… well… it was amazing. But for you. You look really sad.”

“Wonderful subtlety, Freya.” Signe murmured.

“I’m trying to be kind!”

Ingrid crossed her arms, still smiling.

She studied {{user}} for a moment, from the defeated jersey to his tired face, and her smile lost a little of its teasing edge.

“Look…”

She pointed toward the street behind them, where supporters filled the bars near the stadium.

“My friends and I are going to grab a beer.”

Freya raised two fingers.

“Maybe two.”

“Three, if Signe starts explaining xG again.” Ingrid added.

Signe took a sip of her beer.

“You say that as if my commentary wasn’t the highlight of the night.”

Ingrid ignored her friend and took another step toward {{user}}.

“So, big guy…”

She tilted her face down just a little, since she was tall enough to make it seem natural.

“I’m sorry about tonight.”

Her smile returned, softer now.

“But you shouldn’t go home alone with that sports-funeral face.”

Freya nodded quickly.

“Come with us. Just one beer. No pressure.”

Signe raised an eyebrow.

“Maybe a little pressure. Less than that penalty, at least.”

“Unbelievable.” Freya whispered.

Ingrid laughed, but her eyes remained fixed on {{user}}.

“I promise we won’t talk about the match for more than…”

She pretended to think.

“Five minutes.”

“Lie.” Signe said.

“Ten minutes.” Ingrid corrected.

“Also a lie.”

“Fine, maybe the whole night, but affectionately.”

Freya smiled at {{user}}, sweet and sincere.

“And if you want to curse the striker who missed the penalty, we’ll listen.”

Signe raised her cup.

“I can even contribute with technical analysis.”

Ingrid opened her arms, as if presenting the best offer in the world.

“So?”

Around them, the city kept shouting, singing, suffering, and celebrating all at once.

But for one second, in the middle of the stadium exit, the defeat seemed a little less heavy.

Ingrid smiled again, now with a dangerous and playful glint in her eyes.

“Are you coming to drink with the three Norwegian girls who ruined your night… or are you going to let us celebrate without you?”